Wicked Bronze Ambition

by Glen Cook

  “What happened to the husbands?”

  “They’re around as career remittance men. The girls have nothing to do with them anymore except to pay them to stay out of the way.”

  Dollar Dan let me know that he and his guys were set. We could go on. Nobody had smelled any disturbing odors from the house. “Shall I keep an eye on Singe?” Asked in wan hope.

  Singe managed a head shake. “I am good. For now.” To me, she added, “You may end up carrying me home, though.”

  “If I have to. If I can’t find somebody to buy you. But who is going to carry me?”

  Barate informed me, “Denvers is getting impatient.”

  “Denvers?”

  “Tara Chayne’s man. There in the doorway letting in moths and mosquitoes while we stand around jawing.”

  “Oh. That guy.”

  We started moving.

  Barate went back to “The younger Machtkess girls have no talent. . . .”

  Light flared on the far side of the Hill, setting the belly of the overcast on fire. It faded, was followed by the grumble of baby thunder. A few raindrops hit me, but there was no connection. The grumble faded. Then flashes backlighted the skyline, accompanied by a racket like divine swords clashing.

  It took no genius for Dan to declare, “That’s sorcerers fighting!”

  Sparks flew in showers, as though from holiday fireworks.

  Barate mumbled, “Damn!” The rest of us just gawked.

  It lasted several minutes. The whistles of Civil Guards and private watchmen sawed shrilly at the night.

  “Oh my! I guess it’s started.” Moonblight had joined her man in the doorway, face pallid, eyes wide. She was not happy.

  The dogs crowded as close as Denvers would let them. They might be feral, but they carried millennia of racial memories of shared safety with two-leggers in huts and caves.

  “What is this?” Moonblight demanded.

  “They’re scared of the dark.”

  She considered the excitement yonder. “That might be smart tonight. Let them into the foyer, Denvers. Find them something to eat.” After brief consideration, she added, “The escort as well.”

  Dollar Dan moved his guys inside reluctantly, yet with relief. Being invited into a sorceress’s house was scary, but staying outside could turn out much worse.

  Moonblight cut me and Barate out of the crowd. “Come with me.”

  I gave a sad shrug to Singe, whose offended look turned into mute appeal. Tara Chayne had exceeded herself already to accommodate my nonhuman companions.

  It would do Singe good to spend time learning to deal with Dollar Dan. She would face that problem for a long time, and other rat men would want to stake claims of their own. She was a huge prize.

  50

  Moonblight led us to a sitting room where a female servant was setting a table for three. It featured glasses, carafes of wine, and a platter of cheese bits and sausage chunks. I drooled. I was ferociously hungry. And tense. And sore.

  I had roamed more than usual in a normal month. And the day was not over yet.

  “So, why are you here with a mob instead of . . .” She glanced at Barate, chose to turn it off in front of my father-in-law. Barate Algarda might become unpleasant if he was offended.

  “The mob’s job is to keep me alive. People have tried to do ugly stuff to me. I came to ask some questions, to see if you’ll help with a couple of things, and to let you know that your sister has been kidnapped. But I imagine you’ve heard about that.”

  “I have. An unpleasant visitor brought the news this afternoon. He said that Mariska will be hurt if I keep trying to sabotage the tournament.”

  She seemed content with that. I prodded, “And? What else?” There had to be more. I should drag her off to see the Dead Man again.

  “I wished him luck. I told him I hoped they had fun. I suggested a few things he could do, mostly on the lines of don’t throw Mariska in the briar patch. He didn’t like my attitude. He got belligerent, so I had Denvers thump him and stuff him in the dustbin out back.”

  Was she that sure the villains wouldn’t hurt Mariska? Or did she really not care? “Did you see anything that might help us identify him?”

  “I know who he is already. No. Wait. I know what he is. A priest. Orthodox. From the cathedral in the Dream Quarter. I’ve only seen him from a distance there. He never noticed me. This was the first time I ever actually talked to him. He had no idea that I’d seen him before.”

  “And you, being a clever girl, didn’t clue him.”

  “Yes. Me being a clever woman.”

  I must have started to glow. Was there a connection? A priest. Strafa had visited a priest the morning she died. We all assumed that was about the wedding. She and Father Amerigo had issues. But maybe she had gone to see a priest causing difficulties of another kind.

  I should put Father Amerigo on my interview list. Or the Dead Man’s, even better.

  I needed to remember that Playmate and Penny hadn’t seen Strafa in the Dream Quarter, which proved only that they hadn’t seen her, but it was suggestive.

  “Any chance you’d know this priest’s name?”

  “None. But a visit to Chattaree Cathedral ought to turn him up. He’s easy to spot. Or describe. He has a huge wen.” She tapped her head.

  I wanted to exchange “Aha!” looks with somebody but had to do without. Barate hadn’t been there when the wen got mentioned before. I treated myself to an evil laugh. “I do believe we’ve got one!”

  Barate asked, “Got one what?”

  “Operator. A guy with a big-ass wen was one of the gobs who commissioned those costumes and the swords we’re going to booby-trap.”

  Tara Chayne eyed me like I had just begun to shine with a howling madness.

  “Sorry. Listen. That’s the other reason that I came to see you.” She looked hopeful, but only for an instant. “By the way, what do you want to do about your sister?”

  Moonblight burned through Tara Chayne Machtkess. “We know where she’s being kept? Good. Let her marinate.”

  “Say what?”

  “All right. Have somebody keep watch. Rat men would be appropriate. I’ll pay for their time. But let her sit, otherwise. We’ll do something if things start to fall apart for her.”

  “That’s really what you want?”

  “I’m fine with letting the dumb bitch stew.”

  Hardly charitable toward your sister. Not my place to judge, though.

  I got busy telling about Flubber Ducky and Trivias Smith, ceremonial costumes and imitation antique swords.

  “And you want to sabotage those weapons.”

  “Yes. No. Not exactly. Hell . . . That’s a good idea. If you could fix it so they’d just bend if you tried to stick somebody . . . Ugh.”

  I thought I had galloped blind into verbal quicksand. The woman was in no mood to play with it, though. Or she didn’t have a mind as skewed as mine. She said, “Creating a hilt insert to make them traceable can be done. Anything more would be a huge challenge. Barate, how is your mother doing?”

  “I’m more optimistic. Her fingers have begun twitching. Ted says that she may be aware.”

  “If she’s even halfway conscious, she’ll be back. She’s too strong and too bullheaded for anything less.”

  Barate nodded. “She won’t go before she gets even for Strafa, that’s for sure.”

  I decided we should get back to the man who had tried to strong-arm Moonblight. Pretty daring, that, going at somebody from high on the Hill. “Lady Machtkess . . .”

  “Tara Chayne.” She did not simper.

  Barate nodded minutely, eyebrows up. He was surprised. Moonblight had accepted me into her in-crowd.

  “Tara Chayne, then. Once I’m done here I’m heading home. I’m exhausted. I’ll report to my partner, then collapse. But . . . if there is some way you can make yourself do it, could you come with me? He could mine a fortune in information from your encounter with that man . . .” I stopped, certain I
was wasting my breath. She had let herself be violated once, and that was once too often.

  She stood up. “You two get busy on that platter. You must be starving. I’ll be right back.”

  She went into the foyer, talked to somebody, I thought Singe. Maybe Dollar Dan, too, then silence, soon followed by whispering.

  I asked Barate, “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About everything in general and her in particular.”

  “Tara Chayne. She’s letting friendship and a conscience usually in hibernation influence the image she shows the world.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “Most Hill folk are better people than you expect, once you know us.”

  I stayed shut up. He might smack me if I didn’t agree. And that is a problem with villains. The better you know them, the more you get why they are the way they are. You may actually suffer a sympathetic reaction.

  Which doesn’t mean you shouldn’t crack skulls and cut throats anyway. You have to deal with the monster that is, not the victim that was.

  Tara Chayne came back. She announced, “I have everything I need to make the tracers. I do wonder, though, who you meant to do the following. You don’t have the talent. Neither does he.”

  I hadn’t considered that. I glanced at Barate. He shrugged. “I didn’t think that far ahead. You and Richt Hauser are all we have left.”

  “Then I suppose it will have to be me.”

  I wondered if I shouldn’t ought to be suspicious. She was awfully cooperative.

  People who cooperate enthusiastically usually turn out to be up to no good. They’re trying to con you. But, on the other hand, Moonblight had been into the conspiracy against the tournament before Strafa and I got recruited. And the days since then had delivered us all plenty of motive to get some licks in before the Operators got their production rolling.

  51

  The rain arrived as drizzle, better than the soaker I’d expected but still enough to leave the cobblestones dangerously slick.

  Barate headed for his mother’s house from Moonblight’s place. He had business with her and Kevans both. The rest of us headed for Macunado Street. The dogs were not thrilled with the weather. They would have been happy to grace Moonblight’s house permanently. There was some good eating there.

  Tara Chayne wasn’t ready to adopt.

  On the upside, Singe was getting along under her own power.

  Dollar Dan was disappointed.

  “What is that odor?” I asked. Something lurked behind all the ripe aromas stirred up when it rains.

  There was a pale fog with something like thin smoke mixed in. I caught notes of sulfur and something metallic. The keen noses around me might be able to explain.

  A rat man said, “Something to do with that sorcery from before.” The air wasn’t moving much, but it was drifting from that direction.

  Dan and Singe agreed but had nothing to add.

  The hired wagon stood in front of the house. Min was not aboard. The owner had to be inside. Likewise, Penny and Ted. The team seemed to have been struck stupider than is usual in the dim and bloody-minded horse tribe. They looked like anybody who wanted could just lead them away.

  Only, their barrels-of-rocks dumb and lazy show was happening in front of the house where the Dead Man denned up.

  I wondered if Himself wasn’t using them as bait.

  I grumbled, “Stinks like wet horse around here.” I followed Singe up to the stoop, she peeking back in case Dollar Dan suddenly could no longer restrain his passion. A questionable concern considering the proximity of the Dead Man.

  Old Bones didn’t touch us, but he was awake and aware. Penny knew exactly when to open the door. She had exchanged the stylish outfit for her usual raggedy tomboy look. I heard voices from Singe’s office, as did Singe, who registered alarm. That was her turf. No trespassers allowed when she was out.

  Penny told us, “Dean has some potato sausages warming.” Which, tell it true, was what I most wanted to hear right then.

  “Those and some beer and I’m down and gone to heaven.”

  Singe kicked up a cloud of dust in her haste to go defend her patch. I got there three steps behind.

  Her office contained John Stretch, Saucerhead Tharpe, his totally nonromantic roommate Winger, Helenia from the Al-Khar, and a man I didn’t recognize. But no Dr. Ted. And where the hell was the rat man who owned the wagon?

  Vicious Min, I assumed, would be in the room next door, which had been my office before I grew up and left home.

  Winger, heavier now, more worn, and seedier than ever, fed my ego by reporting, “You look like shit on a stick, Garrett.”

  “I feel worse than I look. I haven’t done that much walking since boot camp.”

  I stayed in the doorway, watching Penny politely thank Dollar Dan while hinting broadly that he ought to go so the folks who lived here could crash. I checked John Stretch. His ears were good enough to follow the exchange. Dan wasn’t getting the message. But then he loosed a weird squeaking noise caused by the Dead Man’s direct touch. He wasted no time getting gone after that.

  I felt Old Bones paging through my memories, suggesting that it would be a good idea to hit the sheets. Tomorrow would be another long day.

  Even so, I started to get on Saucerhead and Winger about not having done the work we had given them.

  His Nibs showed me a condensed version of their adventures.

  They owed their lives to the fact that Deal Relway was a sneaky psychopath driven by an abiding need to know and a further compulsion to meddle.

  Specials had been watching most of my closest associates—a matter of public policy nowadays if Old Bones could be believed.

  Anyway, both had gotten into tight spots. Both had been rescued by swift Guard responses, leaving them tormented by mixed feelings about the law-and-order outbreak.

  Both had been celebrating, using their newly won time to indulge in an effort to empty my beer kegs before somebody named Garrett cut them off.

  “Thought you were going on the wagon,” I said to Winger. She had embarrassed herself with her drinking after she and Jon Salvation parted ways.

  “Shit, Garrett! Today I foun’ out that life is too goddamn short to waste it trying to be somebody you ain’t. ’Specially, if it’s somebody somebody else wants you to be.”

  A sentiment with which I did not disagree—though I had begun to realize that doing only what you feel like will make life unpleasant in the long run. You’ll make a lot of people unhappy.

  I asked John Stretch, “Did you find out anything useful?”

  “Almost nothing.”

  Penny and Dean brought food. Singe chivvied her brother out from behind her desk, cleared clutter enough to make space for her tray. I settled onto a hard wooden chair with mine aboard my lap. “Nothing? That’s amazing.”

  “It is. But there are no rumors, even . . . Let me start over. Other than the excitement in the families being pulled in—and we identified only two of those—there is an information vacuum. There is no discussion outside the families involved, which they don’t want to be but are afraid that trying to ignore the mess could just make their Champion easier to kill.”

  I turned to Helenia, already wilting under Singe’s regard. “Why are you here?”

  “The Director sent me.” She sipped from a mug that had the look of one she’d been nursing all night.

  You can’t trust sippers. They always have a hidden agenda.

  “Why?” After she failed to say anything else.

  “To be liaison.”

  I pulled in a deep breath, then decided to save the air. I turned to the stranger. “Who are you?”

  “I’m with her.”

  “That’s an unusual name.”

  “Merryman. Clute Merryman. Corporal of the Station for Criminal Statistics. Day watch. I tagged along to look out for Helenia.”

  Penny brought in a folding chair. I glowered. She told me, “They were here when I got home. Ye
ll at Dean.” She nodded toward the Dead Man’s room. “Or him.” Letting me know the visitors were here on Himself’s instructions. “They helped with Vicious Min.” Now she nodded toward the small room next door.

  “Ah. And what happened to the wagon guy? And the doc?”

  “Visiting across the way.”

  John Stretch stirred uncomfortably.

  There was nothing for me here right now. The Dead Man would get anything worth knowing faster than I could. And I needed sleep.

  “I might as well hit the hay, people. Soon as I finish these wonderful sausages. Good stuff, Dean.” I used my fork on the last little chunk, waved it as the old man rolled a cart into the doorway. The cart carried beer pitchers and fresh tea. I wondered when we had acquired the cart.

  Dean passed me my favorite mug, so ranked because of its capacity. “Oh my! Select Dark. I’ll hold off wasting time on sleep for now.”

  The Weider Select Dark is good stuff. Really good stuff.

  Business talk resumed. Other than to wonder what Old Bones might have gotten from Vicious Min, I didn’t concern myself much. It took only one capacious mug to free up thoughts of Strafa that I had been keeping suppressed for several days.

  52

  Singe was there beside my bed, armed with my favorite mug. It was filled with medicated black tea. Something had reached inside my still throbbing coconut to waken me. It withdrew after easing the pain a little.

  “Did I make a total fool of myself?”

  She raised a hand, thumb and forefinger narrowly separated. “Close. But not quite. Drink this. It’s from Kolda. You have work to do.”

  She’d been up long enough to go see Kolda? I seemed to recall her gobbling the dark with enthusiasm herself.

  Must be something she’d kept around, just in case.

  She said, “You left the dogs out without food or water.” Apparently a crime, though I didn’t get it. Dogs are dogs. They belong outside.

  I swallowed some tea. The medicine hit fast. Kolda knows his stuff. But it didn’t change my attitude toward the mutts.