Wicked Bronze Ambition

  “And he would recognize you, wouldn’t he?”

  “He would. And that greeter called him Magister.”

  “He did, didn’t he? That isn’t good.”

  The title indicated that, in addition to the job with the long-winded title, our man had been accredited as a magic user inside a denomination that doesn’t like wizards or sorcerers much.

  Moonblight said, “I’d better go check on the horses.”

  “Good idea. Brownie might not be able to hold off a determined band of rustlers. I’ll stay here. It’s been a while since I’ve confessed.”

  The confessionals remained unused. Only the end two showed signs admitting that a priest was available.

  “Excellent thinking.” She took hold of my right ear, tugged. I tried to yank away, not knowing what game she was playing. She held on. “Hold still. You want to be able to hear.” She muttered something harshly melodic, tugged again, then slipped a little finger in. I am nothing if not the consummate professional. I endured.

  “This will be good for about a quarter hour.”

  The hearing in my right ear became ten times as acute, difficult to believe and hardly comfortable since it now seemed I could hear the tiniest scratch or creak within a dozen miles, including Brownie’s fleas farting. I’d have to get used to it fast or not be able to take advantage.

  I started to ask for advice.

  Advice was not available. Tara Chayne was gone.

  She’d been on my left. I hadn’t heard her go.

  Intriguing.

  Murmuring voices approached from the direction Greeter Man had gone. Feet scuffed limestone. I wondered why the builders hadn’t used a more durable stone where there would be heavy foot traffic. And I got myself into the priestly side of a confessional booth several doors from either one that was supposed to be in use. Seeing in would be tough. Seeing out was almost as feeble. The booth reeked of cheap wine and urine.

  Every priest might not be at ease with the filth that he had to hear, so ugly, yet, ultimately, banal.

  Few sins are unique.

  Not a time to philosophize, Garrett. Time to act. To eavesdrop.

  The greeter said, “And they’re gone.”

  “It is quite impossible to deceive your sharp eye, Niea.”

  “There is no need to mock me, sir.”

  “No need, but . . . Apologies. You are correct. You were doing your job. It seems that these people offered no cause for more suspicion than is normal with street people. Street people are, after all, why we’re here.”

  I thought it sounded like somebody was being sarcastic.

  I found an angle where the seeing out was better. I saw enough of the newcomer to understand that he wasn’t the man we’d hoped to find. He was younger, browner, and had no huge blemish growing out of wild, curly black locks just starting to go salt-and-pepper. He turned slowly, all the way round, frowning. His gaze did not linger on the confessionals.

  “Curious, Niea. Very curious. I wonder who they were.” Not what we might have wanted.

  The greeter offered descriptions that Old Bones would have applauded, and a surprising analysis. “The woman was older than she pretended and thought she was important but wanted to hide that.”

  “Nobility?”

  “Not quite that feel, but there was that level of self-assurance.”

  “The Hill, then?”

  “Probably. It wasn’t as obvious as usual, though.”

  “And the man?”

  “A cipher. Not what she was. A hard case. Not a bodyguard, though. He dressed badly and was poorly groomed.”

  “So. That would make him single. Was he her Jodie?”

  “No. He was the senior partner despite pretending that he was dim and darkish. He paid closer attention than he let on.”

  “Civil Guard snoop? A Special, maybe?”

  “Maybe. But why would they be interested in Magister Bezma?”

  “Why indeed?”

  I tried to get a better look. The guy expressed himself by tone quite well. He had made that sound like the query was rhetorical to him but a real question to the gatekeeper.

  I tried to recall the description of the man who had traveled with the old boy who owned the wen—Magister Bezma—to Flubber Ducky’s and Trivias Smith’s. No one had done well delivering one. The wen had been a huge distraction to people not much interested in the first place.

  I reached back for images passed on by the Dead Man. Even people not paying attention might have noted something useful.

  Yes. They had. But not enough. Just enough to make me suspect that this character hadn’t been with Bezma.

  He told Niea, “Go out and see if you can’t find some trace of them.” His tone said he thought there was a good chance we wouldn’t be making a run for it. “Wear your cap. I want Almaz able to spot you.”

  “You think they were spies?”

  “We should find out if we can.”

  “Of course. The more I think about that guy, the creepier he feels. His eyes were like a wolf’s. Like back behind the dull and friendly was somebody really looking forward to hurting somebody.”

  “You’re known for your discerning eye, Niea. It’s why we have you working here. You’re probably right. So I have to wonder why this man and his beard would be interested in Magister Bezma.”

  Niea wanted to speculate. The other guy wasn’t interested. “Put your hat on and get out there, Niea.”

  “Uh, yes, sir. On my way, sir.”

  He never named a name. I’d been hoping to hear one.

  He shuffled to where he greeted visitors, produced a yellow flop hat so bright that it ought to glow in the dark. You had to admire the genius who came up with the dye. For several seconds I lost interest in anything but curiosity about that. Whence had it come? How had it been applied?

  Niea left the cathedral.

  I didn’t doubt that he would spot Tara Chayne quickly. She had no reason to try for anonymity. She’d probably returned to that bench. There was no good reason not to have.

  Niea’s boss paced. He held a brisk conversation with himself but too softly for me to catch a word in five even using my enhanced hearing.

  He wasn’t fussing in vernacular Karentine, anyway. He was using either the liturgical tongue or something foreign. Probably the former. It sounded vaguely familiar.

  When you’re a kid you know damned well you’ll never use any dead languages, or any of that dull religious stuff, once you’re dealing with the real world.

  Now I grew impatient. I wanted out. I wanted to make sure Moonblight didn’t get caught in some unexpected deep doo-doo.

  63

  I had a serious backup of beer dregs by the time I made my getaway. My luck was in. Garderobes were available inside the main entrance. They were a public relations gimmick. The barons of the Church could point and pat themselves on the back for that glittering example of the benevolence of their corporation. Anyone could stroll in and use the pot, no charge—though there was an alms box handy, painted scarlet, flanked by saints famous for having distributed their fortunes to the poor once they got religion.

  Nothing said that they had beggared themselves for the benefit of the impoverished rather than the Church, though. The professionals are always all about tithing, then giving a little extra for the building fund, the education fund, the this fund, the that fund, the other fund, the fund-raising fund.

  How much of the poor box fell into clerical pockets instead of finding its way to the truly needy?

  So. I shared space with stench and flies for a bit, then eased on out of Chattaree, not far behind the man called Almaz, whom I had heard receiving instructions just before I was finally to make my toilet run.

  Did Niea know what Almaz really was?

  He was for sure not your everyday parish priest.

  And he was no longer alone, which explained why he was only now getting around to heading down all those steps, toward Tara Chayne and that bench, which she shared with a f
ellow sporting an incredibly bright yellow hat.

  Two feet separated Niea and Tara Chayne. Niea had his hands planted on his knees, sitting at attention, staring straight ahead like a nine-year-old in deep trouble. Moonblight was being conversational. He was being all “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am.”

  It would have been amusing had not Almaz and three unpriestly priests been bearing down.

  I hung back, both curious and calculating the value of an unexpected arrival. What would Moonblight do?

  She registered the approach of the ill-wishers. She did nothing to tip Almaz and his gang.

  Brownie and her pals were invisible. Had they gotten bored and gone home to the graveyard?

  I couldn’t have that kind of luck.

  In fact, it was time for luck of a whole ’nother kind.

  Almaz never got a chance to bark because Moonblight waved some fingers and said something my wonder ear heard but my brain couldn’t process. All four men hit an unseen wall ten feet from the bench. In plain Karentine Moonblight said, “You can come out now and deal with this.”

  People sporting red berets spontaneously generated. Those hats all carried the Specials badge. One was Target. Another was Helenia. Preston Womble and Elona Muriat were not among the others.

  No one said anything. The Specials just got busy.

  If ever I’d doubted that Deal Relway was on a mission from God and knew no fear, the last doubt died. Only insane lawmen would arrest Chattaree priests on their front steps without so much as offering a charge. Almaz and his henchmen were boggled. They surrendered meekly, neither arguing nor resisting, only Almaz asking what was happening but going no further when he got no answer. He did toss a long look back toward the cathedral entrance.

  Struggle was pointless. They were sure to be released shortly, probably before these red top idiots drove them all the way to the Al-Khar.

  The man who had sent Almaz out watched from above, his anger obvious. Brownie and the girls joined me as I moved to a better vantage, still close enough to jump in if it looked like Moonblight needed help.

  A few gawkers clapped when the Specials bound the priests’ hands behind them. The clapping spread when the red tops tethered them together in a coffle.

  I should roam the Dream Quarter more often. This was something new. Somehow these priests had managed to make themselves detested.

  There was some laughter when Target sent the prisoners off herded by one woman not much bigger than a gnat, armed with a knobbly walking stick that she plied with the skill of a sword master. She needed to do so only once.

  Target and the Specials removed their caps and vanished.

  Was Relway getting crazier?

  He had just challenged Chattaree to a pissing contest. Being Deal Relway, though, he wouldn’t have pushed that boldly if he wasn’t damned sure that the results would be happy.

  First criminals, then priests. How long before he went to work on the lawyers?

  I told my girls, “Let’s go see Tara Chayne.”

  The red tops hadn’t bothered Moonblight or Niea. Niea still couldn’t get his mouth all the way shut.

  He was staring after his comrades when I arrived. I sat down the other side of him from Tara Chayne, leaned back, spread out. “Be a great time for lunch, we’d thought to bring one.”

  “What about Sasah’s?”

  “Wasn’t lunch. More like punishment for my sins.”

  “Plebe.”

  “Born and raised. Me and Brownie, too.”

  Big doggie eyes sparkled. I was talking about her.

  “While you were hiding your light under a bushel, I introduced myself to Niea Syx here. A cool name. I’m sure he made it up. I presented our case. He doesn’t believe me, but he’s pretending to see the light.”

  “Which light? Not the one under the bushel?”

  Number Two settled to her haunches in front of our new friend, stared like she was waiting for him to offer her something to eat.

  “The light he’ll follow will be ours instead of the one belonging to the Civil Guard. Otherwise we hand him over to them.”

  “We can take him home for dinner.”

  “Just what I was thinking.”

  Brownie popped up suddenly, growling.

  64

  Civil Guard Senior Lieutenant Deiter Scithe, an old acquaintance, appeared as though having stepped out of an alternate dimension. The hedge wizards the Guard used must have been working on stealthy projects. Scithe said, “Make some room, Garrett.” Then, eyeing Brownie, “That’s one ferocious killer hellhound you’ve got there.”

  “Able to bring down a woolly mammoth with one snap of her jaws. Easy, girl. The lieutenant is all right. He’s just not smart enough not to name names in front of strangers.”

  “It’s Brevet Captain these days, Mr. Garrett. And since when are you worried about folks knowing who you are? You always have your dukes up telling the world to bring it on.”

  “You might have heard, life hasn’t gone so great lately. Just between us, some bad people have been giving me grief.”

  “I have heard. They’ve heard on up the chain, too. The Prince himself is pretending that he cares.”

  Tara Chayne’s ears pricked up.

  Mine lay down like those of a nervous mutt. I asked, “How come you’re out here? You don’t usually hang out with the Runners or Specials.”

  “Special assignment. Monitoring the Director’s favorites.” A sweeping gesture included Target and others who could no longer be seen.

  I wondered where Helenia had gotten to. She had been the last to disappear.

  “Oh, snap! And you with a family to worry about.”

  “Things aren’t like that anywhere but inside your fevered head. I’m not here to critique their behavior. I’m supposed to monitor their judgment. Inquiring minds want to know, are the boys being deceived by the tricksey, dastardly Garrett, or does his tall tale have any real substance?”

  “You’re kidding me.” He had to be. Strafa was dead. Shadowslinger was laid up. Moonslight had been kidnapped. There were sorcerous battles in the night. People kept trying to kill me. They thought I might be working a scam?

  Senior Lieutenant—Brevet Captain—Scithe couldn’t suppress a grin. “Now you know what it feels like.”

  “I don’t get it.” But I did.

  He eyed Tara Chayne, Niea, and the dogs again, lazily, but asked no questions. “You need to learn to relax, Garrett. Bad as things get sometimes, they’re never as bad as you make them out. The situation in the Guard isn’t complicated. The Director stretches the boundaries of the law to make it work more effectively, but he never deliberately violates it.”

  “That could be a matter of perspective.”

  “Really? When only the perspective of the Guard actually matters?”

  And there it was. The iron truth.

  He asked, “How has it been going?”

  “You just made it sound like you know that better than I do.”

  “Yes. We have been watching.”

  “No! Really?” Sarcastic.

  Moonblight reached across behind Niea to pinch me. She asked, “You mind telling us your special reason why?”

  Niea was trying to polish his invisibility skills. He wasn’t a master, but he was good enough for the brevet captain, who took him for some random civilian who had picked the wrong place to loaf and now wouldn’t run because he was afraid that would attract attention.

  “Because Garrett is Garrett. Where he goes, weird shit happens. The hierarchy doesn’t like weird shit. And when the current crop of weird shit is considered, it looks like some serious villains might ooze out of the woodwork if we just stay quiet and wait.”

  “The hierarchy? That would be?”

  He eased back, suddenly cautious, probably recollecting having been briefed about me maybe running with some grim enigmas off the Hill. “The Guard leadership. Ah. I see. You’re thinking factionalism inside the Guard. I promise you, that’s nowhere near a
s sharp as a professional paranoid like Garrett might think. Our disagreements are familial. We don’t quibble about what needs doing, just about how to do it and how soon we should get it done.”

  Man, that sounded like he was borrowing sentiments retailed to some other pain-in-the-ass outsider recently, by somebody like the boss who had sent him to monitor the behavior of Relway’s boyos.

  Scithe went on to assure us, “It is a matter of inalterable policy at the Al-Khar, high and low, to see someone swing for what happened to Furious Tide of Light.”

  “You don’t need to waste any public treasure making that happen.”

  “It’s part of a larger picture, my lady.”

  I made a decision. I told Moonblight, “I’m going to tell him about your sister.”

  Her response was a knee-jerk natural. She began to puff up to argue, but then she reached a conclusion of her own. “That might be best.” She rested a hand on Niea’s shoulder, keeping him quiet while the rest of us talked. “Go ahead. I’ll fill in if necessary.”

  So I explained why we had come to Chattaree.

  “Interesting,” Scithe said. He was a long, lean man now so sprawled and relaxed he was like a scattered pile of sticks at the end of the bench. “You knew this man but he didn’t know you, Lady?”

  “I knew I’d seen him before here. Because of his deformity. He had no reason to recognize me. He didn’t seem like the kind of priest who gets out in front of the punters.”

  Niea stirred uncomfortably, his eyes grown big. He wanted to say something, but Moonblight’s grip reminded him to keep his opinions to himself.

  The poor boy was in the grip of professional angst. He had a powerful inclination to defend what, more and more, looked indefensible. And Tara Chayne wasn’t going to let him argue his case.

  More, he had begun to realize that we couldn’t just turn him loose to report that he had heard Magister Bezma ratted out.

  Scithe said, “I’ll pass this on to the Unpublished Committee.”

  He didn’t explain further.

  I kept getting distracted by concerns about the relationship between Relway’s crew and the rest of the Guard. Brevet Captain Deiter Scithe was Westman Block’s creature. General Block was the voice of moderation and convention. But Scithe wasn’t uncomfortable being surrounded by the Director’s devoted thugs. Presumably the contest between moderates and extremists did not yet feature animosity.