Wicked Bronze Ambition: A Garrett, P.I., Novel

by Glen Cook

  4

  I glanced from face to face. Nobody looked like they thought Algarda was pulling my leg. Kevans made a noise that sounded like a bleat of fear, which might be justified if this was on the up-and-up.

  “No bullshit, Garrett. Those two have grandkids that could get pulled in. Kyoga’s son, Feder, seems to have gotten the news yesterday. Mother and I, naturally, are concerned for Kevans.”

  “You’ve lost me and confused me. Somebody or something picks out kids . . . always Hill kids? And they have no choice?”

  “Almost always members of the founding families. But some of those don’t exist anymore, as much because of the tournaments as anything, so brilliant outsiders get dragged in to make up the numbers. Or, even uglier, the summons can go out to more than one member of the same family.”

  That would be cruel. “All right. Cream-of-the-crop kids. And they’re expected to murder one another until only one is left standing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Crap. How? Why? And how come the whole damned world doesn’t know about it if it happens all the time?”

  Strafa asked, “How can they make them fight? If they don’t want to?”

  I said, “That would be a good place to start. Yes.”

  “You have no choice. Say you’re a pacifist and you refuse to participate. Someone will cut your throat just because you make it easy.”

  “In other words, what it is is an exaggerated and formalized, gamed-up version of what goes on among the ruling class every day, anyway.”

  That got me unpleasant looks from members of the ruling class.

  Barate said, “Some will fight, always, for the prize or just to survive. Some will try to win so they can get strong enough to end the tournaments forever. Whatever, young people will die, some of them horribly. Not all of the victims will be people directly involved in the game. There’s usually a lot of collateral damage.”

  “But the public doesn’t notice.”

  “Mostly it doesn’t happen in public. It’s no gladiatorial contest, like a bare-knuckles boxing tournament. It’s a secret war that, by its nature, can’t help having public effects. It leaves corpses and localized disasters. Unexplained magical encounters in the night are common and often lethal.”

  Not unusual for TunFaire, really, until recently. Lately the city has suffered gut-wrenching spasms of early-stage law and order.

  Barate said, “There is evidence in the historical record if you look. You won’t need to dig for it. We’ll give you a big head start by letting you interview several participants from the last tournament.” He extended his hand to indicate Hauser, the Machtkess woman, and his mother.

  Kyoga reported, “My father kept a journal detailing his efforts and that of his two Companions.”

  “But . . .”

  Hauser said, “Families were involved. Families hand down oral histories. We refused to play by the old rules. We sabotaged and aborted the tournament. We attacked the devil in charge instead of our friends. And we thought we had ended the tournaments forever.”

  Lady Tara Chayne said, “We were wrong.”

  I asked, “All of you?” Kyoga was Barate’s age.

  Hauser said, “No. Meyness B. Stornes.”

  Kyoga said, “I said my father. I was still in diapers.”

  Hauser added, “Five of us rebelled. Meyness disappeared in the Cantard ten years later.”

  All right. I looked from face to face. Sooner or later they would get around to explaining how they thought I fit. Sooner, I hoped. I was getting hungry. Strafa’s eyes had gone yellow with impatience. And Kevans was getting restless.

  Hauser said, “We wrecked the last game because our grandparents got cut up bad in the round before that. That one didn’t work out according to plan, either, though we never found out why. Everyone involved died before they could explain. Some of us, though, were old enough to understand and friends enough not to want to kill each other over something that we didn’t believe was actually real.”

  Lady Tara Chayne said, “There have been six tournaments, none of which went according to design. Something always went wrong, but a lot of people died anyway. When we were young we thought the whole thing might just be an entertainment for devils. I’m no longer as sure as Richt is that there’d never be an actual payoff, but I’m still set on ending the insanity.”

  Hauser won no points by adding, “We’re all too old to benefit, anyway.”

  Lady Machtkess said, “It’s easier to get in a killer mood when it’s your children at risk. When it’s you yourself, you don’t worry so much because when you’re a kid you know you’re invincible.”

  Barate stepped in. “This time we want to abort the thing before it starts and keep on till we end it forever.”

  I admitted, “I have to confess to being confused. I still don’t have any idea of who, what, or why.”

  Lady Tara Chayne asked, “Isn’t that what you do, though, Mr. Garrett? Find answers? I’m told that you’re the best.” She looked over at Shadowslinger, one eyebrow raised. “Constance would have us believe that you’re a genius with a matchless network of shady connections. And that you’re more discreet than the Civil Guard.”

  A rabid mammoth would be more discreet than those guys.

  Somebody had been telling tall tales. That it might be Shadowslinger astonished me. She seldom showed anything but contempt. “True.” Barely.

  A double-hand squeeze on my left arm hinted that it might be in my interest to talk less and listen more, a skill I have honed for decades with slight success.

  Barate said, “Mother believes that the tournament will play out differently this time because it will be heavily influenced by survivors from before.”

  “Um?”

  “This round may begin with an effort by the Operators to remove those who helped scuttle it last time.”

  I pointed a finger at Lady Tara Chayne, Hauser, and Shadowslinger, swinging left to right.

  “Us. Yes. Exactly,” Hauser said. “We have been remiss, letting the matter slide for so long. We thought it was over forever. Or at least we hoped next time would hold off till after we were gone. But, honestly, some of us might admit fearing that it would come back to bite us someday.”

  Madam Machtkess said, “Someday has come.”

  I saw no arrogance here, only confidence and irritation at an outside force that dared try to use them. A common Hill attitude, actually. These were people grown old in treacherous environments.

  “So, what shall I do with my special talents and outstandingly shady connections?” Carefully keeping my tone neutral. Strafa had hold of my arm, sending messages by squeezing brutally. In a way, she was thrilled that the man she had chosen, without consulting her elders, was now being welcomed to the family’s conspiratorial heartland.

  Shadowslinger watched me as if she were cataloging recipes she wanted to try.

  Barate said, “First, we should identify the contestants. If we round them up before the killing starts, the whole stupid competition will fall apart. Nobody will have to die.”

  Hauser agreed. “We could save them all. And if we could identify the Operators . . .”

  Shadowslinger summoned Barate close. She murmured into his ear. He then announced, “Mother has to leave us. She suggests that we all give Mr. Garrett whatever information we have so he can get started, especially with identifying the contestants.”

  Right.

  Cynical me, I wondered how much actual identifying and rounding up they really intended.

  5

  It was dark and hungry out when Strafa and I left Shadowslinger’s place, me brooding on the implausibility of a to-the-death elimination tournament involving mostly brilliant teenagers.

  Twelve was the magical number of participants. Each would have a sidekick called a Mortal Companion, normally a close friend but sometimes a hired fighter. At some point, somewhere from the shadows, each contestant would attract a supernatural ally as well, called a Dread Companion. Too, ther
e would be entities who chose participants, managed everything, refereed, and delivered coups de grâce if necessary. These were the Operators. They were a mystery. Nobody knew how they got recruited or what skin they had in the game. Evidently death was mandatory for the scheme to work fully. Losers couldn’t just admit defeat, they had to die so their power could be folded into the final prize.

  Identifying the Operators could give us a means to abort the whole absurd tournament.

  My cynical, suspicious side already definitely wondered how the Operators would profit. My villainous side figured eliminating that crew would go a long way toward ending the game permanently, since there would be no one left to recruit a new team.

  Though I had been immersed in it all day I remained both skeptical and deeply confused. It was such a ridiculous way of doing business.

  I asked Strafa, “Did you understand all of that?”

  “Not so much.”

  “They talked a ton, and I think they were trying, but when something sounds that absurd you can’t help thinking that they’re either pulling your leg or not telling the whole story.”

  “You’re right. But I don’t think they were holding back. Bonegrinder did more talking than I’ve ever seen before.”

  “Bonegrinder?”

  “Richt Hauser. His working name is Bonegrinder. He brought it back from his first trip to the war zone.”

  “And that creepy Machtkess woman?”

  “She favors Moonblight. Unless she’s feeling randy. I hear she becomes Mistress of Chains then. A play on her name.”

  “I’ll skip finding out why. All righty, then. And they’re really your grandmother’s friends?”

  “As much as can be with their kind. More so, probably, when they were young. Coconspirators is probably closer to the truth now. Where are we going?”

  “To my house to check in with some of my matchless resources.”

  “We’re going to go that far, why don’t we fly? It’s about to rain. We’ll get soaked if we take time to walk.”

  “All right.” Reluctantly. “But you don’t have your broom.” I like having something a bit more solid than air beneath my feet.

  “You know I don’t need a broom. You’re just chicken.”

  She was right. “You got me. But hold up for a minute. I see civilians.” A girl was headed our way, nine or ten, blond, well dressed, very pretty. A living doll. She held the hand of a groll, part giant, part troll, all strength and ugliness, impervious to most weapons but, blessed be, seldom aggressive. Full-grown grolls are big. This one was bigger than most, a good fourteen feet tall. He seemed to be walking in his sleep, oblivious of his surroundings. The little girl, however, was alert and totally intense.

  Strafa backed into me. “Grab on.” She was anxious suddenly.

  “Always up for that.”

  “You have a one-track mind, sir. But quit fooling around. We need to get out of here. Now.”

  “Whose fault is that? You being you.” I paid no attention to the kid, other than to note that she was rich enough to rate a magnificent bodyguard.

  My toes had just left the cobblestones. Strafa turned her head. I tried to kiss her, for the moment forgetting what we were up to. She lost her foothold on the sky. We collapsed into a wriggling pile. The little girl stopped to scowl at us, then told me, “If you aren’t more careful you will be the first to die.”

  Strafa ignored her. She sat up. “Gods, I wish we’d met when I was Kevans’s age. We would’ve had so much more time.”

  No. I thought not. When Strafa was Kevans’s age she already had a toddler underfoot and I was still shallow enough for that to make a difference. Too, I was about to head out for my five years in the war zone.

  Chances are, I would have gone off, leaving her with another responsibility about to arrive, which I might have been low enough not to have acknowledged. I wasn’t nearly as nice when I was younger.

  But I’ll never tell her we’re both better off for life’s having kept us apart as long as it did.

  The little girl and her monster moved on hurriedly. I asked, “What was that? Did you get that?”

  “Let’s just go. It turned out all right.” Clearly shaken, puzzled, and maybe a little frightened, like she had only just survived a brush with a very dangerous unknown.

  I got up, helped her get up, got around behind, and this time behaved myself while she did what Windwalkers do.

  • • •

  We settled to the cobblestones outside the house where I’d lived till Strafa carried me off to her mansion on the Hill. It was dark red, brick, two-story, in perfect repair because my assistant Pular Singe is a freak about detail stuff. My bedroom lay athwart the front of the place, upstairs. Strafa’s old habit had been to sneak in the window on the left, above the roof of the stoop.

  This time we would go in through the front door, like normal visitors.

  I observed, “Old Bones is definitely awake.”

  I knew because Singe opened the door while we were still getting untangled.

  6

  Pular Singe is a rat woman, descended from mutants created by sorcerers several centuries back. She stands about five feet tall when she forces herself into her most upright stance. I sort of adopted her when she was an adolescent. She has become the heart and soul of my investigative business. I go out and have fun digging while she stays home managing records, finances, the house, and all the other stuff I let slide because it’s boring. She has a genius for it. She keeps everything abovewater.

  Singe is also the best scent tracker in TunFaire and, maybe, the best in the Karentine Kingdom. She makes a little cash on her own, on the side, doing contract tracking, usually for the Civil Guard when they’re willing to pay up front.

  None of those guys work for pride alone, but they seem convinced that the rest of us should donate our time and take physical risks entirely out of a sense of civic duty.

  Singe didn’t say a word as she let us inside.

  My housekeeper and cook, Dean, came out of the kitchen drying his hands. He was ancient. He had begun to develop a stoop and was moving more gingerly than he had just weeks ago. His voice was strong when he greeted us, though.

  Dean was a huge fan of Strafa Algarda.

  A rattle and thump thundered down the stair from the second floor. The racket ceased a moment before an utterly cool, studiedly indifferent, totally cute little brunette of fourteen stepped into view. “Oh. It’s only you. Well, hello.” She headed into the kitchen as though that had been her plan all along.

  Penny Dreadful is not a huge fan of Strafa Algarda.

  She is my partner’s pet. Another adoptee of the house.

  We’re all strays. Even Strafa made some bones that way.

  “We came to see Himself,” I told Singe.

  “There is a surprise.”

  Dean turned to follow Penny. There would be tea and cakes soon enough. There might be some real food later.

  Shadowslinger was too frugal to waste food on visitors.

  7

  My business partner is a nonhuman beast known as a Loghyr. Weighing in at nearly a quarter ton, he makes Shadowslinger look svelte. His species may be related to mammoths or mastodons. He looks something like a hairless baby mammoth that decided to strut around on its hind legs. He has a miniature version of the snoot.

  I’m not sure about the strut. I’ve never seen a Loghyr on the hoof, and only mine and one other one dead. They are an uncommon breed.

  The species has several interesting characteristics. Foremost is a huge reluctance to leave their flesh after they die. My Loghyr, affectionately known as the Dead Man, was murdered centuries ago. With mobility and breath denied him, he developed other skills.

  Interesting. A Tournament of Swords. I thought the Hill got over that insanity generations back.

  He reads minds. People who know are terrified and tend to stay away. They refuse to believe that he doesn’t spy when he isn’t invited because they know how they would beha
ve if they had the identical ability.

  “You’ve heard about this tournament stuff before, then?”

  Indeed. Marginally. It is the sort of insanity only those afflicted with an insatiable hunger for power would pursue. It is a process whereby power can be concentrated and given over to a single wielder. Properly executed, the tournament would leave its winner strong enough to challenge the gods.

  That, itself, may be why no tournament has yet gone according to design.

  Clever Garrett got it in one. “In order for there to be one big winner, there have to be a lot of losers.”

  Exactly. Where losing will hurt a lot more than it would in the daily lottery. And Hill folk are never the sort to scruple about doing whatever is necessary to avoid losing. And the gods themselves might have an interest.

  “The players would all have a good idea of one another’s strengths and weaknesses, too, since they all know each other.”

  More importantly, they would know those things about themselves.

  “It’s a wonder TunFaire wasn’t destroyed in one of those matches.”

  This city has its own protective magic. After a fashion.

  I misunderstood. I fantasized some vast oversoul for the entirety of the polity.

  I meant stupidity! And the fact that though the tournaments are organized, the fighting is not. Its effects are localized. The worst of the clashes always take place on the Hill.

  “Which wouldn’t much amaze anyone anywhere else.”

  Or cause noteworthy despair.

  “So. We have a tournament fixing to get ready to commence to begin. Survivors and scuttlers from the last tournament want me to wreck this one before it can come together.”

  He wasted no time suggesting that refusing the commission was an option. Not if I meant to forge ahead with Strafa.

  And, perhaps, he had motives of his own.

  The first step may be both easier and more difficult than you imagine.