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

by Glen Cook

  Penny squeaked. I blushed. Really. I may be grown up, sort of, but I couldn’t discuss that stuff with a woman’s family.

  “Oh, come on!” Kevans said. “It isn’t about that. Everybody knows you and Mom were like weasels. You couldn’t keep your hands off each other even in front of people. What were you going to be like when nobody was watching?”

  “Uh. Yeah. Well. She kind of snuck out, after. There was a break in the weather. She wanted to go flying while it lasted.”

  She was a Windwalker. Her greatest skills at sorcery centered on flying. There was nothing she would rather do than grab a broom and go walking on the sky. And that was what she had done that night.

  “She was restless. She was all keyed up about the wedding. She was sure something would go wrong.” And hadn’t it just? “And she was even more worried about the reception.” That was supposed to have happened in the Royal Botanical Gardens, made available because people she knew in the Royal Family owed her.

  She was scared my lowlife friends would get drunk and rip the place apart.

  I said, “She grabbed a broom and went out the window. She asked if I wanted to go but didn’t hang around after I said no.” I’m not fond of going strolling in places where there is a hundred feet of nothing underneath my feet. “She wasn’t back yet when I got up. She still wasn’t back when I left for the Al-Khar. My partner wasn’t worried. It never occurred to me to be.”

  Plus, I was all distracted by the onrushing tsunami of matrimonial doom.

  I admit, I’d found no more perfect candidate for Garrett’s wife than Strafa Algarda, forgetting the family weirdness that came attached. Stipulated, the world was replete with better husband material.

  Morley finally had something to say, tentatively, being unsure of his right to participate. “Was anything going on that night? Something she might have wanted to see?”

  That was some good thinking. Strafa had become a rabid hometown tourist once she roped me in and had someone to drag along. I should’ve thought of that myself, but my thinker was all clogged up with dark emotions. Never a paragon, it was less sharp than usual lately.

  Penny said, “There was an autumn solstice festival in the Dream Quarter. It started at midnight.”

  The Dream Quarter is TunFaire’s religious center.

  I asked, “You went?” I hadn’t seen her before leaving that morning but hadn’t thought anything of it. Penny was often invisible when I was there. Singe said that was because she had a crush on me, which was silly. Penny had made her feelings about me quite clear.

  “I had to.” She still took her priestess role seriously, never mind that she was the whole cult now. “Mr. Playmate went with me.” Stated before I could go all parental and start barking about young girls being on the mean streets after midnight.

  If you were a girl and had to be out there, Playmate was the man you wanted to be with. He was big, he was fierce, and he was one of the good guys. And he was a wannabe reverend who never quite got around to making the final leap of faith.

  Penny volunteered, “We didn’t see Strafa.”

  Kevans said, “Mom wasn’t the sort.”

  True. She had been less religious than me. Hardly surprising, considering her trade and background.

  Penny said, “There was a bad turnout because of the weather. We would’ve seen her if she was there.”

  Shadowslinger closed my hand around the bolt. “Relax. Take the advice you give your clients. Stay calm. Use your head till you find a target.” She squeezed, grinned a horrible grin. “And then I will take over.”

  She was right. I was at a stage where I was likely to waste time, energy, and emotion running in circles and whining.

  I said, “My partner would like to interview each of you.”

  That took the warmth out of the room.

  After long silence, Shadowslinger said, “Very well. I will set the example. Barate, make sure my carriage is capable of making the journey.”

  “Yes, Mother. Right away?”

  She turned to me. “Right away?”

  “Sooner would be better than later. He was fond of Strafa. He will find connections that none of us are likely to see.”

  “I’m sure that you are correct. Do you all understand? Good. Perhaps you can work it out with Miss Pular today.”

  Singe said, “He is awake all the time these days, but the rest of us have to sleep and do chores. It would be best if you visited in the afternoon or evening.”

  Shadowslinger then told me, “Tell us about the child who attacked you in the cemetery.”

  “There isn’t anything to tell. You saw it all. I don’t know who she was and I have no idea what she was up to. Maybe she had me confused with somebody else.”

  “Possibly. You’ll see her again. Treat her kindly and gently.”

  “Mother?” Barate was startled by the sentiment. The others also stared.

  “The child isn’t one of our problems. Only Garrett needs be concerned.”

  Which left everyone curious about an incident that had come close to being forgotten, with me not least among the forgetters. But Shadowslinger had said her piece. She would only reiterate her injunction that I be kind.

  After that stuff about me being the man because I was the pro, she had Barate tell them all how they would contribute to my efforts to find my wife’s killer. She told the expert how to do his job, in detail.

  I nodded a lot. I would do things my own way when she wasn’t watching. But I was open to original ideas.

  It was the methodology I’d developed in dealing with my mother.

  24

  The crowd had broken up. They were all gone but me, Dex, Race, and Morley. Penny and Singe had gone sullenly, under orders to report to the Dead Man and to make sure Dean was still breathing. Though his managers kept sending whining messages, Morley was determined to stick like he was my Mortal Companion, while he could. And I felt more comfortable having him close by.

  Barate would be back once he had taken his mother home.

  Oh, and Vicious Min was still around, stashed in a room big enough to fit, in medically induced unconsciousness. Dr. Ted said he’d check on her regularly. He expected her to recover, but if she did, she was likely the sort who got up and going before she was really ready.

  I knew all about that. I’d been known to charge back into the fray before I was physically ready.

  I burned some energy helping Dex and Race deal with the wreckage. It is amazing how much damage a few guests can do. We didn’t talk much. Those two were more uncomfortable with me than I was with them. They were worried about their jobs. The employment climate in TunFaire had not yet recovered from the outbreak of peace.

  They did talk about Strafa. They told me she had come home around sunrise. She ate a light breakfast, then napped for an hour. Then she left again. She said she had to go see a priest. She expected to be back around noon, hopefully before I came home, meaning she had expected me to head here once I was done at the Al-Khar.

  Not much to hang my investigator’s hat on there. The priest would be the guy she wanted to do our wedding. He had some remote tie to the Algardas through Strafa’s mother. He was reluctant. He didn’t think either of us showed enough respect for our purported faith.

  Barate returned. We settled in the kitchen, where we could kibbitz while Dex and Race did dishes. We drank tea and nibbled leftovers. Finally, Algarda asked, “Have you studied that bolt?”

  “I looked it over. It didn’t tell me anything. The only unusual thing is that it broke.”

  “It’s more unusual than that. It’s what killed Strafa.”

  “Dr. Ted didn’t find any wounds.”

  “He didn’t. The bolt carried a spell. It broke when Strafa deflected it. She kept it from hitting her, but it still got close enough to deliver the spell. That piece ended up tangled in her skirt.”

  “Oh.”

  I set the broken bolt on the table. “Barate, this is iron with a steel penetrator tip. Iron,
silver, and sorcery don’t mix. I’ve had painful personal experience of that.”

  Laconically, Morley observed, “I was there to see it.”

  “They’ll mix if a ferromage is involved.”

  I said nothing. Ferromages are rare, like frog fur coats. I doubted that there were many of either in TunFaire today.

  “That was the point Mother wanted you to get. The spell—or spells—would have been laid into the grooves filed lengthwise along the shaft.”

  There was a trace of powdery stuff lodged there. “A ferromage? That would narrow the search considerably, wouldn’t it?”

  “Definitely. It would narrow it so fine, and so fast, that no genuine ferromage would involve himself in anything so certainly damning. This iron had a ceramic coat baked on, to separate the magic from the iron.”

  I confessed, “I’m lost, then.”

  Dex stepped over, invited himself into the conversation. He picked up the bolt without asking, said, “This is an old piece. More than thirty years old.”

  “You can tell that because?”

  “I was artillery. Date of manufacture, lot number, contract number, all get stamped on the shaft. This one is broken. Only two numbers, a letter character, and the hallmark are missing, though. We don’t need them. Only one outfit manufactured these. Smitt, Judical, Sons and Sons. Not the best but they met their deadlines and brought their contracts in without overruns.”

  I said, “I remember them going out of business when I was little. There was a kickback scandal, or something.”

  “You’re right,” Barate said. “Twyla was in on the investigation.”

  Twyla would be his wife, Strafa’s mother, whose ghost I saw the same day I first saw Strafa. She died a long time ago.

  “That must have been ages ago.”

  “Oddly enough, just a little more than thirty years. I remember being worried sick because Twyla was carrying Strafa.”

  Could a case that cold be germane?

  Barate told Dex, “Somebody must have found some of the missing bolts.”

  “Certainly, sir. Or they may have had them lying around since then.”

  That seemed unlikely. But. “This mess gets stranger by the minute.”

  Morley suggested, “Somebody in a hurry grabbed the nearest handy tool. They didn’t know the bolts had identifying marks.”

  Barate said, “They might not have known about the markings, but they spent a lot of time preparing the bolt.”

  Had somebody been planning to take Strafa down for some time? “Dex, you say you don’t need the markings to tell where the bolt came from?”

  “Correct, sir. Smitt bolts were cast, dipped, and baked. The foundry did almost no machine work. Quantity was the goal. Smitt developed a mass production method. You still need the marks to tell when a bolt was made, though. Nowadays, with the war over and the supply scandals forgotten manufacturing dates shouldn’t be relevant. Nor even the manufacturer, really. In fact, you’d almost expect newly surfacing bolts to come from a lot that went missing years ago.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  Dex went on. “If it was me, I’d look for the weapon used to shoot the bolt. There can’t be a lot of those around.”

  A good point. Who had a siege weapon sitting around in the back garden? “Nobody has home access to artillery, right?”

  Dex agreed. “Though there are some in private hands, in museums or owned by collectors. Those that are legal have the sear catch in the trigger housing assembly taken out so the string can’t be locked back.”

  “So a legally owned piece won’t work.”

  “Theoretically. It wouldn’t be hard to make one functional. I could do it if I had access to a smithy and a machine shop. Any good mechanic could fix one by studying the trigger mechanism. Hell, if you only wanted to shoot once or twice, you could hand carve a wooden sear. We did that all the time in the field. You can’t always take a weapon off the line long enough for the armorers to make repairs.”

  Barate said, “It’s another thread to pull. What kind of range are we looking at, Dex? Six hundred yards’ flight, four hundred with momentum enough to kill? If we draw a circle with Strafa at the center . . .”

  “A surplus antique—which is what this piece has to be—not manned by a trained crew, you’re unlikely to see a lethal range over three hundred yards. This engine was probably less than two hundred yards off to get this accuracy.”

  I said, “Let’s get a map, draw different circles, see whose properties show up inside, then winnow the possibilities.”

  Barete said, “Use a topographical map. One of those survey maps with all the ground features and structures on it.”

  Dex said, “Ordnance survey charts are what you’re talking about. You can even identify blind spots and impossible lines of fire.”

  I looked straight at Dex. “You know how to use an ordnance survey map?” Those were for army use originally. They required basic literacy, a lot of training, and on-the-job experience at the point of the spear.

  Dex said, “I can use a rural map. I don’t know about one for a neighborhood like this. Wasn’t a lot of urban fighting in the Cantard.”

  “I’ll get a set for the Hill,” Barate said. “What now, Garrett?”

  “I go home and talk to my partner. He’s sure to have some interesting suggestions.”

  Barate’s expression went blank but cold. Clever me, I figured him out. “This is where I live now, but there’s no way I can not think of my house on Macunado as home. That’s where I built my life.”

  Barate said, “Intellectually persuasive but not emotionally satisfying.”

  I let that slide. “Once I see him I’ll hit the Al-Khar again.”

  “Why?”

  Algarda had a full Hill ration of distrust of the Guard, and an abiding disdain for systematized, publicly funded law and order.

  “Because if I keep them interested, they can do stuff like find the rest of that broken bolt. They can knock on more doors in a day than I can in a month and be more intimidating asking the questions we want answered. You know somebody saw something. It happened in broad daylight.”

  “You’re underselling yourself. You have more chance of getting good info than any Guardsman.”

  “You think? Why?”

  “You’re Strafa Algarda’s husband. You’re the man chosen to share the life of the only Algarda who shined. The only one that everybody loved. Now you have all the other Algardas, who scare everybody, lurking behind you. Love and fear. Excellent motivators.”

  Yeah. Only not for whoever attacked Strafa.

  He continued. “If you do the asking you’ll have your neighbors more willing to help than you might actually want.”

  From the sink Race said, “That is true, you know.”

  Dex, erstwhile artillerist, nodded agreement.

  25

  The light was fading, though it would be a while till sunset. The clouds had thickened. A misty drizzle was back. I hunched some but didn’t hurry. I was working my thinking muscles too hard.

  Morley had spread out a couple of steps more than usual for friends walking together. “Pay attention! People are killing people. Brood when you have four brick walls around you.”

  He was right. I had learned during the war. Men who stroll their interior landscapes while the enemy is afoot are begging for an early separation from service. “I’ve gotten out of the habit.”

  “I’ve gotten a little weak myself,” he admitted. “Happens when you move up the food chain. But you’ve been warned. You smelled what I smelled when we left Strafa’s place.”

  “Lurking Fehlske doesn’t do hits. He watches and reports.”

  “Maybe to somebody who does do hits. You have to remember who other people think you are, not what you think you are.”

  I didn’t quite get that. “What?”

  “You have a reputation. You’re connected to people with darker reputations. It’s a sure thing, you aren’t happy about Strafa. Peop
le who don’t know you will make decisions based on what they’ve heard about you, not on hard facts.”

  “All right. I get that.”

  “You’re a threat because you’re you. You could become the cutout between them and everybody who might help get them.”

  “Meaning that if they eliminate me, my friends might lose interest.”

  Killing Strafa might have taken the Algardas out of the tournament, but that now made them a potential source of backflash. Eliminating me should soften the dangers.

  So in the moment when I came fully alert, I glanced into the shadows between two brick buildings on my left and saw a pretty little blonde somberly watching. She seemed sad. She held the right hand of the big ugly I’d seen her with before.

  I stopped to gawk.

  Morley barked, “Get down!”

  My instincts had not eroded entirely. I slammed down against the cold, wet cobblestones. Something buzzed and crackled and hummed through the space I’d occupied a moment before. More nastiness ripped through the space I would’ve occupied if I hadn’t stopped walking.

  I was focused now, oh yes, I was! I crawled and rolled and slithered toward shadows and shelter with great vigor. A third bolt of crispy whatever singed my waggling heinie and went on to hit a granite watering trough. The water therein turned to steam. A hustling hunk of granite ricocheted off the funny bone on my left elbow. I squealed like that proverbial stuck pig. And I crawled!

  The steam became fog that filled the street. Cover! I got some feet under me and sprinted into the alley where the little girl lurked.

  The attackers couldn’t see me, but I couldn’t see much, either. Feet pounded behind me, headed several directions. I heard shouts. I heard cussing. I heard Morley yell something. I heard somebody’s startled, sharp cry cut off on a sudden high note as . . . something unpleasant happened to somebody who hadn’t expected serious difficulties.

  Then I had a feeling, supported by no physical evidence, that some huge and terrible bane was headed my way.

  My navigation was less than perfect. I tripped over something, plunged through the fog, scraped my face against the side of a building, fetched up with my nose between an expensive pair of small brown shoes capping the bottom ends of little girl legs in white stockings.