Angry Lead Skies gf-10

by Glen Cook

  "Of course we can." But I couldn't think of any reasonable argument in favor of that. "Is there any chance some of those elves might've put a compulsion into my head somewhere along the way? Like one of those times when I was knocked out?"

  At the moment I am unable to investigate. All of my mental capacity is occupied by the boy and these foreign women.

  "They definitely are both women, then."

  By birth. You unclothed them. You saw.

  "I didn't see much." But what I had seen had been curiously interesting. "The one in the kitchen at least raised a crop of lemons."

  Many human women are not as voluptuous as those in the range you usually find interesting. This one's primary sexual characteristics are somewhat atrophied. I would expect that to be true of the others, as well.

  "I did notice that." In the women it all added up to a sort of virginal innocence that was attractive in its own fashion.

  Singe hissed at me. I think it was supposed to be laughter.

  I suspect that this is not an individual aberration. I suspect that we would find the males even more atrophied.

  "Weird." I shuddered. "The ones I stripped down out there definitely weren't built to boogie. Maybe I ought to introduce this old gal to Morley."

  The pixies out front launched one of their racket shows, which wakened the Goddamned Parrot.

  She may be beyond seduction, Garrett. They may have tried to breed the sexual impulse out of themselves. The same madness has been tried by countless cults in our part of the world in a shortsighted effort to shove all those distractions aside.

  "How the hell do they get little elves, then?"

  Exactly. No such cult lasts more than a generation. Per haps the silver elves have found a way around that limitation. Possibly they have a separate breeder caste. I do not know. I do know that no living creature I have ever encountered, save the rare mutant, has lacked desire, however distorted the core impulse might have become because of stresses upon the individual. I would suspect them to be present in these elves. But buried deep.

  "So have you gotten anything out of the kid concerning his two weird pals?"

  Truly, he does not know how or where to find them. He does not have a reliable means of attracting their attention. His method worked only two times in five tries. The rest of the time they just turned up at their own discretion, almost always when he was alone. It has not occurred to Kip to wonder but they almost certainly knew that he was alone before they visited.

  Dean stuck his head in. "That racket out front is because the wee folk have spotted Bic Gonlit."

  Dean was talking to the pixies now? Times change. I gave him the fish-eye, on general principles. He wouldn't be feeding them, too, would he?

  "Now why would Bic... ?"

  I have him. Go bring him in, Garrett. He flashed me a pixie's-eye view of the spot from which Bic was watching the house. I noted that it was farther away than the Dead Man had shown he could reach before when trying to manipulate a human being. After that, take Kip home to his mother. He is nothing but a distraction here.

  "This is the real Bic Gonlit?"

  The genuine article. Evidently determined to be foolish. Help me find out why. He will not run this time. He will not see you leave the house.

  54

  Though he was mad as hell Bic couldn't get his body to move. He couldn't do anything but flinch when my hand settled on his shoulder. "Bic, my man, here you are again. Lurking. Let's go for a walk."

  Gonlit stood up and zombie-walked over to the house with me. I talked to him all the way, mainly in an admonitory tone. There was no need to get any other watchers overly excited.

  I did blow Mrs. Cardonlos a kiss. She was out on her porch, keeping her eyes open. She needed her reward.

  Mr. Gonlit is after Miss Pular again. Now on behalf of a ratman who calls himself John Stretch.

  "You get the joke, Singe? John Stretch?"

  "No. Why would the name John Stretch be a joke?" The notion seemed to irritate her.

  "John Stretch is what they used to call the hangman, before we got civilized and started lopping off heads instead."

  "Is that true? I wonder who he could be." Singe had almost no accent left, despite her vastly different throat and voice box. Scary how talented the girl was. But her tone was so controlled even I knew she was dancing around something. I was surprised the Dead Man didn't get after her. Although, sometimes, he just doesn't pay attention to anything but himself.

  Mr. Gonlit does not know who John Stretch is. He does not care. One of the hard-nosed youngsters with ambitions toward Reliance's throne, if you care to call it that. A some what naive youngster willing to pay part of Mr. Gonlit's fee up front.

  Mr. Gonlit enjoyed a wonderful gourmet dinner last night. He followed it with a bottle of TunFaire Gold and a deep pipe filled with the finest imported broadleaf tobacco. Probably a Postersaldt. Now Mr. Gonlit finds himself in a position where he has to deliver something that will please John Stretch.

  "Hey, Bic. You know we warned you to back away from us."

  Gonlit shrugged. "People warn you off, pal. I don't recollect you ever running away."

  That stuff is pretty obnoxious when somebody else is throwing it into your face.

  "Must be the boots talking, Bic. Making you braver than you ought to be."

  "What're you gonna do, pal? Send me to the Cantard?"

  Bic tried hard not to betray his interest in the silver elf woman. Her interest in Bic, however, was both frank, blatant, and troubled. The manly posturing thing seemed both to excite and repel her. She was eager to see what happened next.

  "There's an original question, Bic. Well, I have work to do. Errands to run. I hope you took that John Stretch for a potful of gold. By the time I get back home you'll probably be unemployed. Kip! Where the hell are you? Get your sorry ass ready. I'm taking you home." With a side trip to The Palms along the way, of course.

  I needed to see my old buddy, my pal, Morley the celery stalker and carrot killer.

  55

  I passed the word to Morley. "The number one boy out to scrub Reliance is a rat who calls himself John Stretch."

  "That's cute. What've you been up to?"

  "I thought Reliance might be interested. What do you think? How do you mean, up to? Why do you want to know?"

  "We've had some unusual people turn up here the last couple of nights. They're the sort who dress up in black and manage to suck all the joy out of a room just by entering it."

  "Why would they come here?"

  "I thought you might be able to tell me."

  "Not a clue here." And I really didn't have one.

  "That the kid you were looking for?"

  "The very one. Am I good, or what?"

  "So you got him back."

  "Damn me with faint praise if you want. I'm taking him home to his mother now."

  "You think he's smart enough to make it there, then?" Kip had just done something to test Sarge's patience.

  "I have hopes. I'm counting on his ego. And once I'm shut of him I'll be the happiest boy in town. I'd go on a toot if I didn't have work to do."

  "Ooh! You have another job lined up already?"

  "Nope. Just studying the excesses of the rest of you. I'm considering entrepreneur stuff. Because I'm going into business for myself."

  Morley looked at me for a while. "All right. This ought to be entertaining."

  "What? You don't think I can be a serious businessman?"

  "No. Because a serious businessman has to stay sober most of the time. A serious businessman has to make his decisions untouched by emotion. And, most of all, a serious businessman has to work. All day, every day, enduring longer hours than the most dedicated character on his payroll."

  I took a deep, cleansing breath, sighed. "O ye of little faith."

  "Exactly. Tell me everything you've left out about your adventures, Garrett."

  When I got to the part about the Michorite messenger Morley began to laugh.
He said, "I guess that explains the kid who turned up here a few hours ago."

  "What?"

  "He was a dark-haired boy of draft age, as handsome as they come, some mother's son, wearing nothing but a loincloth. But he stank like an alley in the drought season."

  "How long did you fiddle with the words to put that together?"

  "Then till now. Sounded good, didn't it? He couldn't remember why he was supposed to see me. The boys in the kitchen gave him some leftovers and sent him on his way."

  I grunted sourly. "Hey, Sarge, no need to hold back on my account. The kid asks for it, smack him. Probably won't do any good. But he's got to learn somehow, someday."

  Though I was just about convinced that Kip never would.

  Only seconds later, Smack!

  Kip bounced off Sarge's fist, slammed into a wall, folded up into a very surprised pile of dirty laundry.

  Morley said, "Sarge wasn't just a medic. He did one tour training recruits."

  I asked, "How'd you teach that kind when you were in the army, Sarge?"

  "Ain't dat hard, Garrett. But foist ya do got ta get dere attenshun."

  Excellent, in theory. But we were dealing with Cyprus Prose who, I feared, could not be reached by mortal man.

  The kid got up, still looking surprised as he shook his head. He started to say something.

  Sarge popped him again. Harder.

  And, moments later, again, harder still.

  And that was all it took. Kip looked right at Sarge, as though really seeing him for the first time.

  "Dere. Dat's better. Let's you an' me talk, boy."

  Then a miracle occurred.

  Kip paid attention.

  Morley opined, "I believe it has to do with Sarge having no emotional investment. Everyone else who ever tried to teach the boy manners didn't want to hurt him. Down deep he always knew they'd pull their punches. And they'd give up after they'd failed a few times. So he learned to outlast them. Sarge doesn't have an investment. He doesn't care if the kid lives or dies. He'll just keep on hitting, harder and harder, until he gets results. People sense that. They give him their direction. The way the boy has. Ouch!"

  Sarge had smacked Kip again, this time turning him ass over appetite.

  "A smart mouth always calls for a little reminder. Let the master work a while. You'll be glad you did."

  So I did. I kept one ear turned Sarge's direction while Morley and I tried to figure out what the hell I'd gotten myself into this time. Sarge talked to Kip softly, gently, probing his core knowledge of courtesy and the social graces. Kip knew the forms. What he lacked was any understanding. Sarge managed to pound a few insights into his thick, young-adult skull.

  I told Morley, "That sonofabitch just went up about ten notches on my approval board. He had me fooled. You think he could do anything with a blasphemous parrot?"

  "Where is the lovable Mr. Big?"

  "I'm sure he's out there somewhere, spying on me."

  Morley chuckled, but said only, "There's more to almost anyone once you get to know them, Garrett. But you knew that already. It's the kind of thing you're always throwing at me when I've decided it's time to break some totally deserving jerk's arm."

  Most of the time he goes for the neck, actually. "That's different."

  "Oh, absolutely. Garrett, at the risk of causing you a seizure because of my departure from the norm, you're full of shit."

  Morley gets a kick out of arguing morals and ethics with anybody who'll sit still for it.

  I said, "I need to get going. I only wanted to get the word to Reliance."

  "You're beginning to pile up a real debt."

  "I don't think so. You do still recollect who it was who didn't bother to tell his buddy that he was lugging a coffin full of vampire to a certain meeting with the gentleman who was the kingpin before our current, lovable Chodo Contague? What was that villain's name?"

  Dotes rolled his eyes, looked to heaven and to hell. "I'm never going to hear the end of that, am I? I'm never going to hear the end of that."

  "Nope. At least not while I have a parrot on staff. Hey, Kip. It's time to take you home."

  56

  Naturally, Kip had to find out if it was possible to resurrect the old order. I told him, "I learned something today, too. Bottom line, what it adds up to is, I don't put up with any more attitude from you. You give me any crap, I pop you. You don't behave like a human being, I hit you even harder than Sarge did. Sarge is a good man but he never was a Marine."

  I led Kip to Kayne Prose's co-op. Kayne was pleased. Kayne squealed in delight, like a girl younger than her daughter. She hugged and kissed her baby. She hugged and kissed her baby's rescuer. She refused to turn the latter loose until he promised her an opportunity to demonstrate her gratitude more fully.

  But when the smoke cleared away and the emotions settled out, Kayne still had sewing to do. She asked me to take Kip home. Where I found his sister Cassie trying on a new personality. This one was much more appealing. This one was very friendly indeed. I account it a miracle that I was able to escape still wearing my trousers, trailing a "Maybe later" that started me drooling every time I thought even a little bit about Cassie Doap.

  What a life.

  Rhafi did get the job.

  57

  One of the good things to happen in my life has been the unshakable friendship I've formed with Max Weider, the brewery magnate. I've done several jobs for Max. They didn't all work out the way we hoped but we did become friends of the sort who trust one another absolutely.

  Where money and women are not concerned.

  Max has a very lovely daughter named Alyx. Alyx is a bit of an adventuress, in her own mind. Alyx could complicate things without even trying.

  A new man answered the door at the Weider mansion. Max doesn't go out much anymore. Like the old majordomo, this character's pointy nose spent most of its time higher in the air than did that of any member of the Weider family. That nose wrinkled when he saw me. I told him, "Go tell Gilbey that Garrett is here. It's business."

  I cooled my heels outside until I began to suspect that the majordomo hadn't bothered to deliver my message. Manvil Gilbey, Max Weider's lifelong sidekick, wasn't as keen on me as everyone would be in a perfect world, but he was certain to let new help know... How do you get a job like that? If you're the employer, how do you find somebody to do it?

  The door opened. This time Manvil Gilbey himself stood on the other side. Behind him lurked a disappointed doorman. "I'm sorry, Garrett. Rogers only started yesterday. In all the confusion I forgot to let him know that you're one of the people we always want to see. Is there something going on at the brewery?"

  "Could be. But this don't have anything to do with it." I told the doorman, "Thanks for nothing, Bubba. Hey, Gilbey, how do you go about finding and hiring a guy who can be snooty about opening doors?"

  "Max is in the study. Napping when last I checked. Let's go up. Maybe if you needle him a little he'll show some interest in life. Are you involved in anything? I believe it would be useful if we had you work your magic at a few of the smaller breweries we've acquired the past couple of years. Two or three of them keep showing some screwed-up numbers."

  "You kept the original workforces, right?"

  "Top to bottom." Max always did, till individuals proved themselves not worth keeping. Weider wasn't sentimental about deadwood or crooks. "We only put in a handful of our takeover guys. To study their processes. We try not to change the final product. Unless it's really awful. But we do look for ways to increase profitability. You'd be amazed how many inefficiencies persist in this industry simply because things have always been done a certain way."

  From the day they launched their first brewing operation Weider and Gilbey had produced a quality product the most efficient way possible. Today they control seventy percent of the human-directed brewing in the city. And they have shares in many of the nonhuman breweries. Even ogres understand enhanced profit margins and good beer.


  Gilbey pushed through the second floor door to Max's study, held it for me. I passed through into the heat.

  Max always has a bonfire going in the fireplace there, these days.

  I missed a step. Max had aged a decade in the weeks since last I'd seen him. He used to be a little round-faced, red-cheeked, bald on top, smiling, twinkling-eye sort of guy. Not now. He looked terrible. He had suffered a severe decline in a very short time. Which wasn't that huge a surprise. Life had been exceedingly cruel to Max of late. He'd had two children murdered and his wife pass away, all on one horrible day.

  Max wasn't napping after all. "Garrett. I see that you're not here to brighten my day. And that your wardrobe has begun to decline already."

  "I guess I'm just a natural-born slob."

  "Do we have trouble on the floor again?"

  "Not that I'm aware of. Manvil did ask me to check out a couple of the new satellite breweries. And I'll get to that right away. Before the end of the week. But what I came for this time is to beg the borrow of some business expertise."

  Weider steepled his spidery, blue-veined fingers in front of his nose. The rheum went out of his eyes. His now nearly gaunt face showed a bit of light. I'd managed to pique his interest.

  Gilbey, who had moved to a post beside his employer's chair, shot me a look that told me to get on with it while there was a chance of getting Max interested and engaged.

  I could do this. I know how to keep a corpse awake and interested. Sometimes.

  Manvil Gilbey isn't just Max Weider's number one lieutenant, he's his oldest and closest friend. They go back to their war years together. Which makes for a hell of a bond.

  "What it is," I said, "is that I've stumbled across this kid who invents things. All kinds of things. Some are completely weird. Some are completely useless. And some are really neat. What I want is for somebody with a lot more commercial sense than I've got to eyeball the inventions and tell me if I'm fooling myself when I think somebody could get rich making some of them."