by Glen Cook
I made the follower part up. It might get her moving.
“I’m sorry. I’m just surprised to see that you aren’t a giant. You’ll be safe there as long as you stay behind the murder holes. I’ll be right back.”
An iron plate chunked down in front of the iron bars. I barked a protest but stopped when I heard a crossbow creak as someone spanned it behind one of the murder holes.
Nobody would listen to me and an even smaller population was likely to care what I had to say.
A pair of massive, iron-strapped wooden doors filled the passage a dozen feet back. The walls were not really that thick, though. The Al-Khar only pretends to be a fortress. The exterior walls were the back sides of inward-facing cells and offices, though the stonework at street level could withstand considerable abuse. The passage through was eight feet wide. There was a slim sally port in the left-hand door, so skinny that I would have to turn sideways to get through.
That skinny door opened and invited me in.
I have visited the Al-Khar often, usually on business, occasionally as an involuntary guest. I hadn’t used this entrance since they installed the welcoming window and skinny door. The murder holes were always there with guys inside who hoped that this would finally be the day when they got to use their crossbows. I eased through the skinny door thinking I would find a couple of red tops on the other side, waiting to pat me down before they took me to the General.
I slid into an upright coffin instead. The door clunked shut before I could change my mind.
I don’t like tight places. Not even a little. I really don’t like tight places. It was a miracle that I kept my composure. I treated myself to one lone girlish shriek, then focused on finding creative descriptions of the dams of the motherless dogs who had . . .
Click! Ker-chunk! Screech!
The back side of the coffin swung away.
I backed off on the rhetoric. Some red tops are overly sensitive.
I keep getting smarter as I age. Or it could be that I have developed an allergy to nightsticks.
Four tin whistles occupied the space behind the door. Three were my size, a little over six feet, a little over two hundred pounds of rippling . . . muscle, all equally scarred up. The other one was a big guy who probably ate bricks drenched in acid for breakfast. They carried chains and clubs, pole arms with hooks and thief-takers on the business end, and at least one weighted throwing net.
“Sorry, guys! I maybe got overexcited. I just came to report . . .”
They showed no interest at all.
The big door without a coffin attachment creaked open. Uh-oh. I noted that the tin whistles were dressed for the weather. They were going after my imaginary pursuers.
I clenched my jaw, recalling all those times when my mother reminded me that one tends to learn a lot more a lot faster when one does not have one’s piehole open, trying to scam somebody holding a hammer.
Mom was a saint and a sage. And some other things I still get upset about whenever she gets into my head.
The woman from behind the window bars reappeared. She proved to be more interesting in portrait than when seen from head to toe. Everything from just above where the cleavage ought to start, downward, was too wide, too ample, inadequate, or just plain weirdly put together.
She was a personality kind of girl.
I got no opportunity for a more exhaustive inventory. She had not brought me Westman Block.
This fellow was short. He was ugly. Troops of nonhuman adventurers had enjoyed themselves swinging through his family tree. Most must have been ill-tempered and eternally suspicious because their descendant was in a bad mood and suspicious all the time.
But less so than usual right now.
Which did nothing to improve my temper or soften my inclination to be suspicious.
11
I was face-to-face with Director Relway of the Unpublished Committee for Royal Security. Most people would not recognize the runt if he was snapping around their ankles, but I had butted heads with him several times. He was smiling. That was so unusual that I made sure my pockets hadn’t been picked already.
It was too late to make sure that I had an escape route plotted.
The ugly little man commanded more genuine hurt-you power than almost anybody but the queen of the underworld. He could intimidate the King himself, and all the sane people on the Hill. Irk Deal Relway and you could fall off the stage of the world forever. Irk him badly enough and he might arrange for you never to have existed at all.
Only some crazy Hill folk and lunatic criminal bosses, like the Contague family, were not afraid of Deal Relway.
Belinda Contague, who headed the main Outfit, had all the power Relway had, and more people she could set to doing dirty deeds.
In his heart of hearts, Director Relway would like to rename his Royal outfit the Unpublished Committee for State Security. But by whatever name his people are the secret police.
He recognizes neither constraints nor limits where law enforcement is concerned. I’ve never seen him abuse his power for his own benefit, but you surely don’t want to be a crook and catch his eye. More so, you don’t want to get caught up in any corruption. Relway has a true problem grasping the finer points of baksheesh. He seems sure that a request for a bribe is actually an appeal for a set of broken fingers.
“Why are you nervous, Garrett?”
“I’m usually nervous when people step out of character.”
He understood. His grin broadened. His companion was just as nervous as I was. She edged toward her post, hoping to be out of sight and mind before the real Deal came stomping back.
He told me, “I’m just in a good mood, Garrett. Feeling fulfilled. Unless you’re on some preemptive mission to deceive us, of course.”
Ah. The real Deal was on his way. Only . . .
Only not so much. He twisted the knife by slapping on another happy grin. “Helenia tells me you want to report illegal activity. That’s marvelous. It gives me hope that we’ve actually begun getting through to you.” Pause a couple of heartbeats for dramatic effect, not so I could wedge in a response. Then, “But what makes me happiest of all is that you brought me Preston Womble.” He extended his right hand to indicate the men who had gone out into the rain, now returning, bringing with them a goofy-looking little bald guy who was ready to break out in tears.
I observed, “Huh?”
“He was the one following you.”
The huge man, who had a hold on Womble that engulfed Preston’s upper right arm, reported, “He says he’s been on the job since yesterday, boss. Picked Garrett up on the Hill last night.”
Seemed like Preston Womble, whom I had made up so I could get some attention, was not inclined to keep his mouth shut. Relway would appreciate that.
The Director grunted, told me, “You brought him to us so we could sweep him up. You get points for that. I’ve wanted to chat with Preston for a long time, but his girlfriend always smells us coming before we can close the trap.”
I restated my thesis. “Huh?” How come I never spotted Womble? Was I so distracted these days that I couldn’t tell when I was being tailed?
Apparently so.
That wasn’t good. It wasn’t promising in my line of work.
One of the smaller red tops announced, “He wasn’t alone, Chief. Elona Muriat was with him.”
“Of course she was. But she got away,” Relway said. “Naturally, she got away. She always does. We’ll just make do with Preston.” He glowered at the little bald man, who tried to melt like a slug dancing on salt. Relway told me, “Muriat is so slick she’ll slide out of her own skin one of these days.”
I found myself at a loss for meaningful words, but nevertheless managed to croak, “Who are these people? I never heard of them.”
“They belong to a new crop of lowlifes that ripened while you were on hiatus.”
For one reason or another, mostly the woman who preceded Strafa, I had left the adventurous life till I fell i
nto the mess where Strafa hijacked my future. We had been acquainted before, but neither of us had been in emotional circumstances where we could acknowledge our mutual interest.
“Um.”
“Garrett. I like a man who knows when to keep his mouth shut. All right. Details. Preston and Elona are freelancers. Not exactly a couple. Friends with benefits, possibly. They don’t always work together. They aren’t heavy work types. They’re more like you. Nosies. Preston has guts in action but not much courage in static sets like interrogations. He’ll tell us why he was watching you if he knows. Or, at least, he’ll tell us who paid him to do it.”
Interesting that he called them lowlifes, then told me they were in the same racket as me. I would file that as something worth remembering.
One of Relway’s beefy boys hustled up. “Preston is babbling already, Chief. Him and Muriat was hired to follow this guy, just to see where he went and who he talked to.”
“He name any names?”
“Vicious Min.”
Relway did a silent “Huh?” response. “Who?”
I said, “And there is another name that I don’t know.”
“Marty?” Relway made a two-handed, come-on gesture.
“Preston says female, middle age, very large, giants in the family a ways back, teeth like a piranha that never learned to brush, breath to match, and a real badass attitude. Plus a lousy sense of style. Says he’s sorry, but he was so intimidated he didn’t take a closer look. Says Muriat can give us more when we catch her.”
Relway sneered. “Like that’s going to happen. All right. Sweat his ass. We can’t charge him for anything because stupid isn’t a crime yet, but we can hold him on suspicion, or in protective custody, or some damned thing.”
The ugly little man eyed me then, like he thought I belonged in the cell next to Womble. And might have entertained the notion, if for no better reason than that free – lancers aren’t under adequate state control.
Relway said, “So, Garrett, you think there’s a connection between what you want to tell me and the fact that you have some intellectual cousins riding in your hip pocket?”
“Probably. But I couldn’t guess why.”
Hell I couldn’t, considering that I was connected to the Algardas now. I wasn’t just going to get the Strafa loving. Everything else that came with a Hill family was coming to me now, too, at least out there at the edge of their dust cloud.
12
The catch crew took Preston to his guest suite. More hospitably, Director Relway took me to his personal quarters, which doubled as his working space. Before he acquired his current status, that space had been two jail cells. Relway had removed some intervening bars and permanently locked the door of one cell. He had no privacy, although no one else occupied space in the area.
I could not be comfortable there, despite having visited before. Relway understood and savored my discomfort. He did resist the temptation to suggest that I reflect on what it would be like to become a permanent resident.
Deal Relway knows that no one else in the world is honest enough and trustworthy enough not to deserve being caged. Deal Relway is the world’s lone perfect pillar of righteousness.
I exaggerate, but not much.
His patience, tolerance, and self-control suggested that he had something on his mind. He thought I could help, somehow. He did not explain right away, though. He deferred.
He did say, “General Block isn’t in today, which is why Helenia came to me about you.” He paused. I didn’t shove anything into the silence. “She says you’ve stumbled across a new criminal enterprise.”
Had I said anything to give the woman that idea? Well, maybe she heard that, or at least said so after what I told her fermented inside her head before it came back out in a report to Relway. And the thesis was sound. That was why I had come to the Al-Khar.
“Let me try to tell it in one go and you ask questions after.”
“I’m listening.” He settled into a chair with very little padding, steepled his hands under his chin, and waited.
Like I said, Relway makes me uncomfortable. Crazy people always do. Though Relway is supposedly one of the good guys, he is also completely loony. Deadly loony.
The twitch in the right corner of his mouth said he was aware of the effect his behavior was having. He was enjoying my discomfort.
I told my story. I left out nothing. He wasn’t crazy enough to hassle Shadowslinger’s friends. He let me ramble, showing an impressive range of expressions as I proceeded; then he did homage to his normal disbelief by asking, “What did you leave out?”
“Nothing.” I have sometimes withheld something. We both knew that. He always ripped me about it and I always lied, claiming that I was doing no such thing. “Really, truly, swear on your favorite religious tract. This is a whole new kind of weird for me. Wait. Maybe I did . . . Yeah. You could say I left out the fact that Shadowslinger, Bonegrinder, and all them probably wouldn’t want me talking to the law.”
“I took that into account.”
I offered a raised eyebrow by way of response.
“Hill folks think they’re above the law. I can’t reason out why they would set Preston and Elona on your trail, though.”
“Me, either.”
“Are you into anything else?”
“No. Just Strafa, these days.”
“The Windwalker. I envy you, Garrett. I truly envy you, being on a personal name basis with . . . Never mind. Are you sure there’s nothing else?” Then he stopped, thinking.
I filled this silence. “Preston Womble. Elona Muriat. And Vicious Min. I really, honestly, never heard of any of them. But heading down to Macunado Street last night, with Strafa, I caught a whiff of Lurking Fehlske.”
Fehlske is in the surveillance racket, too. He is a genius at remaining invisible. He is like a ghost. Unfortunately, he is also allergic to bathwater.
Relway waved a hand dismissively. “His sort are in endless supply.” Putting me down without addressing me directly. “You still work for the brewery, right? Any possible connection there?”
“Who would mess with Max Weider?”
The brewing king is as powerful as the boss of the Outfit and Director Relway combined when it comes to having the financial wherewithal to impose his will. But Max isn’t that kind of guy so long as the world leaves him alone. However, there is no shortage of too stupid to survive.
“Still only the usual minor pilfering, then.”
“That never goes away completely, though there’s not much of that anymore. I’m good at what I do, Max is a good boss, and jobs are scarce. You don’t risk yours over pocket change.”
“What I figured. How about Amalgamated and the Tates? That situation has got to be touchy.”
That was something I would rather not discuss. But, “Yes, that has gotten complicated.”
The Amalgamated Manufacturing Combine produces a range of devices invented by Cypres Prose. Kip. I have a small share in AMC and have been its head security guy since the Combine was formed. Max Weider and Kip are serious stakeholders, too, but the Tates are the folks who run the business. I was involved with one of the Tate women for a long time. The involvement was why Kip partnered up with the family for financial and production backing. There was a lot of drama, high-level maintenance, and plenty of disdain from the other Tates. Then Strafa came along.
Relway said, “I would imagine. How bad do they want you to go away?”
“Me going wouldn’t break many hearts.”
He nodded, steepled his fingers again. “But they can’t push you out, can they? That would aggravate Max Weider. And Cypres Prose might walk with you.”
“I don’t know about that. Kip is really serious about Kyra Tate.”
“Who is also your pal, if I recall.”
“One light in the wilderness.” I had the angle of his thinking now. It was plausible, too. He could be right. Preston and his girlfriend, and the Min woman, might have to do with the past instead of th
e present or future.
“The old boys, the uncles, those guys worship bottom lines. They would suck it up and keep you around because you’re good at what you do.”
“Why, thank you, sir.”
“And one of the things you do best is irritate the shit out of everyone around you. How about the younger Tates? The ones with the bruised feelings? Are they capable of putting a tag on you?”
“Capable? Sure. Likely to do it? No. Tinnie wouldn’t turn stalker. She has quirks and hang-ups and twists of mind but only at neurotic levels. Kyra? Not at all. She doesn’t care about anything but Kip. And the boys are just glad that I’m gone. They don’t have to explain me anymore.”
Relway rubbed his fingertips together, wondering.
“I think even considering the Tates takes away from what’s really happening. Womble, Muriat, and Min have to have something to do with this Tournament of Swords stuff.”
Relway looked out to the hallway, frowning. There was a ruckus out there somewhere. “On balance, I’m inclined to agree. But there is the cousin, Rose Tate, a bad seed with lots of screws loose. Could she be trying to get leverage on the chief of security now that he isn’t protected by the rest of the family? Would she try to end your ankle-biting if she thought she could manage it without making Cypres Prose walk away?”
He showed that twitch in the corner of his mouth. In his special way he had just told me that he had a clear understanding of the dynamics inside Amalgamated and the Tate family. He knew that black sheep Rose had been up to wickedness the family wanted kept from the other shareholders.
Cautiously, I admitted, “Rose would be a possibility. Remote, but a possibility.”
“The most plausible possibility that I see.”
“Unless it has to do with the tournament nonsense.”
“Unless. Which, I suspect, we’ll hear more about momentarily. I imagine that racket has to do with Womble having given up everything else he knows.”