by Glen Cook
“Argh!” I said. “Where’s me eye patch, matey?” I took a few crabbed steps, dragging my left foot. Folks didn’t appreciate the effort, thought. Almost everybody has a disabled veteran in the family.
14
Stragglers from the early shift still drifted into the street as I reached the brewery. The stench of fermentation drenched the neighborhood. The workers didn’t notice. Neither did the residents. Their noses were dead.
Weider’s main brewery is a great gothic redbrick monster that looks more like a hospice for werewolves and vampires than the anchor of a vast commercial empire. It has dozens of turrets and towers that have nothing to do with what goes on inside the building. Bats boil out of the towers at dusk.
The monstrosity sprang from Old Man Weider’s imagination. A smaller duplicate stands directly across Delor Street, Weider’s first effort. He’d meant that to be a brewery but it turned out to be too small. So he remodeled and moved his family in while he built a copy ten times bigger, to which all sorts of additions have attached themselves since.
We TunFairens love our beer.
The brewery doen’t have a real security team. Senior workers take turns patrolling and watching the entrances. Outside villains don’t get in. The workforce protects the place like worker bees protect their hives.
A spry antique named Geral Diar had the duty at the front entrance. “Hey, Gerry,” I said as I walked up. “Checking in.”
“Garrett?” His eyes aren’t the best. And he was surprised to see me. That was a good sign. If nobody expects me, any bad guys will have no time to cover up. “What’re you doing here?”
“Snooping. Same as always. The big house says it’s time. Been stealing any barrels?”
“You enjoy yourself, young fellow. Somebody should.”
“Oh? You’re not?”
Diar is one of those guys who can’t not talk if anybody stops to listen. “Not much joy around here lately.”
“How come?”
“State of the kingdom. Everybody’s got a viewpoint and nobody’s got a pinch of tolerance for the other guy’s.”
This might be germane. “Been some political friction here?”
“Oh, no, not around here. Mr. Weider wouldn’t put up with that. But it’s everywhere else and you got to get through it to get to work. You can’t hardly go anywhere without you run into a brawl or demonstration or even an out an’ out riot. It’s all a them foreigners from the Cantard. They just act like they want to cause trouble.”
“I know what you mean.” I was in my chameleon mode, where I mirror whomever I’m with. That loosens people up. Diar’s comment, though, complimented the Dead Man’s suspicion that Glory Mooncalled was trying to destabilize Karentine society.
“Gets depressing, Garrett, knowing you have to go out there. Things was better back when all you had to worry about was thieves and strong-arm men.”
“I’m sure the King will do something soon.” Like the traditional turn-of-the-back till the mob sorted itself out. Not that the royals deign to spend time in TunFaire, where the upper crust bears them far less goodwill than does the factious, fractious rabble.
“Well, you just have yourself a wonderful day, Garrett.”
“And you, too, Gerry. You, too.”
When you think brewery mostly you picture the finished product: beer, ale, stout, whatever. You don’t consider the process. First thing you notice about a brewery is the smell. That isn’t the toothsome bouquet of a premium lager, either. It’s the stench of vegetable matter rotting. Because that’s the process. To get beer you let vats of grain and water and additives like hops rot under the loving guidance of skilled old brewmasters who time each phase to the minute.
There are no youngsters working in the brewhouse. In the Weider scheme even apprenticed sons of the brewmasters start out as rough labor. Weider himself was a teamster before he went to the Cantard and believes that physical labor made him a better man. But when he was young everybody over nine had to work. And jobs were easy to find.
Weider does know every job in the brewery and occasionally works some of them just to keep in touch with a workingman’s reality. He expects his senior associates to do the same.
Manvil Gilbey wrestling beer barrels is a hoot. Which might explain why Gilbey isn’t entirely fond of me. I’ve witnessed his efforts and feel comfortable reporting that as a laborer he’s pretty lame.
I said hello to the brewmasters on duty. Skibber Kessel returned a sullen greeting. Mr. Klees was too busy to notice a housefly like me. They were dedicated men, disinclined to gossip at the most relaxed times. I supposed they were happy with things the way they were. No brewmaster is shy about raising hell when he’s bothered. The finest brewmasters are like great operatic performers.
When I go to the brewery I try to stay unpredictable. The bad boys don’t need to catch me in a routine. Sometimes I hang around only half an hour. Other times I just won’t go away. I become like some unemployed cousin loafing around the place, though I will help the guys on the docks, loading and unloading. I shoot the bull with the apprentices, shovel with the guys in the grain elevator, just watch the boys in the hops shed. I wander, double-check counts on the incoming barley, rice, and wheat, calculating inflow against recorded output. In all ways I try to be a pain in the ass to would-be crooks.
The brewery’s biggest problem always was pilferage. That’s been a lot smaller since I came around but, unfortunately, human nature is human nature.
15
I knew some of the teamsters and dock wallopers well enough to drink with so it seemed I ought to start with them. They wouldn’t hesitate to talk about conflicts within the workforce.
There are two ways to reach the loading docks — besides going around to the freight gate. One leads through the caverns beneath the brewery, where the beer is stored. The caverns and the proximity of the river, on which raw materials arrive, are why Weider chose the site.
The caverns are the more difficult route. The other way runs through the stable. That’s huge. Few other enterprises require so much hauling capacity.
I chose the caverns. It’s almost a religious experience, wandering those cool aisles between tall racks of kegs and barrels.
They work round the clock down there and I always find Mr. Burkel there with his tally sheets. “Mr. Burkel, don’t you ever sleep?”
“Garrett! Hello. Of course I do. You’re just a lucky man. You get to enjoy my company every time you come around.”
“How can I argue with that? How are your numbers running these days?”
“As good as they’ve ever been. As good as they’ve ever been.”
Which still meant a slight floor loss in favor of the workforce, probably limited to what was consumed on the premises. Which was fine with Old Man Weider.
Mr. Burkel handed me a huge stein. As chance would have it, that stein was filled with beer. “This is a new wheat we’ve just started shipping.” I sipped half a pint.
“And a fine brew it is, Mr. Burkel. It’s heavier than the lager but lighter than the dark I usually prefer.” I forebore tossing in some wine snob chat. He wouldn’t get the joke. “This’s why I like Old Man Weider. He’s always trying something. Thanks. Maybe I’ll come through again on my way out.”
“Do. Now answer me something, Garrett. How come you got a stuffed bird on your shoulder? Looks goofy as hell.”
“It’s not stuffed. It’s alive. It’s kind of a signature thing. Other guys in my racket all got a gimmick.”
“Oh.” You’d have thought I was threatening to tell him about my new wall coverings. “Well, you be careful out there, Garrett.”
“Likewise, Mr. Burkel.”
16
The Weider freight docks are chaos incarnate, yet out of that confusion flows the lifeblood of the tavern industry. From its heart to its nethermost extremities beer is the blood and soul of the metropolis.
The teamsters and deckhands received me with mixed emotions, as always. Some were
friendly, or pretended to be. Others scowled. Maybe some of those were involved in the theft ring I rooted out. They might figure I done them wrong because stealing from the boss is a worker’s birthright.
Shadows were gathering in the dockyard. Hostlers had begun retiring the incoming teams. After dark only outside haulers would be loaded. This was a time of day the dockworkers liked. They could get lazy.
It was also the time of day when a keg or three could disappear most easily.
I planted the other side of my lap on a returned empty meant to go back to the cooperage yard for repairs. I stayed out of the way, let the noise and chatter wash over me. The Goddamn Parrot muttered but did not lapse into filth. What little I understood sounded like random thoughts from one of the Dead Man’s secondary minds. He must be distracted.
I listened. I overheard almost nothing about the political situation and less about what everybody thought I might be after. I didn’t mind. I didn’t expect anybody to be dumb enough to plot right in front of me, though the criminal class does boast a rich vein of stupidity.
Mostly I watched how guys behaved when they knew I was watching.
Nobody acted guilty.
“Garrett?”
I opened my eyes. I’d been on the brink of falling asleep. The long nights were catching up.
“Gilbey?” Manvil Gilbey masquerades as Old Man Weider’s batman but he’s no servant. The bond between them goes back to their army days and is unshakable. Nobody can indict its rectitude, either. Gilbey had a wife who died. Weider still has one he worships. If Max is the brain of the brewing empire, Manvil Gilbey is its soul and conscience.
“Max requests the honor of your company whenever you can get over to the house.”
Gilbey needed a few quaffs of the product. He’s all right once he’s had a few.
“I’ll be over before it gets completely dark.”
“Good enough.” Gilbey turned and marched away.
A driver called Sparky observed, “That’s one guy what never should of got outta the army.”
“Always on the parade ground, isn’t he?”
“He’s all right, you get to know him.”
“One of the good people,” I agreed.
“He just never learned to take it easy.”
“The streets are filled with people like that these days.”
“Tell me about it,” Sparky grumbled. “When I get off I’ve been driving and hossing them barrels for twelve, fourteen hours. All I want to do is get home and collapse. So what happens every goddamned night? I’ve got to walk a mile through morons trying to save the world from the guy next door. And every damned one of them wants me to join his mob. They get deaf as a cobblestone when you tell them to just leave you the fuck alone.”
Another driver said, “I’m thinking about just camping out here till this shit blows over. I’m fed up having to duck a fight every time I go somewhere.”
I suggested, “Maybe you could try a different route. Those rights guys only show up where they think they can start something. I didn’t get any hassles coming down here. I don’t get much trouble at all, really.”
“You think walking around with that stick and stuff don’t make a difference? Them assholes ain’t ready to work for it yet.”
“Yeah, Garrett. Mosta dem fucks be scared shitless of a guy wit’ a eagle on his shoulder.”
“Thank you, Zardo. But don’t give the buzzard a swelled head.” I tote my headknocker everywhere these days. Times have grown so interesting that I no longer feel foolish being cautious. “You want to buy this bird, Zardo? Sparky? I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll throw in an eye patch.”
“Dat’d just be askin’ for trouble. I couldn’t fight my way outta a weddin’ reception.”
Sparky said, “I spent my five doing the same thing I do here, Garrett. I never touched a weapon after Basic.”
I didn’t know Sparky well enough to preach to him so I just shrugged. “Life’s never kind to the good-hearted. I had a friend once who recited a poem over and over about how good men die while the wicked prosper. One of the best men I ever knew. What the crocodile didn’t eat we buried in a swamp on an island down south.”
“I know that pome.”
“I’d better head for the big house.”
“Sure. Something I wanted to ask you, though.”
“Yeah? What?”
“That bird. It’s stuffed. Right?”
“You got a bet on? It’s alive. It’s just doped.” On idiocy-suppressing thoughts from the Dead Man. “If I don’t dope it, it cusses worse than old Matt Berry. Usually at somebody who could yank off both of my arms with one hand tied behind his back.”
“Oh.” Sparky seemed disappointed. He must have lost the bet.
17
I dropped off the dock, strolled toward the stables. Going through was the fastest way to the big house.
I was halfway through, stepping carefully, when I found myself at the heart of a sudden triangle of guys who didn’t look very friendly.
Morley’s oft-given advice was sinking in. Or maybe I was just in a bad mood. Or maybe I was just impatient. I didn’t ask what anybody wanted.
I spun. My oak headknocker tapped the temple of the guy moving up behind me. The pound of lead inside the stick’s business end added emphasis to my argument. His eyes glazed. He went down without a word.
I continued to turn, dropped, laid my next love tap on the side of the knee of a huge Weider teamster. He was just getting a fist wound up.
His legs folded. I rose past him, tapped him on his bald spot, stepped aside as he sprawled, turned to the last character. “Something on your feeble mind?”
He kept coming even though he had no tools. That didn’t seem encouraging. Why the confidence? I feinted a tap at an elbow, buried the tip of my stick in his breadbasket. He whooshed a bushel of bad breath. I whapped the side of his head, then found out why he kept on coming.
A second wave of three materialized. These boys looked like they were accustomed to muscle work. I didn’t recognize any of them. On the plus side, none of them were behind me.
While they decided what to do because Plan One had burned up in their fingers I rethumped everybody already down. I didn’t want any surprises.
One of the new bunch grabbed a pitchfork. Another collected a shovel. I didn’t like the implications.
The Goddamn Parrot, who had elevated himself to a stringer overhead when the excitement started, said, “Awk! Garrett’s in deep shit now.”
The third man, who seemed to be in charge, hung back to direct traffic. He and his pals all looked up when the bird spoke.
I didn’t.
I charged.
A pitchfork is nasty and a shovel unpleasant but neither was designed to hurt people. My stick, though, has no other reason for existing. A feint and a weave gave me a chance to reach in and crunch knuckles on a hand gripping the pitchfork. Shovel man froze momentarily when his too-slow buddy shrieked. I skipped aside and cracked his skull.
I swear, he shimmered. I thought he was going to fade away. I wanted to whimper because I was afraid some gods were after me again.
I whipped back to pitchfork man. He was too slow to be a threat by himself. A moment later he was sinking and I was ready to go after the last man.
The clown shut the stall gate between us, leaned on it, and smiled. “I’m impressed.”
“You ought to be. You’re about to be flat on your back in the horse fruit yourself. Who are you? Why the hell are you bothering me?”
“Awk,” the Goddamn Parrot observed from above.
“I’m nobody special. Just a messenger.”
I rolled me eyes. “Corn by the bucketful. Spare me. I don’t mind crippling the messenger.”
“Not scared?”
“Just quaking in my little shoesies.” I banged a toe off the temple of the guy who had tried to fork me. For half a second he shimmered like his buddy had.
“No skin off my nose, you listen or not.”
>
“Want to bet?” I popped my stick against my palm. “Let’s see if you shimmer, too.”
“Here’s the word. We know where you live. Stay away from the Weider brewery.”
“A joke, right?” I indicated my collection of unconscious bodies. “I know where I live, too. You guys want, come on over.”
For just a second his confidence was shaky. “I’m telling you. Back off. Stay away.”
“Says who? You’ve gotten something turned around inside your head. You and your company-clerk buddies here are going to keep your lardy asses off of Weider property. Next time you trespass you’ll get hurt.”
The guy smirked. I flicked the tip of my stick at the fingers of his right hand where he gripped the top of the gate. He bit, yanked back. I kicked the gate. He staggered backward. Unfortunately, my balance wasn’t perfect either. My follow-through was a plop into not-so-sweet-smelling straw.
The Goddamn Parrot guffawed.
“Your day is coming.”
The big guy bounced off a post, got his balance back. He grabbed a handy hay hook, whooshed it back and forth. He wasn’t happy anymore. He snarled, “That was a big mistake. Now you got me pissed off. And I don’t need you in one piece.”
There are people so stupid they just can’t imagine somebody hurting them. And some of those are so dim you can’t even teach them with pain. This guy looked like one of the latter.
The Goddamn Parrot made a distressed noise.
I dived for my stick. It had gotten away from me when I fell. I slithered over an earlier victim. He groaned when I got him with an elbow.
“What are you men doing there?” That sounded like somebody used to being in charge. I glanced sideways as I got hold of my stick, saw Ty Weider and his wheelchair maybe fifteen feet away, beyond a couple of stalls. With him were his full-time helper Lancelyn Mac and two stable hands.
The big guy looked, too. He dithered a second longer than I did. Without getting up, I swung my stick and got him in the kneecap. He yowled and raised his leg. I rolled into the one still on the straw.