by Glen Cook
Shadowslinger’s new message said CHECk HalL. for EAVEsdrop. MAKE It Go.
“Got it.” I looked. Sure enough, a herd of villains lurked there, ears cocked. I borrowed Shadowslinger’s pad to show them what she had to say. They moved on surlily.
I told Barate, “She’ll know if you sneak back.” Warning delivered while hoping that someone, preferably him, would be there to rescue me if Shadowslinger became overheated.
“I understand.”
He slunk away. And I understood that he wouldn’t be back. I was on my own. I would have no cover whatsoever.
I squared my handsome broad shoulders, put a smile on my handsome rugged face, turned to face the dread symphony.
With precision timing a gust flipped one leaf of the window open and flung rainy cold air inside. I scooted round the bed to deal with that.
Slowly, in words only slightly slurred, so softly it was unlikely that an eavesdropper might hear, Shadowslinger said, “Leave it. I need the noise.”
Mouth arrayed to catch horseflies and other small game, I ceased all efforts to do a good deed.
Speaking slowly and straining to make each word understandable, she said, “As you have begun to suspect, my health issue is not as debilitating as I have pretended.”
I closed my mouth so I could open it to ask a question. Several questions, actually. Or maybe a book full. That’s the kind of guy I am. I have an inquiring mind.
Shadowslinger cut me off with a look. “This seemed a good idea at one time. It no longer is. Time has flown. There isn’t much left. No more than forty hours.”
I had no idea what that meant. She didn’t explain. She refused to waste time on explanations. She was down to her deep reserve.
“You must end the tournament threat before time runs out.”
“But Strafa—”
“Your wife will be there. She will always be there. The Operators must be handled before that can be.”
I sighed. This meant a lot to her, in a strategic sense, not just personally.
I didn’t get it.
As is the case most all the time in my world, something was going on and I wasn’t being clued in.
She showed me a strained smile. “Break the Operators in the next forty hours. I promise you, you will be glad that you did.”
Another hefty Marine Corps sigh. “I can but do my damnedest, madame.” Then I had an idea. An unpleasant recollection that might be part premonition. “No one told you before. The Black Orchid has come out of retirement. She has become involved.”
Nothing for five or six seconds, followed by a whole-body shudder, as though the incoming air had just added a sudden arctic chill. Several more seconds slipped away. She regained control. “Orchidia Hedley-Farfoul? Involved? How? And why?”
I told her about Orchidia’s twins.
“Damn me, I should have anticipated that. The Operators should have taken her into account, too. This could be a disaster.”
Wow! The Black Orchid had an impact on Constance Algarda as big as Shadowslinger had on regular people.
Orchidia Hedley-Farfoul’s talent for murder must be all-time world-class.
Constance pulled herself together. “Orchidia is not incapable of reason. She is, in fact, coldly intellectual. Assuming she has sense enough to consult family, Bonegrinder will tell her the Breakers had nothing to do with her twins.”
Her condition had improved dramatically again.
Funny, that.
I kept my thoughts off my face, which I can do occasionally, in a desperate moment. “Breakers?”
“It’s what we called our gang when we were rebels. A weak inside joke. I use the name to include anybody interested in wrecking the Operators and tournament.”
The Orchidia thing truly had her stressed. She was giving stuff away left and right.
She made another effort. “This means nothing to you. It changes nothing for you. Though you will have to move fast if you want to question Meyness Stornes without the assistance of a necromancer. I am too weak to reach him once he goes toe-to-toe with Orchidia and loses—despite the season.”
Huh? “Maybe she doesn’t know about . . .”
“What she doesn’t know she soon will. Nothing stops the Black Orchid once she . . . Understand this. Orchidia Hedley-Farfoul might actually be the avatar of Death. Enma Ai. Death made manifest by faith.”
She had lost me.
“Some believe that. Their belief may not be just fearful superstition. Divine possession is uncommon but not unknown.”
No. It was not. I had seen it. It seemed improbable here, but . . . Most anything that the mind can imagine can happen in TunFaire, and certainly will in time.
Constance was wobbly from effort, and ready to collapse.
She said, “You must . . . resolve the tournament situation . . . before sunrise day after tomorrow.”
“Sunrise? Day after . . . ? What? Why?” Tomorrow, come to think, was Day of the Dead, a holy day important in some of our more successful religions. Sundown tomorrow would start All-Souls Night, significant to those who believed that it was possible to communicate with the dead.
The believers include me, though I don’t put much stock in All-Souls. I have dealt with ghosts. I had a relationship with the shade of a woman who was murdered before I was born. During All-Souls Night the membrane between worlds is so thin that anyone willing to work at it can reach the dead—if the dead are inclined to be reached.
Those that aren’t too lost to respond usually don’t want to. Those who do are the sort most likely to become haunts anyway.
Only a few really strange folks do try to peek into the next world.
I frowned at that grim old woman. “What are you planning?”
She wasn’t listening. She was slipping away. She asked the air, “Oh, what have I done?” I think. She was mumbling and facing away. “It may be too late.” Seconds fled. “Nothing went the way it was supposed to.” And then, fifteen seconds later, “I guessed wrong. He is too dim and too lazy to get it done in time.” Then she was out completely and that looked real.
I wasn’t happy. I had a powerful notion that somebody, name of Garrett, was the “he” that had her muttering about dim and lazy. Which was not even a little fair because she, like everyone else, hadn’t given me any explanation of what was going on, what I was supposed to do, or why.
Stipulated, she could be right. I might be too dim. I was less flexible in my readiness to concede being too lazy.
Damn, did I wish that the Dead Man hadn’t gone south for the winter! He might be able to say why a holiday that hitherto had had no mention would, according to Constance Algarda, loom large as a deadline in which the dead part might play a big role.
I wasn’t going to find out anything leaning over an unconscious, stinky old sorceress while rain-laden air whipped my face through a window long overdue for closing.
I closed it.
I went down to the kitchen. The crowd eyed me expectantly.
90
“Can anybody explain how the Day of the Dead or All-Souls Night might connect with the Tournament of Swords?”
Blank looks. Of course, hardly anybody knew much about the tournaments. A week ago only a couple of us had heard of that idiocy.
I caught Moonslight shyly, indecisively, gradually, sliding a tentative hand upward while involved in a fierce internal struggle, her connection with Magister Bezma warring with a desire to see the right thing done.
She knew perfectly well that she hadn’t been serving the cause of righteousness.
Not many of us ever do. Not deliberately, with benevolence aforethought.
I asked, “Has this thing just taken another unexpected right-angle turn?”
I hadn’t left out much that Shadowslinger had said. I wanted them thinking. These people were not stupid. One quick mind might catch something the rest of us overlooked.
Singe eased in close, whispered, “We need to check in at home. There should be reports. And he m
ight be awake.”
“Is there a real chance that he is?”
“Probably not. But I prefer to remain optimistic.”
“Good enough for me. So. See if there are enough umbrellas for everyone who wants to go.”
The modern collapsing umbrella is another product of the genius of Kip Prose. Most of those currently in the hands of the public weren’t purchased by the people actually using them. There is nothing more frequently stolen than the umbrella on a rainy day. Many have a lengthy, adventurous provenance.
Amalgamated keeps prices up by marketing its more desirable products in quantities below demand. The policy encourages piracy, but the Tate old men do well at convincing the public that a deep and abiding social handicap comes with the purchase of anything that is not a genuine Amalgamated-manufactured, Prose-designed product.
None of which was germane. Just another parenthetical distraction . . .
Barate poked me in my favorite tender spot. “The coach is on its way, Garrett. Be ready.”
“Coach? What coach?”
“Mother’s coach. To keep you from drowning on your way. I told you about it ten minutes ago.” He was worried about me.
“I’m sorry. I’m really lost, especially now that we’re up against some vague deadline. It just keeps getting more confusing.”
“I won’t argue about that. There’s more going on than we know. Keep an eye on Tara Chayne. She’ll figure it out first. She knows Mother better than anyone.”
I showed him my interrogative hoisted eyebrow.
“Better than me? Oh, hell yes! I never came close to figuring the old bitch out.”
I stepped to the kitchen door. The rain had become a soaker. A cold, steady soaker. You couldn’t tell what time of day it was, only that it was daytime. It was earlier than I thought, being only shortly after noon.
Shadowslinger wasn’t big on newfangled luxuries like collapsible umbrellas. They went bad after you used them a few times, so you had to buy another. She wasn’t going to play that game with crooked tradesmen.
Mash and Bash did own a knockoff that had to have its too-light stays rebent each time it opened.
They proved that couples will argue about the stupidest things by engaging in a bitter campaign to decide whether or not the imperfect umbrella ought to be left open all the time.
“It doesn’t matter!” I barked in frustration. “We only have one for this many people.”
Barate said, “Calm yourself, son. Being a clever old fox who’s actually had to deal with weather in the past, I told the coachman to pick you up under the porte cochere.”
Kevans chunked in a rare contribution. “We wouldn’t want all your sugar and spice to get washed away.”
That girl has issues.
Dr. Ted came back from a quick sortie into Shadowslinger territory. “Such a spoiled, selfish bunch, fussing over a damp that you’re not even out in yet. Think of the poor sodding red tops out there who have it running down the backs of their necks because their lunatic boss wants to know about every breath that one of us takes.”
That was an excellent diversion. Not that I much cared about the comfort of those fools. They ought to be holed up someplace warm and dry. I was hardly ever that dedicated to my work—unless maybe I was close up on somebody that might lead me to whoever did what happened to Strafa . . .
Barate said, “Mash, I want you, thank you kindly, to go wait for the coach. The rest of us will go on making hash here.”
He wanted to talk about Strafa. Unfortunately, what we knew still boiled down to little more than we had right after the event. A canvass of the neighborhood had not produced one eyewitness, nor even anyone who had noticed an itinerant siege machine—though the forensics sorcerers had determined the site from which the fatal bolt had to have been discharged.
The murderous ballista had vanished off the face of the earth.
The missing fragment of bolt had failed to turn up despite a diligent effort by Guard searchers.
Barate was more than grim when he admitted, “I hate saying this, Garrett, but for now it looks like they’re going to get away with it.”
“No. They won’t. They may stay ahead of me for an hour, a day, a month, but not forever. We’ve already turned up plenty of threads to pull. We pull, sooner or later somebody will panic and do something stupid.” As if they had not been doing a whole lot of that already.
Only, I might not get to yank any strings right away. Gratification might be delayed.
Shadowslinger had talked about that onrushing deadline with heightening despair. I hadn’t liked it. I still didn’t like it. But some feel for it had been ripening in the shadowed reaches of my imagination. For no concrete reason I had begun building a sense of importance and urgency myself.
Mashego returned. “The coach is ready.”
At which point curiosity reared its head. “If Mash and Bash are Constance’s only staff and you’re staying here, who’s driving the coach?”
That sort of question could be troubling to a guy with a twist of mind like mine.
Barate responded, “Two of our better private patrolmen, Peder and Piet Petief, handle the stable work and drive part-time. They’re brothers. Twins, in fact. Reliable men.”
More twins. Curious. No way that could have any real meaning, but it was interesting. Still . . . How reliable could guys be if they walked away from their regular job whenever they could pick up a bonus for handling an outside chore? Especially when that involved collaboration with horses?
I guess the index of reliability depends on the gauge you use as a measure.
91
I got water down the back of my neck, plenty, by choosing to ride up top with the driver. Piet was dressed for the weather. I only pretended to be, though I did have use of the Mash and Bash umbrella until a rogue gust snatched it away and smashed it against the face of a building.
“I need to find myself a better wet-weather hat.”
“At least up here you don’t have to deal with that.” Piet pointed down and back with his right thumb. Someone, name of Mariska Machtkess, aka Moonslight, just would not shut up about the indignity of having to share the coach with a pack of stray dogs. Again.
“The mutts aren’t her real problem.” She had been friendly with Brownie when she had nothing else weighting her down.
“I know. Rat people get up some folks’ noses just by managing to survive.”
I grunted, shook some water off my brim. “Would you bet anything against the possibility that there was a Machtkess ancestor involved in creating the rat people?”
“My mama’s stupid kids all died young.”
I grunted again, this time hurting a bit. You didn’t hear that expression much because it was a truth that touched most every Karentine family. Not to mention, a lot of mamas’ smart kids had died young, too.
Piet remained oblivious. I sensed no malice. How could he possibly know about my brother, anyway? He said, “That would be the safest bet you ever made.”
“Really? I’m not good with history.”
“Oh? Story goes, a direct ancestor of the Machtkess women, and his twin brother, created the grays.”
Interesting. “Twins run in their family?”
Piet was quiet for a while, then said, “I never thought about it before, but twins happen a lot on the Hill. Only not identicals. Curious.”
“It run in your family?”
“Peder and I are part of triplets, actually. Him and me aren’t identical. Pyotr was my identical. He didn’t make it home.”
All right. He wasn’t an insensitive jerk. All I could think to say was “My brother, too. And my dad, right about the time that Mikey was born.”
That brought up some old curiosities about inconsistent stories and some of the timing, back when, that I put out of mind as soon as I could. There was nothing there that I needed to know about now.
“Our dad, too. He was an idiot. He asked for it. Did his tour. Then he volunteered to go back.
He was a hero.”
So much bitterness. It was amazing. But I had no trouble understanding.
I asked, “How about we talk about something a little less gloomy?”
“On a day like today? In weather like this? This is a gift from the gods. It’s them giving us a chance to get it all sluiced out.”
“They’ve given us plenty of chances lately, then.”
“You got that right. At least it’s not as hot as it usually is this time of year. You know we’re being followed?”
“I haven’t been paying attention, but I did figure we might be.”
“I reckon. You being you, as they say. This mess being what it looks like it’s getting to be.”
I glanced over, wondering what he meant. He sounded stressed when he said it.
He went on, “My brother and I owe you an apology, Mr. Garrett. We was on patrol . . . We should’ve been there when . . . We got sucked in by the diversion that day. We was pioneers in the army. We got a lust after things that go boom and make smoke. That day there was plenty of flash, lots of bang, and all kinds of colored smoke. Way around the Hill.”
Had someone done any finding out about that? Maybe the bad guys made some mistake rigging things over there.
“You couldn’t help yourselves.”
Startled, he looked at me like I’d just given him absolution. “That’s what Peder said when we found out what happened while we was off our patch. After. He bawled like a baby, he did. Everybody loved that girl. He said, ‘We just couldn’t help ourselves, Piet.’”
Not quite sure why, I mused, “It was almost like somebody knew exactly what it would take to get you out of the way.”
Two seconds later we were looking at each other, first with big eyes, then frowning as we both wondered if I hadn’t just said something important without any forethought.
Piet almost ran over a couple of people, he was so distracted.
“Hey! Godsdamn! The fuck, youse assholes? Be watching the fuck where you’re goin’!”
I babbled an incoherent apology on Piet’s behalf, then noted that we were on Macunado already, clattering down my block, having just accidentally missed killing one of Belinda Contague’s biggest and most unpleasant lifeguards. His temper might be frayed. His dampness suggested that he had been out in the weather for a while.