Wicked Bronze Ambition: A Garrett, P.I., Novel (32 page)

“Can anybody exp
lain how the Day of the Dead or All-Souls Night might connect with the Tournament of Swords?”

Blank looks. Of course, hardly anybody knew much about the tournaments. A week ago only a couple of us had heard of that idiocy.

I caught Moonslight shyly, indecisively, gradually, sliding a tentative hand upward while involved in a fierce internal struggle, her connection with Magister Bezma warring with a desire to see the right thing done.

She knew perfectly well that she hadn’t been serving the cause of righteousness.

Not many of us ever do. Not deliberately, with benevolence aforethought.

I asked, “Has this thing just taken another unexpected right-angle turn?”

I hadn’t left out much that Shadowslinger had said. I wanted them thinking. These people were not stupid. One quick mind might catch something the rest of us overlooked.

Singe eased in close, whispered, “We need to check in at home. There should be reports. And he might be awake.”

“Is there a real chance that he is?”

“Probably not. But I prefer to remain optimistic.”

“Good enough for me. So. See if there are enough umbrellas for everyone who wants to go.”

The modern collapsing umbrella is another product of the genius of Kip Prose. Most of those currently in the hands of the public weren’t purchased by the people actually using them. There is nothing more frequently stolen than the umbrella on a rainy day. Many have a lengthy, adventurous provenance.

Amalgamated keeps prices up by marketing its more desirable products in quantities below demand. The policy encourages piracy, but the Tate old men do well at convincing the public that a deep and abiding social handicap comes with the purchase of anything that is not a genuine Amalgamated-manufactured, Prose-designed product.

None of which was germane. Just another parenthetical distraction . . .

Barate poked me in my favorite tender spot. “The coach is on its way, Garrett. Be ready.”

“Coach? What coach?”

“Mother’s coach. To keep you from drowning on your way. I told you about it ten minutes ago.” He was worried about me.

“I’m sorry. I’m really lost, especially now that we’re up against some vague deadline. It just keeps getting more confusing.”

“I won’t argue about that. There’s more going on than we know. Keep an eye on Tara Chayne. She’ll figure it out first. She knows Mother better than anyone.”

I showed him my interrogative hoisted eyebrow.

“Better than me? Oh, hell yes! I never came close to figuring the old bitch out.”

I stepped to the kitchen door. The rain had become a soaker. A cold, steady soaker. You couldn’t tell what time of day it was, only that it was daytime. It was earlier than I thought, being only shortly after noon.

Shadowslinger wasn’t big on newfangled luxuries like collapsible umbrellas. They went bad after you used them a few times, so you had to buy another. She wasn’t going to play that game with crooked tradesmen.

Mash and Bash did own a knockoff that had to have its too-light stays rebent each time it opened.

They proved that couples will argue about the stupidest things by engaging in a bitter campaign to decide whether or not the imperfect umbrella ought to be left open all the time.

“It doesn’t matter!” I barked in frustration. “We only have one for this many people.”

Barate said, “Calm yourself, son. Being a clever old fox who’s actually had to deal with weather in the past, I told the coachman to pick you up under the porte cochere.”

Kevans chunked in a rare contribution. “We wouldn’t want all your sugar and spice to get washed away.”

That girl has issues.

Dr. Ted came back from a quick sortie into Shadowslinger territory. “Such a spoiled, selfish bunch, fussing over a damp that you’re not even out in yet. Think of the poor sodding red tops out there who have it running down the backs of their necks because their lunatic boss wants to know about every breath that one of us takes.”

That was an excellent diversion. Not that I much cared about the comfort of those fools. They ought to be holed up someplace warm and dry. I was hardly ever that dedicated to my work—unless maybe I was close up on somebody that might lead me to whoever did what happened to Strafa . . .

Barate said, “Mash, I want you, thank you kindly, to go wait for the coach. The rest of us will go on making hash here.”

He wanted to talk about Strafa. Unfortunately, what we knew still boiled down to little more than we had right after the event. A canvass of the neighborhood had not produced one eyewitness, nor even anyone who had noticed an itinerant siege machine—though the forensics sorcerers had determined the site from which the fatal bolt had to have been discharged.

The murderous ballista had vanished off the face of the earth.

The missing fragment of bolt had failed to turn up despite a diligent effort by Guard searchers.

Barate was more than grim when he admitted, “I hate saying this, Garrett, but for now it looks like they’re going to get away with it.”

“No. They won’t. They may stay ahead of me for an hour, a day, a month, but not forever. We’ve already turned up plenty of threads to pull. We pull, sooner or later somebody will panic and do something stupid.” As if they had not been doing a whole lot of that already.

Only, I might not get to yank any strings right away. Gratification might be delayed.

Shadowslinger had talked about that onrushing deadline with heightening despair. I hadn’t liked it. I still didn’t like it. But some feel for it had been ripening in the shadowed reaches of my imagination. For no concrete reason I had begun building a sense of importance and urgency myself.

Mashego returned. “The coach is ready.”

At which point curiosity reared its head. “If Mash and Bash are Constance’s only staff and you’re staying here, who’s driving the coach?”

That sort of question could be troubling to a guy with a twist of mind like mine.

Barate responded, “Two of our better private patrolmen, Peder and Piet Petief, handle the stable work and drive part-time. They’re brothers. Twins, in fact. Reliable men.”

More twins. Curious. No way that could have any real meaning, but it was interesting. Still . . . How reliable could guys be if they walked away from their regular job whenever they could pick up a bonus for handling an outside chore? Especially when that involved collaboration with horses?

I guess the index of reliability depends on the gauge you use as a measure.

I got water down the back
of my neck, plenty, by choosing to ride up top with the driver. Piet was dressed for the weather. I only pretended to be, though I did have use of the Mash and Bash umbrella until a rogue gust snatched it away and smashed it against the face of a building.

“I need to find myself a better wet-weather hat.”

“At least up here you don’t have to deal with that.” Piet pointed down and back with his right thumb. Someone, name of Mariska Machtkess, aka Moonslight, just would not shut up about the indignity of having to share the coach with a pack of stray dogs. Again.

“The mutts aren’t her real problem.” She had been friendly with Brownie when she had nothing else weighting her down.

“I know. Rat people get up some folks’ noses just by managing to survive.”

I grunted, shook some water off my brim. “Would you bet anything against the possibility that there was a Machtkess ancestor involved in creating the rat people?”

“My mama’s stupid kids all died young.”

I grunted again, this time hurting a bit. You didn’t hear that expression much because it was a truth that touched most every Karentine family. Not to mention, a lot of mamas’ smart kids had died young, too.

Piet remained oblivious. I sensed no malice. How could he possibly know about my brother, anyway? He said, “That would be the safest bet you ever made.”

“Really? I’m not good with history.”

“Oh? Story goes, a direct ancestor of the Machtkess women, and his twin brother, created the grays.”

Interesting. “Twins run in their family?”

Piet was quiet for a while, then said, “I never thought about it before, but twins happen a lot on the Hill. Only not identicals. Curious.”

“It run in your family?”

“Peder and I are part of triplets, actually. Him and me aren’t identical. Pyotr was my identical. He didn’t make it home.”

All right. He wasn’t an insensitive jerk. All I could think to say was “My brother, too. And my dad, right about the time that Mikey was born.”

That brought up some old curiosities about inconsistent stories and some of the timing, back when, that I put out of mind as soon as I could. There was nothing there that I needed to know about now.

“Our dad, too. He was an idiot. He asked for it. Did his tour. Then he volunteered to go back. He was a hero.”

So much bitterness. It was amazing. But I had no trouble understanding.

I asked, “How about we talk about something a little less gloomy?”

“On a day like today? In weather like this? This is a gift from the gods. It’s them giving us a chance to get it all sluiced out.”

“They’ve given us plenty of chances lately, then.”

“You got that right. At least it’s not as hot as it usually is this time of year. You know we’re being followed?”

“I haven’t been paying attention, but I did figure we might be.”

“I reckon. You being you, as they say. This mess being what it looks like it’s getting to be.”

I glanced over, wondering what he meant. He sounded stressed when he said it.

He went on, “My brother and I owe you an apology, Mr. Garrett. We was on patrol . . . We should’ve been there when . . . We got sucked in by the diversion that day. We was pioneers in the army. We got a lust after things that go boom and make smoke. That day there was plenty of flash, lots of bang, and all kinds of colored smoke. Way around the Hill.”

Had someone done any finding out about that? Maybe the bad guys made some mistake rigging things over there.

“You couldn’t help yourselves.”

Startled, he looked at me like I’d just given him absolution. “That’s what Peder said when we found out what happened while we was off our patch. After. He bawled like a baby, he did. Everybody loved that girl. He said, ‘We just couldn’t help ourselves, Piet.’”

Not quite sure why, I mused, “It was almost like somebody knew exactly what it would take to get you out of the way.”

Two seconds later we were looking at each other, first with big eyes, then frowning as we both wondered if I hadn’t just said something important without any forethought.

Piet almost ran over a couple of people, he was so distracted.

“Hey! Godsdamn! The fuck, youse assholes? Be watching the fuck where you’re goin’!”

I babbled an incoherent apology on Piet’s behalf, then noted that we were on Macunado already, clattering down my block, having just accidentally missed killing one of Belinda Contague’s biggest and most unpleasant lifeguards. His temper might be frayed. His dampness suggested that he had been out in the weather for a while.

I told Piet, “That’s my place there where the coach is standing.”

Nervous, he asked, “Does that belong to who I think it belongs to?”

“If you mean the queenpin, yes.” Smug me. I’d made up a word to describe Belinda.

Her father, Chodo, had been called the kingpin.

“I heard you was friends.”

“Sort of. Pretty iffy. It’s a long story.”

“I’ll buy you a beer sometime.” The offer was a sideways apology for his lapse the day Strafa died.

“Deal. And I’ll buy you one back. Actually, we could go through a keg before I get it all told.” And, as he brought the coach to the curb behind Belinda’s rig, “You don’t need to feel bad. You didn’t do wrong that day.”

“I know. Up here.” He smacked his forehead. “If we stood where we was and then fifty, sixty people died over yonder because we wasn’t there to pull them out, fuginagy, we’d have our asses in a sling big-time, anyway. For negligence or misprision or some damned thing they made up on account of somebody who don’t count has got to pay. But . . .”

“Yeah. But. It keeps eating on me, too, Piet. So. Here’s something you can do to help. I don’t know how much, but it’s something. Go see Barate Algarda. Tell him what we talked about. Tell him he should find out if anybody really looked into those explosions.”

“Sure. And good luck.” Mariska was getting loud. Her confidence must have gotten a boost. “You might need it.”

“Thanks.” I would need it less than he feared.

I had a secret weapon called ignorance.

Mariska hadn’t been told where we were headed. Once she found out that she was in range of the Dead Man . . .

She screamed like a scalded baby.

Not happy, our Moonslight.

She panicked. She tried to run.

That didn’t work. A lot of people helped take that option away.

Belinda was still inside her wagon. She
wasn’t alone. Morley shared the space, unhappily. They were waiting there because Penny wouldn’t let anybody inside while Singe was away. Why they bothered to stay was never clear. Maybe it was a place where they could bicker without being seen.

They had not had a pleasant wait. I saw that right away. They were butting alpha wills again, presumably. Neither volunteered an explanation.

I said, “Singe will have the door open in two shakes. Dean will have something to warm you up.”

Reassurances didn’t help. Some folks you can’t please.

“I’ll ask if he can’t send something out for your guys, too, Belinda.” Not so much being thoughtful as reminding her that others had it less pleasant than she did.

A waste. That sociopath thing again. That inability to empathize.

Morley peeked past the edge of a curtain. “The door is open.”

Sure enough. And there was Penny, hands on hips, unhappy because the cold and damp were creeping in. Because wet dogs and wetter people were crowding her, fouling the hallway.

Morley began to chuckle as we got in line.

“What?” Belinda and I both demanded.

“Garrett, you’re finally living the dream.”

“What does that mean?”

“What you daydreamed about when you were a kid has finally come to pass.”

“I’m still lost.”

He shook his head, chuckled some more. “You wanted your own harem. And now you’ve got one.”

His expansive gesture as we stamped the water off us on the stoop included not only Singe, Penny, and Hagekagome, down the hallway greeting the all-girl dog team, but also a set of twins who pretended to be in heat most of the time.

Belinda began to snicker, too. “A harem for Garrett. It’s precious. Jon Salvation could make it into a play.”

Winger and Saucerhead leaned out of my old office, sleepily curious about the sudden racket. They were a dismal-looking pair. One nodded to herself and pulled back, no doubt resuming what she considered a well-deserved nap.

“He’d write a real tragedy if he put those two in it.” I grinned for a moment. I can be a humble, self-effacing kind of guy, but could not long forget that this moment existed only because my wife had been murdered.

Penny scattered rags and threadbare carpets to protect the hallway floor. Even the insensitive Machtkess sisters tried to avoid dripping everywhere. Which left only the dogs. . . .

Hagekagome used the shreds of an ancient towel with one hand and loved her doggie friends with the rest of her.

She spotted me. Her face lit up. She jumped up and charged, excited as a puppy, smashed into me, pounded my chest a few times with her little fists, then just clung. She didn’t tell me how much she hated me.

We got plenty of stares. I looked back at everybody, silently begging for advice. Tara Chayne gave me a nod, a reminder to be nice and gentle. Nobody else seemed particularly concerned, though Penny treated herself to a mild sulk. So I just hugged with my right arm and patted Hagekagome’s back with my left hand while I tried to figure out what the hell was happening.

Whatever that might be, Brownie and the girls approved.

Mariska revealed a catalogue of expressions, beginning with bewildered and circling back round to much the same thing. She started out focused on one particularly handsome former Royal Marine and finished fixed on the supernaturally beautiful but weird kid clinging to him.

I couldn’t help observing, “Something changed while I was gone.”

“She got it together some,” Penny said. “She still doesn’t make a lot of sense, but at least she’s confused in plain Karentine. So. Can you people move inside far enough for me to shut the door on the weather?”

Cold, damp air nipped the back of my neck.

Singe said, “Everyone into the office, please.” Grimly reluctant. They would track in grime and moisture. Belinda and Morley looked like they wanted to change their minds about visiting but could not come up with a plausible excuse for having wasted the time they had already.

I eased Hagekagome off me, patting her head. Damn, she was beautiful, and it looked like she had matured some in the past few days. She’d be melting guys into slack-jawed puddles with a smile in another week.

She allowed herself to be peeled, went back to Brownie and the girls. Those four seemed thrilled by events. They congratulated their friend.

I checked Penny. She shrugged. I asked, “Any change in there?” with a nod toward the Dead Man’s room. “Or there?” In the direction Tharpe and Winger had vanished.

“No. And no. Dean says not to expect anything there for a long time. The big woman is way out of it, but those two in there with her . . . They eat like pigs getting ready for winter.” She glanced toward the kitchen. “I should go help Dean. You should close the door.”

Most of the crowd had moved into Singe’s office. They would presume upon my hospitality, too, also storing fat for hard times.

Dean had as much experience with Old Bones as I did. His estimate would be good. I had no time to check on Himself. There were invaders in my establishment who had no need to know the true situation.

Before leaving to wrangle guests, Singe asked Penny, “Did anyone bring reports this morning?”

“There’s always somebody banging on the door. Dean said don’t let nobody in but you or Garrett. We can’t be sure who our friends really are. So I ignored everybody.”

Morley awarded that a surly growl.

Dean was getting all cynical and paranoid. Probably a good thing now, though it might impede the flow of information.

I asked, “Did you check the peephole?”

“You know what? I did. Every time I heard somebody out there.”

Smart-ass.

“I made a list. I put it on Singe’s desk.”

Singe suggested, “Why don’t you two come into the office, too? We will shoehorn you in. Those watching outside will inform interested parties that we are home and may be available.”