Bitter Gold Hearts

by Glen Cook

  “I know what she meant.”

  “She authorized me to offer you ten marks gold for your time.”

  I wondered what she really wanted. She was throwing one hell of a lot of money around. A laborer, if he got paid in a lump for the time, wouldn’t draw ten marks gold for three months of his life. And right now gold was strong because Glory Moon-called’s successes in the Cantard had put several more silver mines into Karentine hands, meaning all their pro­duction came north.

  Willa Dount might want to climb my leg about Amiranda. For ten marks I would take what she wanted to hand out. There is never enough money around our place because of the endless fix-ups.

  “Leave word at the gate that I’m on my way. I’ll be there as soon as I take care of a few details and have lunch.”

  Slauce’s ruddy face got redder. The nerve of me! I was supposed to frog when uptown said jump. He wanted to drag me off by the heels. But his instructions held. “Very well. I’m sure she would appreciate your taking as little time as possible. She did seem distracted.” He counted five two-mark pieces onto my desk.

  “I won’t be more than a half hour behind you. Dean? Will you see Mr. Slauce to the door?” We like to know that our guests are out when they head out. Some of them are so slow they might not remember which side of the door they’re supposed to be on when it shuts. Morley returned to the room.

  “Better bite those things to see if they’re real, Garrett. Somebody’s running a game.”

  “How so?”

  “That’s the guy who was tailing your lady last night.”

  “Yeah? He looked taller in the dark.”

  “Maybe he was wearing platforms. I think it’s time you thought about getting out of this.”

  “I’m not in it.”

  “I know you, Garrett. You’re going to get into it up to your ears if you don’t turn your back now.”

  Morley is usually not much shakes as a prophet. I paid him no mind, thanking him and telling him the favor was a chunk off the account he owed from the vampire busi­ness. I saw him out, then let Dean serve me lunch. Then I ambled off to earn my ten gold marks.

  __IX__

  Willa dount was piqued by my churlish failure to bounce when she hollered but she hid it well. Everybody but the Dead Man was hiding irritation with me. I decided I’d best keep my hands covering my pockets.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Garrett.”

  “Your man said you’d heard from the kidnappers.”

  “Yes. Another letter. Delivered much like the first.” She passed it over.

  The same hand, with the same poor spelling, told her that Junior’s market value was “200000 Marks gold.” Instructions for delivery would follow.

  “Two hundred thou? The kid’s in trouble, isn’t he? The Emperor himself might not go for that much.”

  “The sum can be raised, Mr. Garrett. It will be paid. That isn’t the problem.”

  “What is?”

  “I face a twofold dilemma. Part is that I won’t be able to conceal an outlay of that magnitude from the Storm-warden. That’s my problem and I’ll deal with her displea­sure when the time comes. She won’t like the expense but she would like to lose her son far less.”

  “I gather your own balance scale might not tilt the same way.”

  “My opinions are of no moment, Mr. Garrett. This is the Stormwarden’s household and here the Stormwarden’s will and whimsy alike are law.”

  “What do you need me for?”

  “Advice on overcoming the mechanical difficulties of delivering that much gold.”

  “You’ll need a big pocket to carry it.”

  “I’m paying handsomely for your time, Mr. Garrett. Don’t waste it on witticisms. I have no sense of humor.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Two hundred thousand marks in coined gold weighs four thousand pounds. To move that much weight will require a heavy wagon and at least a four-horse team. Can they possibly expect me to get that someplace where the payoff can’t be seen?”

  “With a payoff that big they’d set it somewhere way out in the country, after running you along a route they could watch to make sure you aren’t being followed.”

  “They will insist on coined gold, won’t they? Bar would be easier for me to get together and handle but harder for them to dispose of. Right?”

  “Probably.”

  “I thought so. I’ve already started exchanging our bar stock for coin. What else should I know?”

  “Don’t improvise. Do whatever they tell you, when they tell you. They’ll be very nervous and likely to panic and do anything if they see one little thing going different from what they prescribed. If you’ve got to get some paybacks, wait till everybody is home safe. That much money will leave tracks. Bloody ones, probably.”

  “I’ll worry about that when the time comes. Most probably it’ll have to wait till the Stormwarden returns. Thank you, Mr. Garrett. Your expertise has confirmed the soundness of my own reasoning. I would say that we’ve had an amicable and productive relationship. But there is one thing you could do to make it perfect.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Stay away from Amiranda Crest.”

  “It’s been twenty years since I let anybody pick my friends, Domina. You’re a sweetheart, but if I make an exception for you —”

  “I’m not accustomed to disobedience.”

  “You ought to get out into the real world more. You’d get in practice real fast.”

  “Get out of here before I lose my temper.”

  I figured that was good advice. I headed for the door.

  “Stay away from Amiranda.”

  I supposed Amiranda had gotten similar advice regard­ing Garrett. I nearly trampled the Stormwarden’s daughter Amber. I pulled the door shut behind me. “Eavesdropping?”

  “She’s right.”

  “About what?” Her ears were sharper than mine if she could make out anything through that door.

  “You should forget Ami. I’m much more interesting.”

  In that instant I decided she was wrong. Amiranda Crest was a woman. This one wore a woman’s body but the creature inside was spoiled, vain, snobbish, and prob­ably not very bright. At a snap judgment. “We’ll have to talk about it sometime.”

  “Soon, I hope.”

  I think I grunted.

  “Let me know when.”

  Persistent little devil.

  The office door opened. “What are you doing here, Amber?”

  “Talking to Mr. Garrett.”

  Willa Dount put on a fierce scowl and pointed it my way. It was my fault that the women in the Stormwarden’s house tracked me down. “Go back to your apartment, Amber. You know you aren’t permitted in this wing.”

  “Stick your elbow in your ear, you old witch.”

  The Domina was absolutely astonished. I feared she would begin sputtering. But her footwork was good. “If you wish to contest my authority in your mother’s ab­sence, we’ll refer the dispute to your father.”

  “Naturally. He’ll say whatever you tell him to say, won’t he?”

  Domina Dount remained painfully aware of my pres­ence. “Amber!”

  “How did you get a hold on him? It can’t be because you’re a woman. You freeze bathwater when you sit in it.”

  “That will be quite enough, Amber.”

  “Excuse me, ladies. I never feel comfortable in these hen sessions. I’ll just be running along.”

  If looks could kill. Domina Dount wanted me deaf to her humiliation. Amber wanted my support.

  I walked. I watched for Amiranda, but there was no sign of her.

  __X__

  The dead man remained engrossed in his war games. He was feeble company at the best of times. When he was like this, with his genius totally committed, he was no company at all. I consoled myself with the suspi­cion that he was on to something overlooked by the commanders of the many armies in the Cantard. I was spared his irascibility, too.

  Ol
d Dean was worse company. Each meal came with its pitch for some deprived and homely female relative who, he hinted, had just the touch the house really needed. Amiranda did not come to visit as I’d hoped. After a few days of that I got to feeling wretchedly sorry for myself and decided to go spend my recent gains buying a few barrels of beer retail, for on-site consumption.

  I couldn’t get my heart into it. They ran me out of the first two places for doing nothing but taking up space while I nursed a single brew.

  The kidnapping kept nagging me. I should have been happy to have my hundred-ten marks for doing nothing. But I wasn’t. There was a wrongness about the thing, the ring of bad crystal. Look at it as I might, though, I couldn’t root out the source of the bad odor.

  There wasn’t much I could do about it. I didn’t have a client. Nobody goes digging around on the Hill just to satisfy a personal curiosity. There was too much potential for pain and none at all for profit.

  In the third bar, nearer home, they let me sit and brood. I’d done well by them in the past and would again. When the man sat down opposite me, I presumed they were trying to make the best use of table space. I didn’t look at him till he growled, “Your name Garrett?”

  I looked. He was a big one, broad, thirtyish, with the air of a tough and clothes you don’t find anywhere but on the Hill. But no livery. A hired hand who did his work in the shadows. Nothing gave away who owned him. “Who wants to know?”

  “I do.”

  “I got a feeling you and me aren’t going to get along. I don’t recall inviting you to sit.”

  “I don’t need an invite from a crumb like you.”

  He was off the Hill for sure. Their heads swell when they get connected up there. “I know we’re not going to be pals.”

  “Break my heart, smart boy.”

  “I was thinking more along the line of an arm or leg. What do you want, Bruno?”

  Bruno is a derisive generic for a dumb pug. A quick glance around told me he had a couple of buddies along but they were too far away to give him a hand quickly. They were at the bar trying to blend in.

  “Word is going around that you been hanging around Raver Styx’s place. You got a rep for mixing in where you’re not wanted. We want to know what you’re up to.”

  “Who is we?” He was so rude he didn’t answer, so I suggested, “Why don’t you ask the Stormwarden?”

  “I’m asking you, Garrett.”

  “You’re wasting your time. Go away, Bruno. You’re interfering with my drinking.”

  He jabbed a hand out and got hold of my left wrist, started to squeeze. He had a good grip but my right hand fell on his. I buried my thumb in the flesh just behind the root joints of his middle and forefingers. I pressed hard. His eyes got big and his face turned white. I smiled a friendly smile.

  “All right, Bruno. You were just going to tell me who you work for and why you’re down here trying to con­vince people that you’re somebody scary.”

  “You go to hell, you cheap — unh!”

  “You’ve got to learn to think before you speak. With a mouth like yours it’s a miracle you’ve lived this long.”

  “Garrett, you’re going to be sorry you were ever — unh!”

  “They say pain is the fastest educator. In your case it looks like even that won’t help. Yes?”

  Someone had come to the table, approach unnoticed because I was watching Bruno’s pals slowly develop the suspicion that all was not well with their buddy.

  “Mr. Garrett?”

  The daPenas were a polite bunch. “Junior. Have a seat. Bruno was just leaving.” I let go his hand. He flexed it as he rose, trying to leave me with his best deadly look. He wanted to pop me one, just to remember him by, but when he went to cock it, I let a foot fly under the table and got him in the shin. His eyes got big again, he made one little whimper of a sound, and decided to go away while he was still fit to limp.

  “I see Domina Dount pulled it off and got you back in one piece.”

  “Yes.”

  “Congratulations on your good fortune. So how come you’re down here slumming?”

  The son was the image of the father without the marks of age and dissipation. How had the question of paternity risen? Maybe when he was a baby he hadn’t looked so much like his immediate male ancestor. Those notions hang on forever.

  “I wanted to thank you personally.”

  “Thank me? For what? I didn’t do a damned thing.” The kid had one of those apologetic, whiny voices that made you suspect he wanted to be excused for being alive.

  “But you did. At least you appeared to. The kidnap­pers... I overheard them talking. They had somebody watching our place. When they saw you, they talked it over and decided they had to play the whole thing as straight as they could. Because of your reputation. So you see, I owe you a debt of thanks. I might not be here if you hadn’t...”

  In addition to his other charms Junior was a rocker. Whenever he spoke, he jerked back and forth, staring into space. It must have been a joy growing up in the Stormwarden’s household.

  I got a strong feeling that he had much more on his mind, that gratitude was just an excuse for seeking me out. But you don’t have much luck pressing guys like him when you don’t have a hold on them. They tend to break for cover. So I leaned back and tried to look pleased with his praise and interested in anything else he might want to tell me. In a moment it was obvious he was working himself up to something. He started stammering. But he never got the chance to open up.

  “Here you are, my lord.” And here he was, the Domina’s florid flunky, Slauce, wearing an ingratiating smile belied by eyes in which the humor had been extinct for years. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

  I doubted that. He had to have been following Junior to pop up so quickly and inconveniently.

  “Courter. I was just telling Mr. Garrett how grateful I am for his help.” He rocked. His eyes gave him away. He was terrified of this char­acter Courter, who had used the name Slauce when he had visited me.

  “The Domina needs you right away, my lord.” A command cautiously couched for my benefit. Junior flinched.

  Across the room Bruno and the boys had been hud­dled together for a while. Apparently they decided the presence of Junior and his keeper meant there was no more percentage for them there. They went away, though Bruno left me a final dirty look. Junior got up and Courter took hold of his arm, not heavy-handed but definitely like he thought his man might try to run. He passed close enough to trip. I thought about giving it a shot to see what would happen, but I left it as a thought.

  “See you later, Karl.”

  His look of despair brightened as he took the notion seriously. Courter looked at me for the only time during his visit. He had visions of bloodshed echoing through his eyes. I smiled and gave him a big friendly wink. It did nothing for his ulcer. I gave it the old try but I couldn’t gel involved in my drinking. I held a caucus with myself, took a vole, and decided to go home and purge my soul by either subject­ing it to the torment of old Dean’s recitation of the encyclopedia of his eligible relatives, or simply dosing it with a generous helping of the Dead Man’s poisonous humors.

  They disappointed me. Both of them. I think they had discussed it while I was gone. Dean was whistling when I walked in. “What happened? Your females ambush a troop of hussars and take them prisoners for life?”

  He was in too good a mood to take offense. I couldn’t get a pout from him. I demanded, “What’s going on around here? Why are you grinning like a fox with goose feathers in his whiskers?”

  “It’s his nibs. He’s ebullient. Exultant Positively ecstatic.”

  “All that, huh? This I’ve got to see.”

  “It is one for the books, Mr. Garrett.”

  “What’s that you’re working on there?”

  “A lamb roast.”

  “Lamb is mutton. I don’t like mutton.” I had more mutton than I ever wanted while I was in the Marines. We ate it every meal except when
we had to make do with rocklike chunks of salt pork or circumstances forced us to eat our horses or, worse, we had to subsist on roots and berries.

  “You’ll like this. You’ll see.” He talked cooking technique.

  I walked, grumbling, “Mutton is mutton is mutton,” figuring I would have to eat the stuff with a big show of appreciation because whenever I get critical of Dean’s cooking and he takes umbrage, the next meal is sure to include green peppers. There is no foodstuff in this or any other world quite so hideously nauseating as the green bell pepper. A pig — even a hungry pig — has better sense than to eat green peppers. But not people. It positively astounds me what people will eat.

  In such a humor I shoved into the Dead Man’s room.

  Ah. Garrett. Good afternoon. Good of you to stop in. How is that kidnapping business going?

  “The kid came home in one piece.” I stepped out of the room, looked around, stepped back inside.

  Congratulations. A job well done. You will have to tell me all about it. What was that little dance step?

  “Just making sure I was in the right house with the right Dead Man. No congrats due. I didn’t have anything to do with it.” I went ahead and brought him up to date, leaving out none of the details but Amiranda’s overnight vacation from the household of the Stormwarden.

  An interesting situation, infested with anomalies. Al­most a pity you have no concern in it. A challenge to crack its shell and lay open the meat within.

  “Feeling our genius today, are we?”

  Indeed. Yes indeed. The mystery of the magic of Glory

  Mooncalled is a mystery no more. Subject to observational confirmation, of course.

  “You figured out how he does it? When the Venageti War Council can’t do better than stumble over their own feet?”

  Indeed.

  “How?”

  Ratiocination, my boy.

  My boy? He was in a mood to crow.

  Cogitation. Induction. Deduction. Repeated experiment manipulating the possible course of events within the known parameters. And from this came a hypothesis bearing the weight of near certainty. I know how Glory Mooncalled did what he did, and with just a bit more information I could predict with some degree of certainty what he will do next.