Petty Pewter Gods gf-8

by Glen Cook

  The Dead Man decided to have fun with the situation, too. Suddenly I was reliving the the highs and lows of recent days as His Nibs sucked them out of me and pounded them right into the Bishop's brain.

  He didn't leave out one damned thing. He rooted through my head for every glimpse and nuance, exactly as I had suffered it all, and he put good buddy Bishop Melton Carnifan through it exactly as though he was living it all himself. This time around it lasted only half an hour—and didn't hurt near so bad because I knew I would get through it—but that old boy came out exactly familiar with what it was like to deal direct with TunFaire's swarms of gods.

  What a cruel thing to do, even to a man who had been an atheist on the inside.

  Morley stood with fingers pinching chin, puzzled, as Carnifan displayed a catalog of changes. The Dead Man had given him nothing.

  Give the Bishop time to get his bearings, Garrett.

  I did so.

  Carnifan recovered quickly. His eyes focused. He demanded, "That's really true?"

  "Would I make up something that absurd? That's exactly the way it happened."

  "I can't go back with that."

  "Make something up." He didn't get it. He just looked at me strangely. I asked, "Who's going to believe you?"

  Carnifan actually smiled. "Point taken. Nobody is going to want to."

  "What did you really want here?"

  "Not what you've given me. I didn't believe all that was anything but extremely weird weather. I thought we were just jumping on it to market our product. But now you've convinced me that the gods do exist. All of them, probably including a lot I've never heard of. But you've also convinced me that that is worse than having no gods at all."

  I agreed, privately. "But the belief in what they could be... That's a comfort to a lot of people."

  "And just the opposite to me. This has been a cruel day, Mr. Garrett." His eyes glazed momentarily. He asked, "It's not over yet, is it? This shakeout. There are loose ends. There are traces of several conspiracies, some of which may not have run their course."

  I rubbed my forehead. I had enjoyed life much more back when my worst worry was how unhappy I had made some crime kingpin. The Bohdan Zhibak returned to mind. Ten thousand shadows had infested those hills. Every single one of those absurdities had to know my name now. I never liked catching the eyes of the lords on the Hill. How much more dangerous would catching the interest of the gods be?

  And I had, for certain. Else this sleazeball bishop would not have come visiting. Saint Strait, eh? Spokesman for the Board. Probably as straight as his servant Brother Carnifan. I wondered if every church and temple in the Dream Quarter was bulging with priests experiencing bizarre visions featuring me in some role.

  Worse, were they all going to turn up here to hear words of wisdom, like I was some kind of prophet?

  "Damn! What an opportunity," I mused aloud. "I could... "

  Morley and Bishop Carnifan eyed me curiously. The Dead Man sent a mental chuckle. A pity you do not have an appropriate mind-set. It might be amusing to play the prophet game—particularly if we could arrange continued contacts with these deities.

  I said, "Weider's difficulties are starting to look attractive." I turned to the bishop. "Brother. Father. Bishop. Whatever. I don't want to be rude, but I've had a real rough couple of days and you're not helping anything."

  The Dead Man continued to speculate. Perhaps Mr. Playmate could join us as front man. He has wanted to assume the religious mantle for some time. My partner was as cynical as I about some things. It seemed that even concrete proof of the existence of gods didn't soften his religious skepticism.

  I told Carnifan, "Unless there is something specific I can still do, I really wish you would go away." I softened that with a conspiratorial smile. "And please spread the word in the Dream Quarter. I can't do anything for anybody else, either. Far as I'm concerned, my part in this insanity is over."

  Nog is inescapable.

  I jumped a yard. But the Dead Man couldn't keep a mental straight face.

  60

  Carnifan departed. His gang looked like a small, dark army slithering up Macunado Street. Using the peephole, I watched the redhead watch them go.

  "Hey, Old Bones. What was that really all about?"

  The Bishop—and, presumably, many other shakers in the Dream Quarter—erroneously assumed a greater and more favored role, for you than was the case. If you examine their position and way of thinking, it should be no surprise that many priests will set new records for conclusion jumping.

  "What?"

  You have been driven into an untenable position. You are dealing with men who, in most institutions, have taken their gods entirely on faith for dozens of generations. Now they are learning that one man's genuine contacts have proven the whole process trivial. The gods, of all stripes, turned out to be small-minded, petty creatures with no more vision or aspiration than most mortals.

  "I never did worry much about being popular."

  Life could get difficult.

  "Hey, I'm a famous cynic. Remember? I can talk, but I can't produce concrete proof. Even if I got some great god like Hano to step up and confess, most true believers wouldn't buy it. You ask me, the great wonder that makes religion work is the fact that otherwise rational beings actually accept the irrational and implausible dogmas underlying them."

  Believers are not a problem. However, those who live off the believers could be—particularly if their continued existence and prosperity depend upon the good will of their believers.

  Morley asked, "What's going on, Garrett?"

  We ignored him.

  I entered one of my more intellectual remarks. "Huh?"

  The man in the street will be no problem. He has other troubles. Economics and riots are more threatening today. Priests, feeling their livelihoods imperiled, might represent short-term threats, till they understand that we are indifferent...

  "Speak for yourself, Chuckles." I'd as soon put them all out of business. The sanctimonious emotional gangsters. I reminded, "Adeth is back across the street."

  Indeed. And the one great tool we need has not yet been invented.

  "Huh?" That was fast becoming my favorite word.

  A godtrap!

  "Ha ha. What did Cat have hidden inside?"

  He avoided a direct answer. That child can be very opaque.

  Morley headed for the door. "I'm not big on being talked around and over. Obviously, I'm not needed here anymore."

  Not entirely true, Mr. Dotes. Exercise patience, if you will, while Garrett and I discuss threats more immediate than any you yourself can help us avert.

  That was sufficiently obscure. Morley donned an air of put-upon patience.

  I told him, "You want to break away from The Palms and meet me someplace in keeping with my station, I'll tell you about the whole mess. After we figure out how to keep from getting gobbled up by the loose ends."

  Dotes eyed me briefly, some secret smile stirring the corners of his mouth. "It's always the loose ends that get you, Garrett. You particularly because you refuse to take the pragmatic step when you can. You love this grand pretense of cynicism, but whenever you face what you consider a moral choice you inevitably opt for belief in the essential goodness of humanity—however often humanity grinds your nose in the fact that it is garbage on the hoof."

  "We all need a moral polestar, Morley. That's how we convince ourselves that we're the good guys. Garbage on the hoof is garbage because somewhere somebody told it it's garbage on the hoof."

  "Which, of course, absolves those guys of all responsibility for their own behavior. They don't have to stop and decide before they do something."

  Wait a minute. How come the professional bad guy was dishing up the law-and-order arguments? "What's this devil's advocate stuff?"

  "Because you try to complicate everything with peripheral issues."

  "I can't help that. It's my mother's fault. She could bitch for an hour about anybody, but she fou
nd the good in everybody, too. No matter how bad somebody screwed up, she could find an excuse for them."

  This discussion, in one form or another, has been going on for years. Neither of you has done more than entertain the other with it. I suggest we not waste time on it. Mr. Dotes. Unless you would like to assist Mr. Tharpe and Miss Winger...

  I lost him there, except for an echo that included Glory Mooncalled's name. I wished he would forget Glory Mooncalled, the Cantard war, and all his other hobbies. I wished he would stick to business, just for a while. Maybe a couple of weeks. Maybe till we got everything squared away and he could snooze to his heart's desire while I loafed and experimented with new strains of beer. Till Dean could spend his days just being inventive in the kitchen, with no need to distress himself answering the door.

  Idly, I wondered how expensive it would be to have a spell cast so people couldn't find any particular address when they came looking.

  Nog is inescapable, the Dead Man reminded me.

  "I know. I know. Morley, take your ill-gotten gains and scoot. Go con the rich johns so they'll pay big money to suck down carrot juice cocktails while gobbling turnip steaks."

  Dotes took that opportunity to explain to me, at some length, how my health and disposition would improve dramatically if I would just let him set up a dietary plan customized to my peculiar lifestyle.

  "But I like being just plain old crabby Garrett who gorges on bloody steaks and leaves the rabbit food for rabbits so they get nice and plump before we roast them."

  " ‘Crabby' is the key word here, Garrett. You take most of your vegetable input in liquid form. I'm sorry, beer just doesn't contain enough essential fiber, which you have to have to... "

  "Yeah. I know you get plenty of fiber because you're full of it up to your ears."

  He offered a mock two-finger salute and a thin smile. "Like I said. Crabby." He asked the Dead Man, "Did you have something for me? Or not?"

  Old Chuckles did, in fact, have a lot to talk over with Morley, but it had no bearing on the problem at hand. I would not have stayed around at all if it hadn't had to do with my future, too.

  61

  Morley was gone. After five thoughtful minutes I asked, "You really think the troubles might get that bad?"

  They are barely into their infancy now and people are dying every day. Glory Mooncalled appears to be contributing by neglect, if not by plan.

  "You're determined to have him here in town, aren't you?"

  There is no doubt whatsoever that he is either in the city or somewhere close by. You came close to him last week.

  "Why?"

  He could see my thoughts. He understood the question.

  Glory Mooncalled has betrayed no lack of confidence in his own abilities. About that all respondents always agree. Nor do they disagree that he has only disdain and contempt for the various persons who manage the Karentine state. He knows only those he encountered in the Cantard. And in the Cantard he did learn to respect the overwhelming force that lords and wizards could bring to bear—by direct experience. He believes it will be an entirely different game in TunFaire.

  "I got a feeling maybe friend Mooncalled is gonna run into a couple of surprises here." Here at home not all our functionaries are people who inherited their jobs, nor are all of them so enchanted with their own importance that they do nothing but polish their images.

  Exactly. The Dead Man was still tapped into my mind. And there is every possibility that someone like Relway may be the real best hope for averting complete chaos.

  "You think Glory Mooncalled might want to precipitate such a state?"

  Perhaps. As I observed, he suffers from no lack of confidence. And he is aware that he has been something of a folk hero here, in the past. He might believe that ordinary Karentines will proclaim him their savior if things turn bad enough.

  Which is really what happened in the Cantard during the war. The native tribes, tired of generations of being caught between two vicious, corrupt, inept empires, had fallen in behind Glory Mooncalled.

  Hell, Glory had been a hero of mine because he had bucked the ruling classes and had shown no tolerance for corruption or incompetence. Without Mooncalled there would have been no victory in the Cantard. No one, from the King to the least trooper, would deny that—though different interpretations can be placed upon the exact nature of his role in the triumph. He has no friends on high. And guess who pays the salaries of the guys who are going to write the histories of the great war?

  "I wouldn't like to think that he would be that coldbloodedly, blatantly manipulative."

  He has little more love for the Karentine aristocracy than he did for the Venageti.

  Coldly and systematically, practically from the moment he had come over to our side, Glory Mooncalled had embarrassed, humiliated, and eliminated a parade of Venageti generals, wizards, and lords who had abused his dignity.

  "Could it be that this man who never guesses wrong has, just marginally, misinterpreted the Karentine character?"

  He has, without a doubt. Karentines are inordinately fond of their Royals and aristocrats—although you murder them with alarming frequency.

  Actually, they murder one another. We have some outrageously bizarre revolutionaries on the streets these days, but I have never heard even the most deranged suggest that we dispense with the monarchy.

  I have heard the suggestion, though. Only from non-humans. And guess who is the one big lump really sticking in the craw of the mob already?

  Miss Winger and Mr. Tharpe are due here soon, should you be interested in an update on Glory Mooncalled's latest efforts.

  "Tell you the truth, I'm a whole lot more interested in the activities of certain gods and goddesses who may save us the trouble of having to survive your coming troubles."

  Reluctantly, the Dead Man admitted that that might be a more immediate concern.

  "Can you read Adeth at all?"

  Only her presence and general location.

  "If I get her in here, can you do anything with her?"

  He didn't answer for a while. I was about to nudge him when he offered, What good is nerve if you do not employ it?

  62

  I peeked through the peephole. Adeth continued her vigil. My estimation of the gods continued its decline. This one did not seem omniscient enough to know when she was being observed by a mortal.

  Maybe she didn't believe that that could be done. Conviction leaves us all with huge blind spots.

  "What are you doing?"

  I jumped. "Don't sneak up like that."

  Dean glowered. Somehow, he was a lot less diffident than he had been before he had discovered that he could get a niece married without me—either as victim or as co-conspirator. And he was just a tad too confident of his employment here.

  "I've been thinking, Dean. It might just be worth doing my own cooking to be able to get into my house whenever I want."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I've been thinking. And one worry that came up was, what do I do if the Dead Man decides to take a nap right before you have one of your paranoid seizures and go berserk with all your locks and chains? Here I come, dead on my feet, looking forward to ten hours in the sack. But he's snoring, you're off to bed, and there's enough iron holding the door to drag a groll to the bottom of the river. Wahoo! I get to spend the rest of the night on the stoop because I can't get into my own house. Seems to me it would be worth doing my own cooking to avoid that inconvenience."

  I peeked again, while Dean struggled to invent a new line of excuses. The redhead hadn't moved. I didn't see the Goddamn Parrot. I crossed my fingers. Two good omens. Maybe my luck was turning.

  Slip out the back. See if she can be approached unexpectedly. I will keep watch and inform you of any changes while you maneuver.

  "Right." I peeked once more, while Dean still sputtered. The Dead Man had allowed him to listen in because his help would be critical if I were to depart via the back. We undertake that means of egress in extreme
circumstances only, it ordinarily being our intent to have the bad boys think there is just one way to get in or out. "Oh my. Here comes your company, Old Bones."

  Saucerhead and Winger were coming up the street. Some strange half-breed, all white bony knees and elbows, skipped along between them. He grinned like somebody had promised him a hundred marks. He wore tan leather shorts and a vile green shirt. I'd never seen the look before.

  I wondered what had become of their earlier accomplice, Morley's man Agonistes.

  There is no end to the demands of the living once you allow them the slightest opening. Like them coming here wasn't his idea. Dean, please get Garrett out of here. Garrett, sneak up on her, see if she can be surprised, then bring her to me.

  "Suppose she don't want to come?"

  Then you will have to resort to your usual charm. Let confidence and a boyish smile be your tools just this one more time.

  Well, I did come up with the idea originally, but... He was possessed of the misapprehension that anytime I want I can grin and hoist an eyebrow and great ladies and maybe even goddesses will melt. At least he pretends to believe it, maybe because he thinks that forces me to live up to his expectations.

  I could sense him chuckling to himself as he nudged Dean to rush me off so he could be at the front door when Saucerhead and his companions arrived. But there is no hurrying when it comes to getting out the back. If it was easy, folks from the street would come in to do their shopping. Winger and Saucerhead would be thoroughly peeved before Dean got to them. And Winger isn't big on coddling people's feelings. I hit the alley smiling, even greeted a couple of self-employed ratmen with pleasant greetings. They responded suspiciously, not because they knew me but because of the current social climate.

  I jogged down to Wizard's Reach, cut across to Macunado, looked uphill toward the house. I couldn't see the redhead. I crossed Macunado and found myself a slice of shade miraculously free of tenants. It was early still, but it was warm. It promised to be a blistering day.