by Glen Cook
Penny squealed. The flying girl smashed into me. She hammered my chest with her fists. “Hate you! Hate you!”
Father Amerigo stopped talking. Everyone else gawked, including people you would expect to respond quickly and harshly, considering the event that had us gathered in a cemetery. Morley, Singe, and General Block were the exceptions. Block pulled Penny to her feet. She had done an inelegant sprawl on the wet grass. She was fortunate. She had chosen to wear underwear on her dress-up day.
Still, her dignity had been abused. She would be sullen for a long time.
Morley and Singe peeled the girl off me. She looked maybe fourteen, fifteen, but only eleven or twelve tall. She eyed me like she wasn’t sure what she’d just done, or why she had done it.
Her face was one of the most beautiful I’d ever seen, though she was more pale than ever-pallid Strafa even in death. Her hair was fine, black, and hung in an odd, floppy cut on the sides. Her head, even discounting her unusual hairdo, seemed too big for her shoulders.
Maybe her shoulders were too narrow for her head.
Her clothing allowed no real estimate of the balance of her. It was black and white and there was a lot of it.
She shook off Morley and Singe, glared at me from eyes filled with tears. “Hate you!” Then she ran back uphill, to the dogs. Those followed her once she dashed past.
General Block passed Penny to me. He had, somehow, managed to winkle a nonsullen smile out of the girl.
Somebody asked the question. “What the hell was that, Garrett?”
Singe said, “She looked like a little milk cow.” She eyed Penny. “Someone you know?”
Head shake.
Everyone eyeballed me. I insisted, “I don’t know. I never saw her before.”
They gave me the benefit of the doubt. Family. Especially after some wit tapped the truth to mention that I had been much too tied up with my wife to make any outside friends and, anyway, Little Moo was a good month or two younger than my usual pickup.
He got a few feeble smiles, but, overall, it was not a day for any humor but the foul.
Shadowslinger, I noted, kept staring uphill for some time after the girl disappeared. I wanted to drift over and ask about that, but there was no time. The rain kept falling. The cold kept on trying to gnaw the marrow out of our bones. I would have to ask her later. I would not be getting far away from her for a while now.
Folks wanted to get back to the matter at hand. They wanted to get in out of the misery.
Implausible interruption concluded, the effort to exorcise the pain of the survivors resumed. Father droned his litany of reasons why we all found Strafa so remarkable. Those were plentiful and heartfelt. I shed tears because my friends had found her as amazing as I had.
Father Amerigo finished up. Time for us pallbearers to convey Strafa into the crypt. There were only four of us, but Strafa had been a wisp and her casket was lightweight. We moved it, placed it. I stared down at her, willing time to have a stop, till Barate took me away, back into the rain, so half-drowned, impatient old men could seal the tomb.
I cried some more. So did everyone else who could. Only Penny had failed to love Strafa unreservedly, but even she had been coming around and now was determined to show the rest of us how thoroughly she had changed her heart.
Strafa Algarda was the love of my life. My heart and soul. She could not have been more perfect had I designed her. Now those of us still in the mortal realm would find out why someone had thought that it would be better for the world if she left it.
I was not fully prepared to buy into the Tournament of Swords idea. It was ridiculous. The Algardas, though, had no trouble believing. But the notion of a last man standing takes all was just too stupid . . . How would you come up with that many players all convinced that there was no way they could lose?
All mysteries would be unraveled. This gathering in the rain consisted of people who loved Strafa and, universally, were convinced that the truth would be found. They were determined to make that happen.
21
Though we were doing things the Orthodox way, at least by pretense, we had not held a wake for Strafa. Shadowslinger wanted to wait till after the funeral. I announced it there, before I broke down, as cemetery employees sealed the tomb. I wanted everyone to come to Strafa’s place. We would enjoy a banquet in her honor and share some memories.
It wasn’t something I expected to be a draw. My expectations were in error, maybe because Barate circulated vigorously, issuing personal invitations.
He spoke directly to such luminaries as Belinda Contague and General Block, people I expect Constance Algarda might consider potentially useful in the war she was about to launch.
I’ve never quite been a lone wolf—being the face and fist and punch absorber of the Garrett investigative empire—but I’ve seldom gone after anything as part of a mass movement, either. I like being my own boss. However, Shadowslinger was doing the shot-calling today. She meant to get every swinging blade she could hacking at the air.
The house seemed a great cold hollow shell without Strafa there. Her two regular servants, assisted by her grandmother’s pair and several borrowed from Morley Dotes’s restaurants—whence had come the food as well— created a reception that was surprisingly upbeat.
I stayed busy greeting commiserating mourners, me, Barate, and Kevans gripping hands gently and accepting condolences spoken softly, with Shadowslinger nowhere to be seen. She saw selected mourners in the library, individually, as Bonegrinder or Moonblight delivered them.
The old horror could be doing that for show. Kyoga Stornes hovered near the library door. He picked at a plate of canapés while he kept watch. He was not good at disguising what he was doing.
Shadowslinger was fishing while trying to forge deadly alliances.
During a quiet moment Barate told me, “I think she’s about to quit coasting on her reputation.”
“Scary thought.”
“You can’t imagine. Hello, thank you for coming. Garrett, this is Moonslight, Tara Chayne’s sister, Mariska. Mariska, this is Strafa’s husband. And you know Kevans, of course.”
“Of course.” The woman offered me a hand while sizing me up more blatantly than her sister had. She did not need to explain that “Tara Chayne and I are twins.” I wasn’t so sure about “But I’m the hot one. Got to go.”
Moonblight was headed our way like a tornado-spawning thunderstorm.
Kevans told me, “They don’t get along.”
“I picked up on that, kiddo. Not completely senile yet. Looks like Kip is about to head out. You maybe ought to say good-bye.”
“Yeah. I should.”
She made it sound like forever lurked in the back of her mind.
We had no customers. Barate and I could talk. He said, “That boy is thicker than a paving brick.” Meaning Kip Prose had no clue that his longtime best friend, who was a girl, was just as much taken by him as was his girlfriend, Kyra, a fact that even Kyra suspected.
“He doesn’t think of Kevans as a girl.” I sneaked a sideways glance, thinking he might have some feelings about his daughter’s infatuation. I saw nothing but parental concern.
“I won’t touch it, Garrett. It’ll be one of those Daddy-don’t-see things.”
Kip had a mother out there somewhere. She did not participate in his life except to enjoy the allowances he provided. I was more of a parent, which was scary. Mostly that meant he was raising himself. “That sounds like the best plan. He wants us to think he’s a grown-ass man. Let’s treat him like one till he asks for help.”
Barate grunted. “Not exactly what I was thinking.” Since his stake in the matter was his daughter, not Kip. He was about to tell me something when Tara Chayne beckoned.
Time for him to go be Constance’s boy instead of Kevans’s dad.
I stood around looking dull and feeling like a dim candle, watching my friends stuff their faces and fill their pockets. Staffers and servers pretended not to notice.
&
nbsp; They would stock up on leftovers themselves, later, if there were any.
All afternoon, despite all else, either Morley Dotes, Penny, or Pular Singe was somewhere close by, in case I began to demonstrate erratic behavior. Singe and Penny were fiercely uncomfortable in this venue.
I felt plenty of out-of-place myself.
Pockets full, my friends began to move on once the rain slackened.
I considered heading for Macunado Street myself, come the end of the day. I could just run back to my old life. There would be less pain in my old familiar places. Barate could go back to the mansion he’d had to leave a year ago. Plus, at the old place I could have my business partner manage, reshape, or even suppress the emotions threatening to destabilize me now.
I shunned considering the broader situation, instead investing my time in feeling sorry for myself.
Barate returned. “Time to talk to the dragon.”
“Huh?”
“She wants to see you.”
I pulled a face.
“It’s probably not what you think. She probably wants to ask you not to sell this place because of the family history here. Strafa was born here. So was Kevans.”
“Sell it? How could I do that?”
“We made it over to you and Strafa after you announced the engagement.”
I gulped some raw air and chewed. For somebody in my racket that flashed a big ugly red flag. Motive. A mansion high on the Hill, where the heavyweights live, is worth more than I can imagine. And my imagination has fiddled some seriously big numbers.
“But . . .” I might have heard someone tell me the place was mine without having listened. I was not attentive to the exterior world lately.
“Strafa didn’t tell you?”
“She did not.”
“That’s my little girl. Probably didn’t consider it worth mentioning.”
Probably. Strafa never had much interest in wealth. Her wants were never large. She never encountered a situation where she couldn’t just buy whatever she wanted.
I oozed into the library. Shadowslinger shifted her bulk, turned her massive face my way, smiled hungrily.
Barate said, “Mother feels that it is time to get to work. As soon as your guests leave.” Hint, hint.
“I’ll deal with that.”
22
The overworked staff, while polite, did nothing to encourage anyone to linger. Only Winger and Saucerhead Tharpe were still underfoot and still eating. Neither Penny, Singe, nor Morley quite counted as guests.
I told Singe, “Go if you want. It’s going to get boring now.” Her brother had left long ago, unable to stand the company of so many humans.
“I do not want. This is family. I will be here for the planning and there for the kill.”
I glanced at Penny. As the priestess of a cult now numbering just one, she was tough and fierce. As a girly girl she was timid. She had her angry fangs out right now. “I’m not going home by myself.”
No need to look at Morley. He would become my shadow.
Winger and Saucerhead, stomachs and pockets bulging, finally took the hint. Strafa’s kitchen and household staff, Race and Dex, saw them off. Those old boys were a couple. I found them creepy but not because of their orientation. They made me think of zombies.
“You’ll find those two quite frugal,” Barate told me as I returned to the library, indirectly suggesting that they be kept on the payroll. They might be third cousins, or something.
“You want this all back? I’ll do a quit claim.”
“This is you and Strafa now.”
The fat lady nodded.
The Algardas were the weirdest family I’d ever encountered, the full details not germane. And I was a made member of the tribe.
Shadowslinger offered no objection when Morley, Penny, and Singe entered the room behind me. They were family hangers-on now, because they came with me.
While I was out, Kyoga, Bonegrinder, and the Machtkess sisters had moved in, as had Kevans. The room was tight and getting hot. Shadowslinger grew more pungent as the temperature rose. The smell made my eyes water.
Barate said, “Huddle up. Move your chairs into a circle. We’ll brainstorm.” He gestured impatiently at Kevans and Penny to join the grown-ups.
The family talent for sorcery had skipped Barate, but he had other skills. He shared the olive coloring of his mother. Like her, he was built wide, but his wide hadn’t gone to fat. He could pass as a thug, and had done thug work for the family. He had scars as souvenirs of the Cantard War, where he had done two tours.
He had done no muscle work lately. Strafa hadn’t been that kind of girl, and Grandma was retired. But he was set for a vengeance run now.
Shadowslinger’s beefy lips spread in a sneer when I settled into the chair she had saved for me, next to her. She had fun creeping me out.
Strafa had been convinced that the old witch loved me and was thrilled to have me join the tribe. Maybe. I hadn’t been hung from a meat hook yet.
Barate said, “We’ve had time to vent our emotions. Now let’s get rational and start the hunt. All yours, Garrett.”
“Huh?”
I do have the occasional profound intellectual moment.
“You’re the professional. This is what you do. Tell us what our parts will be.”
“Oh.” Numb pause. Was he making fun? Shadowslinger had given assignments the other day. “Let’s hear what you all did the last two days.”
That turned out to have been a big lot of nothing, which was the case with me, too. I hadn’t found the ambition to start. But they supposedly had resources I couldn’t even imagine, emotional and otherwise. I grumbled, “I’ve never had me for a client before.”
“Worst client ever,” Morley predicted, his pointy elf teeth all a-glitter.
“Probably true. When you’re self-employed your boss is almost always a slave-driving dick.”
Singe snorted. My custom, historically, was to quiver a finger only when starvation threatened. Her genius kept the Macunado house afloat.
“All right,” I said. “I talked tournament with my partner the other night, before what happened happened. He told me to take it to the Guard. They have the manpower resources. Plus, just word getting out that the Guard is interested could put the quietus on the whole damned project.”
“An incorrect estimate, apparently,” Richt Hauser observed.
“He’s only right most of the time. But . . . How would the tournament have gone in your day if there’d been police like we have now?”
Silence till Moonblight opined, “It would have happened anyway, but the game would have been harder to play.”
“And deadlier,” her sister said. “Some Champions wouldn’t have scrupled about killing tin whistles who got in the way.”
True then, maybe. Not many villains today were likely to see red tops as disposable annoyances, though. Deal Relway had earned his reputation.
Shadowslinger grunted, stabbed an ugly finger at Barate. He said, “The Guard does enjoy a numerical advantage. They may be able to root out the Operators in no time. And the men in charge aren’t devoted to formalities or individual rights for actual bad guys.”
I chirped, “They now have on staff people able to cope with the likes of Dread Companions. Assuming I understand what those actually are.”
I wasn’t the most popular guy for having brought that up. It suggested that there might come a day when the Guard’s wizard teams, working like an orchestra, could handle the mega monsters of the Hill. Hill folks already had their knickers in a twist because the Crown and Guard insisted that they meet behavioral standards expected of ordinary folks.
Barate said, “Mother and I agree that alerting the Guard was sound strategy. The Operators will have to work slower and more carefully. That should give us more time. But did the Guard believe you, Garrett?”
Relway had been intrigued before Strafa was attacked. “Yes. They haven’t found anything useful yet, though, according to General Block.
What happened couldn’t be personal. Strafa got along with everybody and she had no secrets.” She had been too open, I thought, glancing from Barate to Kevans.
Singe got up. She couldn’t stand a human chair for long. She was bold enough to speak in front of those people, most of whom probably considered her clever vermin. “In the interest of narrowing possibilities, would anyone profit from Strafa’s death?”
“It is the tournament,” Bonegrinder said. “The tournament and only the tournament. No one bore that child any ill will.”
“That is not what I asked. We have established that Strafa was an idol.”
Shadowslinger stirred beside me. “No. That is not it.” Something had been going on with her, quietly, the past few minutes. Her outer apparel had grown darker. It moved in breezes that touched nothing else. Foul smells leaked out. A massive hand encrusted in ugly jewelry reached toward me. “You aren’t looking at this the way you should.”
For one mad instant it felt like she was channeling the Dead Man. “How is that?”
“You’re ignoring what happened before whatever happened out front.” She had the devoted attention of everyone shoehorned into the room.
She opened her hand.
23
A piece of iron dropped into my extended palm. “What is this?”
“Could it be a pork chop?”
Stupid answer to a stupid question.
It was an iron crossbow bolt. The fletched end was missing. It had been designed to rip through plate armor. “This must have weighed three pounds, whole.” How do you break a chunk of iron like that? “This wouldn’t fit any man-portable weapon.”
It was a light artillery bolt made for a small siege piece or an infantry support weapon. It had a hardened-steel penetrator tip.
I wondered, “Any chance it was a stray?”
“Seriously?”
I tried again. “What is this?”
“Tell us what happened at your other house that night.”
Penny squeaked. I blushed. Really. I may be grown up, sort of, but I couldn’t discuss that stuff with a woman’s family.