by Glen Cook
"Uncle Willard!"
Uncle Willard ignored Tinnie completely. "You've been playing cat and mouse with each other for several years, now. You're both getting a little long in the tooth to keep it up."
"I'm thinking you might want to address your questions to the cat. The mouse don't get much say." Which observation earned me an enthusiastic dig in the ribs.
"You planning to go on the way you've always done?"
I checked Tate's expression for a clue to how he meant that. I thought I got it. "It's what I do. I find things. I find things out. I try to help people who are in trouble. It's what I'm good at. I'm not good at managing a big manufacturing thing. Hell, I have trouble managing the everyday business side of what I do now. Dean does most of that. So if you need me to fill in as the son you no longer have, well, I can try to play the role, but I don't think you'd be happy with the results." Deciding maybe I wasn't quite as great an actor as had seemed the case the other day.
"I understand that. Come. It's time for the formal judging. I hope you brought enough prize ribbons, Tinnie. Because everybody who's anybody has to get some kind of award."
"I brought one for every unit we've sold, plus a few extras."
"Isn't having been born into the aristocracy wonderful?" Tate asked. "You don't really have to compete. You're a winner automatically."
I agreed. "Beats hard work and study all to hell."
"You know what they say. Work like a dog and what do you get? Dog tired."
Tinnie hurried off to one of the Tate family carriages, of which there were several present. She came back with a sheaf of ribbons. I let her slide back in under my right arm, thinking it was, maybe, time to start putting the boy's life behind. If she maybe thought so, too. The only other candidate I'd ever honestly considered was a young woman named Maya, who hadn't been patient enough to wait for me. And Eleanor, of course, but that would've been a little too ethereal a relationship for me.
Just then a half dozen shimmering objects streaked across the northern sky in a tight formation, low, in the far distance. Three seemed sizable, sausage-shaped vehicles. The rest were exactly like the odd little skyships that Evas and her henchwomen preferred. The Masker ship must have flown home very fast indeed. And Evas' secret hunger must be one she shared with a lot of Visitor women—if this was what Morley had predicted and not some kind of raid.
Dotes might've made the whole thing up.
Still, maybe I ought to get into the entrepreneurial spirit and...
Tinnie made herself at home under my right wing again. I was still on her A list. After all these minutes. Despite Uncle Willard. She asked, "Aren't you done with those people?"
"I guess. As long as they're done with Kip." I did worry about the Goddamn Parrot, though. But I wouldn't tell anybody.
I shook the unsettling notion that those larger vessels might be troopships. They were hovering over the Embankment now. Up to something.
Within minutes they headed back the way they had come. With an extra, disklike vehicle floating amongst them.
I tried to concentrate on the three-wheel festival. And spied Harvester Temisk immediately. Riding a three-wheel of his very own. He was headed my way. Looking altogether too serious for my time of life.
Chodo's party was drawing close.
For us heroes party time is never done.
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Document ID: f8c9b0d2-4570-4e71-9a4b-20f52337e5f9
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Document creation date: 31.05.2008
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