by Glen Cook
They weren't neat. In fact, they were pretty scraggly. Chodo's troops have to meet a certain minimal level of personal hygiene, dress, and grooming. These guys never heard of those words. Anyway, Chodo has more respect for me. He'd send Crask and Sadler.
Who, then? The Serpent? But she seemed to prefer dwarves and ogres and whatnot.
All that passed through my head in a couple seconds. I considered going inside and locking up and saying the hell with it all. Then I got mad.
All this time I was stretching and yawning and carrying on like I didn't see a thing. I skipped down the steps and turned right, away from Winger, skipped around a little warming up, then took off running.
Fast. It caught them off balance. The two in the direction I was headed pushed off walls, then exchanged "what now?" looks. I was past the first before anybody made a decision.
Then I started flying.
Somebody else got into the game.
Three quarrels zipped past me, plunging bolts loosed from a rooftop across the street. I don't know why they waited till I was moving to start sniping—though I wasn't all that long getting started and maybe they had to wake up first. The best-sped quarrel passed a few inches ahead, high. I tossed a glance back, saw a little ball of hair duck out of sight atop the only flat roof on that side of the street.
I sailed past the second thug, heeling and toeing and whooping for all I was worth. People scattered like startled chickens. I bounded over piles of horse apples deposited since the ratmen passed through. The last watcher came pounding after me but it was obvious he lived a dissolute life. He couldn't keep up for a block.
I zigged into a breezeway, zagged through an alley, leaped and dodged assorted snoring drunks and weed-puffing ratmen, scavenging dogs and hunting cats and even one crippled morCartha, zoomed into always busy Wodapt Street, and faded into the crowd.
Easy as that. No problem now till I decided to go home.
Well, it did take a minute or two to really blend in. For a while I was whoofing and puffing so bad everybody backed away.
I got mad all over again. What was this crap, dwarves trying to snuff me all the time? What did I ever do to them? I don't have to put up with that. And Winger.
I had a mind to turn her over my knee. Only she was as big as me and that might take more turning than I could manage. But I'd had about enough. I was ready to start pushing back.
I ambled up to the Tate compound and spent an hour at Tinnie's bedside. She was mending fine. Full of fire and vinegar. We had us a good little spat, and because she wasn't in any shape for making up, I went away grouchier than ever.
Barely past breakfast time and already it was a memorably lousy day.
One of the innumerable nephews caught me before I made good my escape. ‘Uncle Willard wants to see you, Mr. Garrett."
"Right." Just what I needed. A fuss with the head Tate. No matter how rotten I felt, I couldn't get my heart into an argument with him. He'd suffered so much sorrow in the time I'd known him, unearned, that it just didn't seem right to give him any grief.
I went peaceably, ready to absorb whatever aggravation he wanted to give me.
He was at his workbench. Where else? He'd told me once that the family had a touch of elvish blood. I wondered if he hadn't fudged a little and it was really dwarfish. He was addicted to work.
He gave me the fish-eye, face unreadable. "Sit if you like, Mr. Garrett." Maybe I wasn't high up his list after all.
"Something on your mind?" I sat.
"I understand you're looking for the people responsible for what happened to Tinnie."
"Sort of."
"What does that mean? Sort of."
I explained. I wondered how many times I would have to tell the story, in how many versions, before the dust settled.
Tate listened closely. I know he picked out those points where I slipped past something I wanted to keep to myself. He said, "I see." He reflected for half a minute. "I'd like to meet the person who sent that man to kill Tinnie, Mr. Garrett."
"It was mistaken identity. Had to be."
"I realize that, Mr. Garrett. Even so, Tinnie was hurt. Badly. She would have been killed had not you and your friend been nearby. Had you not intervened. I've given this considerable thought. I want to meet the person responsible. I'll pay well for the opportunity."
He'd have to get in line, but why not? "I'll find her. Or him."
"Him? I was under the impression you believed this witch . .
"The Serpent? Seems likely. But, like I said, as time goes by I become more convinced there's another party involved. Somebody working against the Serpent. And anybody else who gets in the way."
"The blonde woman." He nodded. "You might question her."
"Yeah." Like she was going to let me. "Speaking of her, she says her principal's name in Lubbock. Mean anything? Ever heard the name?"
He didn't hesitate. "Lubbock Crister, tanner. Lubbock Tool, drayage. Frith Lubbock. Wholesale greengrocer. Yon Lubbock Damascen, shipping agent. All men I've done business with, one time or another. Surely there are others. Historically, you have Marshall Lubbock, the imperial general. You have Lubbock Candide, the sorcerer, and his daughter Arachne, who were so blackhearted and vicious mothers still use their names to frighten children."
"All right. All right." I'd never heard of any of them but the last two, but he had a point. "There're plenty of Lubbocks out there. And this Lubbock probably isn't named Lubbock at all. Could even be the Serpent under an assumed name."
The little old guy nodded again, his hair floating around his head. He picked up his TenHagens, perched them on his nose. The interview was over. He was going back to work. "Thank you, Mr. Garrett. Please do keep me posted, when you have the odd moment. And do make time to visit Tinnie. She hasn't many friends."
"I will."
"Leo!" He called for one of the nephew horde. "See Mr. Garrett to the gate." Just to make sure I didn't get lost somewhere along the way.
I hit the street feeling oddly relieved, like I'd taken care of an unhappy duty, comparable to a visit to an unpleasant maiden aunt, and now I could get on with work that mattered. I didn't much like me when I recognized the feeling. Tinnie was no old lady turned to vine~ gar in her solitude. I would have to examine my feelings toward her more closely.
I stopped walking, leaned against a wall, started the process of self-examination while considering my next move.
23
I don't figure I set a record for the standing high jump but I did go up like I had wings.
"Garrett!"
I came down facing Winger, knowing I'd have been dead if she'd wanted me that way.
This was a free one. The gods wouldn't hand me another chance to get away with napping on the street. "Hey, Winger." I hoped my voice didn't quaver too bad.
How had she found me so fast?
Homework. I'll bet she took my advice and did her homework. There was hope for her.
I looked around. I didn't see the guys who'd chased me. "Where are your brunos?"
"Huh?"
I'd forgotten she was from out of town. She wouldn't know the argot. Brunos are low-grade hired thugs. "The hard boys who were with you outside my place."
"They weren't with me. I didn't know they were there till you took off and they went after you."
"Oh?" The gods shield fools, all right. "Maybe you better think about getting into another line of work. You aren't going to stay alive long in this one."
She shrugged. "Maybe not. But if I go, I'll check out doing what I want to do, not worn out from pulling a plow and making babies."
She had a point. One of the reasons I do what I do is because I get to be my own boss, not a creature caught up in a web of commitments and responsibilities. "I got you."
"It's tomorrow, Garrett. And Lubbock is getting impatient."
Tough, I thought. I said, "All right. Lead on."
She headed toward the Hill. I let her lead and set the pace, kept my mouth shut. She walked
like she was still behind a plow. Kind of a waste. If you took time to look her over, you saw she wasn't a bad-looking woman at all, just put together on a large scale. Way too big for my taste. I figured she would clean up pretty nice. If she wanted.
I asked, "You happen to get a look at those clowns who were sniping at me off that roof?"
She grinned. "I did better than that, Garrett. I ambushed them when they came down. Kicked their butts and broke their toys."
"All of them?"
"There was only four of them. Little hairy fellas. Stubborn. Trick with them is, stay in too close for them to use them crossbows but don't get so close they can reach you. Work on them with your feet." She skipped, kicked a foot high. I hadn't seen boots like those since I got out of the Marines. Those would do a job on somebody. If you had the strength to lift them.
"How come you did that?"
"They was horning in on my game. You ain't no good to me full of them little arrows."
"I wouldn't be much good to me, either. Wish I knew where they came from."
"Them fuzzballs?"
"The very ones, Winger. That makes three times they've come after me." Recalling that I started watching my surroundings with more enthusiasm.
We were headed toward the Hill. Her principal had to be a stormwarden or firelord or... I tried to recall which of our sorcerer elite might be in town. I couldn't think of a one. Everybody who was anybody and old enough was down in the Cantard helping hunt Glory Mooncalled.
If I was the political type, I'd figure this was a great time for an uprising. Our masters hadn't left anyone to keep us in line. But I'm not a political type. And neither is anyone else. So we'll just keep going on going on the way we've always gone on—unless Mooncalled pulls off his greatest coup yet and arranges it so none of them come home.
After deliberating, Winger told me, "I don't know where they come from, Garrett. But I got a good idea where they went."
"Ah?" Turn up the charm and cunning, Garrett. Shuck and jive this rube right out of her socks.
"Twenty marks. Silver. After you see Lubbock."
I'm nothing if not adaptable. "I'll give you three." I wasn't carrying much more than that.
"It's your ass. You don't figure it's worth twenty marks, I'm not going to argue with you."
Some of these rubes have a certain low cunning and a nose for sniffing profit out of disaster. "Make it five, then."
She didn't say anything, just led me on toward the Hill. All right. She'd come around. Five marks was a lot of money to a country girl.
A couple of dwarves ambled across an intersection ahead. I blurted, "Ten." And they hadn't even looked our way. Hell, they never did. They were just a couple of short businessmen.
Winger ignored me.
All right. I know. I gave myself away there. But I was nervous. You'd be nervous if you had dwarves trying to poop you every time you stuck your head out of the house.
Dean doesn't let me do the marketing, either.
I didn't let up on keeping a lookout. Not for a second. I didn't see anything disturbing, either, except once I caught a glimpse of a guy who could have been Crask, but he was a block away and I couldn't be sure. I did grin, though. That might be something to bargain with.
24
I stopped, studied our destination.
"Come on, Garrett. Quit farting around."
"I want to look it over first." The place looked like some nut's idea of a haunted castle, in miniature, a hangout for runt werewolves and vampires too limp of wrist to fly. It was a castle, all right, but no bigger than the surrounding mansions. About quarter scale. All black stone and dirty. "Cheerful little bungalow. This where Lubbock lives?" I'd seen the place before but hadn't paid attention. Just another hangout for some nut on the Hill. I knew nothing about it.
"Yeah. He owns it. Only, tell you the truth, I don't think his name is really Lubbock."
"No! Really?"
She gave me a double dirty look.
"What do you know about him?"
"He's in metals smelting. That's his business, I mean. Royal contracts. Very rich. I picked that up keeping my ears open. He's a little peculiar."
"I'll say."
"Try to keep a straight face."
I started moving again. Slowly.
I expected zombie guards at the gate. Maybe gnome zombies, since the place was so shrunk down.
Black steel bars covered its few windows. A toy drawbridge spanned a toy moat five feet wide. Nonhuman, fangy skulls hung over the gate. Smoke dribbled out of their nose holes. Oily torches burned in broad daylight. Somewhere a group of musicians played spooky music. A dozen morCartha perched on the battlements, living gargoyles. I'll say somebody was peculiar.
A guy who goes to live on the Hill usually buys or builds his dream house there
I stopped, considered the morCartha. They seemed lethargic beyond what was to be explained by the fact that it was daytime. Winger said, "Let's don't stand around in the street." She crossed the drawbridge without a qualm. "You coming?"
"Yeah. But I'm beginning to wonder if this is such a bright idea."
She laughed. "Stop worrying. It's all for show. He's a crackpot. He likes to dress up and play sorcerer but the only magic he can do is make food disappear."
Probably so. If he had any real talent, he'd be in the Cantard trying to outwaltz Glory Mooncalled.
A cadaverous old guy met us. Without a word he led us to a small, spooky receiving room. The walls were decorated with whips and chains and antique instruments whose function I didn't even want to guess. By way of art there was a rogue's gallery of demonic portraiture. Also a couple of real people I probably should have known, did I pay much attention to history. They looked like they'd shaped our past.
Lubbock joined us.
He made the Dead Man look slim and trim. He had to go six hundred pounds if he went a stone. He wore a silly black wizard's outfit that looked like he'd made it himself. It had enough material in it to provide tents for a battalion. The powers that be got wind of it, they'd have him up on charges of hording.
Lubbock smiled a smile that got lost in the ruddy landscape of his face. It made me think of the wax dripping down around the top of a candle. "Ah, Winger. You've managed to get the man here at last. Pay her, Pestilence." A woman who looked like she might be the old guide's grandmother brought Winger a small leather bag. Winger made it disappear fast.
"Mr. Garrett." Lubbock tried to bow. I tried to keep a straight face. Neither of us was completely successful, though I managed well enough.
That old boy had one spooky voice. It sent chills scampering around my back. I bet he spent hours practicing to get that effect. "I had begun to wonder if I hadn't made a mistake employing you."
I thought she'd made the mistake, taking him on as an employer. But sometimes you have to do what you have to do to keep body and soul together. I asked, "How you doing, Lubbock?"
He threw up his hands and crossed his wrists in front of his heart, palms toward me. He made fists but left his little fingers standing. He waggled his pinkies furiously. He had nails almost two inches long. I guessed that was some kind of sorcerer's move. I think I was supposed to be impressed.
And some people I know say I belong in the Bledsoe cackle factory because I don't have a firm grasp on reality.
Winger whispered, "At least pretend to be courteous, Garrett."
"I asked him how he was when I don't care, didn't I? What more do you want?" Blame it on nerves. When people give me the creeps, I get flip. "Get him talking." I wanted answers from Lubbock but had the heebiejeebies bad enough to think of walking.
He got himself started. "Mr. Garrett," again. "Good day. I have awaited our meeting anxiously."
"Pleased to meet you. Whoever you are." See? Courteous. I could have said whatever you are.
Another smile tried to break through and died young, smothered by fat. "Yes. As you surmise, my name is not Lubbock. No sir. That is merely wishful thinking, the heart
felt desire to walk the same path as the great Lubbocks of centuries past."
He rolled his fists over heel to heel with their backs toward me, looked at me between raised forefingers that, more or less, made the ancient sign against the evil eye. "Unfortunately, my dream is denied me by harsh reality."
I recalled Willard Tate mentioning a couple of dead double nasties named Lubbock. Sorcerer types. This guy obviously had less talent than I do. His harsh reality. So he was playing some whacky game.
If you're rich enough, you're allowed.
"As you surmise, sir," he repeated, "my name is not Lubbock. Hiding the truth from a man of your profession would be foolish. You need but poll the neighbors to learn that madman Fido Easterman lives here."
"Fido?" People don't even name their dogs Fido anymore.
"It means Faithful. Mr. Garrett. Yes sir. Faithful. My father, rest his soul, was an aficionado of imperial history. Fido was an imperial honorarium. Rather like a knighthood today. Though it could be bestowed upon anyone, not just those nobly born. Yes sir. The man whose name I took in vein, like a momentary domino, my kinsman Lubbock Candide, attained that very distinction. He was an ancestor of mine, you know. The glittering star atop my family tree. Yes sir. But the power in the blood failed after his daughter, Arachne. I know I abuse the gods for that jest."
Man. This clown was a one-man gale. "What's that got to do with me?" Trying to get to the point. "Why am I here?" I tried to figure the color of his eyes. I couldn't make them out behind all that fat
"Patience, my boy. Patience. One never hurries the headsman." He chuckled wickedly. "Just my little joke, sir. Just my little joke. You are in no danger here."
Like hell. Wouldn't take too much of this to get me foaming at the mouth and talking to little men who weren't there.
I kept an eye on the staff. They came and went in the background, eager to see their boss in action. He was a real three-ringer. They all wore costumes and spooky makeup. Easterman could afford to pay people to pretend that he was bad.
Hell, maybe he was. In a more mundane way. Amongst the remote voyers I spotted one of the men who had chased me away from my place