Petty Pewter Gods (6 page)

“That’s astounding.”

“There is still one little hole up high where someone can see inside. You must be careful about making sounds. You can be heard. If you take reasonable precautions neither people nor animals should be able to scent you.” A knot appeared in the air. Fingers poked through, expanded the loop outward. It dropped.

Magodor stepped out. She untied the bowline, handed me the cord. Her fingers were soft and hot, but I jerked away from the prick of a talon as sharp as a razor. She raised a finger to her lips.

I pulled that cord around my waist the way she had worn it. It stayed in place without any special tucking or tying. I couldn’t see it but could feel it. I observed, “The sands are running. How do I get out of here?” See? No commitment at all. Any she heard she made up herself out of wishful thinking.

“Abyss.”

The guy who had driven the coach floated out of a shadow. I had not suspected his presence. Magodor was pleased by my surprise. “Show Mr. Garrett to the street.”

Abyss looked at me from eyes that were leagues away inside his hood. The air grew cold. I got the reeling he resented being forced to bother with me. I thought of a couple of cracks but doubted he had the brain or sense of humor to understand. And I still had to get out of there.

As I left that room, Magodor said, “Be careful. The Shayir are desperate and dangerous.”

“Right.” The Godoroth, of course, were just playful puppies.

I encountered several servants before leaving the house, startling every one. None paid Abyss any mind, though one who passed close by suffered one of those unexpected chills that sometimes fall upon you for no obvious reason.

Abyss never said a word. I felt his eyes upon me for a long time after I got my feet onto cobblestones.

11

Just playful puppies, the Godoroth.

I moved fast for a few blocks, just to get some distance. Then I stopped to get my bearings.

I had been right. The place was right up there. I didn’t recognize the particular house, out it wouldn’t take much effort to find out who owned it. I wondered if I should bother. Knowing might be too scary.

Before I moved on, I charted a course unlikely to lead me into trouble. I had to get to the Dead Man. I needed some serious advice. I had fallen into deep shit if I was dealing with real gods. I might be into it deep anyway.

I moved fast and tried to watch every which way at once, sure that the effort was a waste because I was dealing with shapeshifters who could walk behind me and just be something else every time I looked around.

My head still hurt, though my hangover had faded. I was past the sleepiness, but I was starved and all I really wanted was a sample of Dean’s cooking.

The streets were not crowded. Up there they never are. But times have changed. I saw several enterprising pushcart operators trying to sell trinkets or services. They would not have dared in times past. Used to be privately hired security thugs would send their kind scurrying with numerous bruises.

They still did, I discovered. I came on several brunos bouncing an old scissor sharpener all over an acre of street. They eyeballed me but saw I was headed downhill. Why risk any pain encouraging me to hurry? I guess those other cartmen were around because the thugs did not have time to get them all. Or they had purchased a private license from the guards.

Not long after I crossed the boundary into the workaday real world, I realized that I had acquired a tail. She didn’t give me a good look, so I could not be sure, but I suspected she might have had red hair when I was on the back end of the chase.

Sometimes you just got more balls than brains. You do stuff that don’t make sense later. Especially if you blow it.

I was lucky this time but still can’t figure out why I headed for Brookside Park instead of going home. If that was the redhead back there she knew where I lived.

The park was a mile out of my way, too. It is a big tract of trees and brush and reservoirs fed by springs that fill a creek running off the flank of the Hill. There are Royal fishponds and a Royal aviary and a stand of four-story granaries and silos supposedly kept full in case of siege or disaster. I wouldn’t bet much on there being a stash if ever we are forced to tap those resources. Corruption in TunFaire is such that the officials in charge probably don’t even go through bureaucratic motions before selling whatever the farmers bring in.

But, hell. Maybe I am too cynical.

The park police force, never numerous nor energetic nor effective at their best, had worse problems than the thugs up the Hill. Whole tribes of squatters had set up camp. Again I wondered why they found TunFaire so attractive. The Cantard is hell by anybody’s reckoning, but a lot less so if you were born there. Why leave the hell you know, walk hundreds of miles, plunk yourself down in a town where not only do you have no prospects but the natives all hate you and don’t need much excuse to do you grief?

On the other hand
 
—
and I don’t understand why — TunFaire is a dream for this whole end of the world, the golden city. Maybe you can’t see why if you are looking at it from the inside.

The woman gave me more room out there, off the street, so she would be less obvious. I didn’t get a better look.

I strode briskly, hup two three four. Up and down hump and swale, round bush and copse. I darted into a small, shady stand of evergreens in a low place, careful not to disturb the old needles on the ground. Hey, I used to be Force Recon. I was the bear in the woods.

I selected a friendly shadow, did the trick with the cord that was supposed to make me invisible. I waited.

She was careful. You have to be when you are tracking somebody and they drop out of sight. They could be setting an ambush.

I didn’t plan to jump her. I just wanted to try my new toy and get a look at someone who seemed interested in me.

She was about six feet tall, dishwater blonde, sturdy, maybe twenty-five, better groomed than most gals you see on the street. She had an adequate supply of curves but wasn’t dressed to brag. She wore a homespun kind of thing that would have looked better cut up and sewed up and used to dress large batches of potatos. From what I could see she lacked legs and feet. Her skirts were that long. She made me think of a younger version of Imar’s wife, Imara.

She moved cautiously, as though she knew I had turned. She eased past not ten feet away. I held my breath. It was obvious she could not see me. It was just as obvious that she felt I was real close. She had the heebie-jeebies. I restrained my boyish side and didn’t yell “Boo!” I studied her but didn’t come up with a clue. She might be some nightmare in disguise. Whatever, she was no smouldering redhead.

She seemed human. Do devils get the heebie-jeebies?

She decided to get the hell out of there before bad things happened. Which suggested that bad things could. But that might only be because she was Shayir and knew something unpleasant about the Godoroth.

Some surprise that would be.

I do a good tail. I decided to put off seeing the Dead Man, and suffering his wisdom, long enough to see where this mouse ran. I spotted her a lead.

I discovered that becoming invisible imposes limitations. Like I was enclosed inside some kind of sack I could see through. There was plenty of air in there with me. The walls of the sack didn’t collapse. It was like being inside a big, floppy bubble that wobbled and tangled and toppled when you moved. You could get around, but you had to be careful. If you got in a hurry, you stumbled and rolled downhill into a soggy low spot. The bag didn’t keep water from soaking your knees and elbows.

Rorjfrazzle! Mirking sludglup! Everything just has to have a down side.

Or three. It took me ten minutes to get back out of the sack. The loop in the cord has to line up with the closed hole just right. If you have been moving around, you probably didn’t keep track of where that hole went. Rotten racklefratz!

As I stumbled out and crawled away and started undoing my bowline, I realized that the tittering above wasn’t the gossip of sparrows. A tiny voice only inches overhead piped, “We seen what you done. We seen what you done.”

A pixie colony inhabited the grove. Now that they were bouncing around and giggling they were obvious. I hadn’t noticed a thing when they were silent.

I didn’t commence my rebuttal till I was safely away from any branch likely to serve as an aerial outhouse.

12

I headed for my house. The girl was long gone.

Used to be whenever I was out I had to knock so Dean would let me in. Before he left town he looted my savings to have a key lock installed so I could let myself in. Being a bright boy, I had my key with me. I used it.

The door opened an inch and stopped. Dean had the chain on.

I closed the door gently, took a moment to collect myself, knocked briskly. The Goddamn Parrot started up inside. O Wonder of Horrors, the little vulture had made it home on his own. I tried to avoid worrying about what kind of omen that might be.

I stepped back while I waited, studied the face of my house. It was a very dark brown, built of rough brick. I saw several places where the mortar needed tuck-pointing. The upstairs window trim needed fresh paint. Might be a job for Saucerhead some time when he wasn’t tied up cracking skulls.

“Damn it, Dean! Come on! If you’ve had a heart attack and I’ve got to bust the door down I’m gonna break your legs.”

There was a horrendous squawl behind me. I whirled. A huge, ugly ogre had gotten too near a donkey cart. A wheel had crushed his toes. He was bounding around on one foot offering to whip all comers.

“Ah, shuddup!” an old granny lady advised. She hooked the heel of his good foot with the crook of her umbrella. He went down hard. Ogres are solid-bottomed fellows, as a rule. This one was no exception. His breath deserted him in a mighty whoof. The cobblestones buckled. I might have a traffic hazard out front for months now. Maybe years. Who knew when a city crew would come and actually do something?

The crowd howled and mocked the ogre. Ogres are not popular because they are just not nice people, generally, but this was an especially tough crowd. They would have laughed had he been a sweet little old nun. Times had the mob in a vicious humor.

I spied my new friend Adeth. She wore a darker, longer wig and had changed apparel, but I was sure it was her. She moved like a cat now, without wasted motion, absolutely graceful. Maybe while Dean made up his mind to answer the door I could stroll over there and invite her to dinner.

I hammered the door some more. Then I got my key out again. I would unlock the damned thing again, then kick the chain loose. I was in one bad mood.

My head still throbbed like a couple of pixies were in there waltzing in combat boots.

Dean opened up as I reached with the key. “We have to talk,” I told him. “Let’s rehash the argument over that damned lock that cost me more than most guys make working twelve hours a day for two months.”

“What happened?”

“I couldn’t get into my own house, that’s what happened! Some damned fool put the chain on!” The Goddamn Parrot was in fine voice. “When did that damned thing come home? How did it get inside?”

“Hours ago, Mr. Garrett. I thought you sent it.” He nodded his head toward the Dead Man’s room, scowled. “He told me to let it in.” Dean shuddered.

On cue, I heard from Old Bones.
Garrett. Come here. I want to review events of the past few months.

Him and his hobbies. “What you’re going to hear about is events of the past few hours.”

Dean shivered again. The Dead Man gives him the creeps. He has as little to do with His Nibs as he can.

“That dressed-up buzzard over there should of let you know I was having some trouble.”

“I’ll make some tea,” Dean said, by way of offering a white flag.

“Sounds good. Thanks.” When he gets those big hurt eyes it is hard to stay mad at him. “But you, you traitor, you deserter,” I snapped through the doorway of the small front room, “you’re going to star in an experiment to see if parrots make good hasenpfeffer.” The shape my head was in, I was real short on tolerance.

I went into the Dead Man’s room.

Pickled parrot?

“He must be good for something.”

Do I detect a measure of crabbiness?

“Things are closing in on me. I was getting used to not having to deal with Dean’s nagging. I was getting used to not having to deal with your outrageous demands. Then you woke up. He came home. I went out for a walk and a bunch of ugly wazoos bopped me on the head.”

The picture the bird brought in had you lunging through a coach without the forethought to open the nether exit.

He has moments when he looks beyond the end of his nose. And an ugly nose it is, too.

The Dead Man has a human look to him. You glance into his room
 
—
the biggest in the house and poorly lighted at his insistence even though he cannot see — and your gaze is drawn to a wooden chair at the room’s center. Maybe you could call it the Dead Man’s throne. It is massive — but it has to be to support four hundred and some pounds. He has not moved in all the years I have known him. He
has
grown seedier. Though he can protect himself if he concentrates, mice and bugs do nibble when his attention wanders.

His outstanding feature, other than size, is his schnoz. It’s like an elephant’s trunk a little over a foot long.

Bad day?

“It was a bad day when I got woke up at a totally ridiculous hour, thank you very much. It has gone downhill ever since. Why don’t you just dig into my head?”

I would prefer that you told it. I get more subtext examining the subjective side.

This from a guy who insisted I had to maintain my emotional distance when I reported to him. We might as well be married. You can’t win with him.

This is not good.

“Hey, I hardly got started.”

I read you. These are not friendly gods. These are old-style gods, all wrath and thou shalt not.