Wicked Bronze Ambition gp-14

by Glen Cook

  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. People 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.

  A little girl voice announced, “And here we have proof that being lucky sometimes trumps being smart.”

  A meat hook bigger than my head caught me by the scruff, set me on my feet.

  The girl said, “You have to start taking this seriously. Otherwise you are going to die.”

  Then her mouth opened into a large O of surprise. I looked behind me.

  Tin whistles filled the entrance to the alleyway. There was a fight going on somewhere else. It made a lot of noise. These red tops, perhaps envious, appeared to be looking for a fight of their own.

  Two came forward.

  A volcanic rumble came out of Mr. Big Thing. The girl said, “Yes. We should.”

  Then I was looking up as that thing towed the girl up the side of a building using one hand and his feet, which were bare and apelike. They vanished in an instant.

  “What the hell?” I said. “What in the hell?”

  The red tops backed me in chorus. We were the Alley Cats doo-wop crew for several seconds.

  A rebel soul broke off to ask, “Are you all right, sir? I’m sorry we were so slow getting here.”

  “Huh? I got some abrasions. Hands. Right knee. Right cheek. Got my funny bone rung. Otherwise I’m hunky-dory. You were slow, how?”

  “We had to hang back so we weren’t noticed by the bad guys, sir. So we could strike unexpectedly, like. The trade-off was, they got a little time to work some mischief before we could begin the roundup.”

  I wished the light was better. I couldn’t tell if the guy was having fun or was just one of those people raised with a stick up his butt.

  One fact that I did get quick was that the Guard had used me for bait. They wanted Garrett stomping around knocking things over and ambling into traps, whereupon they could drop from the sky and sweep up the trash.

  A studly move fully worthy of the secret police. Or of the commander of the Guard.

  I took a last glance skyward and was startled. Little blond doll was silhouetted against the overcast, by herself. The light wasn’t good. I could not make out her expression. She was holding a stuffed bear.

  The tin whistles prowled the alley in search of something useful. One runty type wore a forensics wizard badge on the side of his beret.

  Relway had believed me. The Guard were rolling it all out. No doubt Relway smelled a chance to gain some leverage on the Hill crowd.

  The talking red top asked, “Do you know the child or her companion, sir?”

  “I do not. I have seen them before, the night before my wife was killed.”

  How was that for a new Garrett strategy? Utter, complete, total, devoted cooperation, with nearly full disclosure.

  The tin whistle shrugged. “We’ll find them. People with their skills can’t help leaving traces just by being themselves. Let’s go see what Karbo caught.”

  Karbo proved to be the leader of the squad involved in the other ruckus, which hadn’t gone well for the ambushers. Three men in cuffs sat on the cobblestones looking thoroughly miserable. Morley was doing the same a few yards away, without cuffs. A medic type attended him. He had some scrapes, nothing serious. He hadn’t opened any old wounds. My team leader, Stickman, told the medic to do me next, then went to consult a guy who looked like somebody named Karbo. He was thick, wide, and ugly.

  Two men lay stretched out by the three in cuffs. They had the deflated look of the newly dead.

  Morley said, “They got downwind of the Specials.” Specials being the shock troops of the secret police. “And didn’t get their hands up fast enough.”

  One of the two had been a killer wizard and doubtless the first to die.

  I let the medic check me out and salve my scrapes. He gave me rote advice about treatment and how I could expect to have bruises in the morning. He mistook me for a special client but didn’t let himself get carried away with the VIP treatment.

  I asked Morley, “We know who they are yet?”

  “People who don’t like you.”

  “Amazingly enough, there are some of those out there. Don’t seem right, a big old harmless, lovable fuzz ball like me. I usually recognize them, though. Dead or alive, these guys are strangers.” I nodded then, upwind, to let him know I had gotten his hint about being downwind. These people were out of business, but Lurking Fehlske was still out there.

  Just for grins, I asked, “You wouldn’t have a jealous husband or disgruntled girlfriend out to get yo
u and I’m collateral damage?”

  “I have become seriously monogamous.” He had powerful health reasons for doing so, since his main lady these days was Belinda Contague. He had made the grand blunder of breaking his own first law of relationships by getting involved with a woman crazier than him. That beautiful psychopath didn’t have much forgive and forget built in.

  Better him than me. And it had been me in the once-upon-a-time.

  Stickman came back. “We haven’t learned much yet, sir. The survivors will be questioned, but the way things work, the ones who give up easiest are the ones who know the least.”

  “The hired hands.”

  “Exactly, sir. I do know that the Director has a strong interest, so I’m sure he’ll keep you posted as information develops.”

  “I appreciate that.” Look at me, playing the politeness game.

  “This incident appears to be closed, sir. There seems to have been no connection between these people and those in the alley. I would urge you, sir, to be more aware of your surroundings. You should get off the street, into a safe place, as soon as possible. You should stay there till the Guard unravels this antisocial behavior.”

  Morley must have done some growing up himself. He kept a straight face, too.

  I said, “Thank you,” again, and, “I do appreciate your help. I’ll do my best to follow your advice.”

  Good old Morley kept right on with the blank face. He has skills. But he did look at me like he was wondering who the hell was wearing the Garrett suit.

  We made it to Macunado Street without further misadventure.

  26

  Dean served supper in Singe’s office. She and Old Bones had guests: John Stretch and Belinda Contague. They were in related businesses, so some of that might have gotten done during the socializing. Belinda fussed over Morley like he was a toddler with a serious ouchie. The display was revoltingly mushy.

  I downed some shepherd’s pie and a pint of beer before I told Belinda, “You might not want to roam around on your lonesome, the way things are going around me lately.”