Petty Pewter Gods

  I drifted deep into the gloom, past sleepers of various tribes and sexes, careful to disturb no one. I’m a Golden Rule kind of guy. I don’t like it when people bother me in my home.

  I paused at a cross alley eighty feet in. The sunlight blazing in from the street dry-roasted my eyeballs.

  I waited. I waited a little more. Then I waited some. Then, after I had done some waiting and was about to say oh well and give it up, a woman did come to the mouth of the Close. She was the right size, but her age was off by four generations. She was a slow, raggedy street granny propped up by a crooked cane. She peered out from under a yellow straw hat with devilish concentration, like she was sure some evil was afoot inside the Close. A woman her age could not have survived the streets without becoming constitutionally paranoid.

  I like to think I’m a nice guy. I did nothing to frighten her. I just waited till she decided not to enter the alley.

  To my utter astonishment the Goddamn Parrot never said a word. The Dead Man really had the muzzle on him.

  Looked like my ploy had failed. A girl amateur had outwitted me.

  I would keep that to myself. My friends ride me hard enough as it is. I did not need to pass out ammunition.

  I eased back into the street. My luck turned no worse. No traveling brawl tried to suck me in. I went to a watering trough, used some green fluid to swab the muck off my shoes. I didn’t mind making the liquid thicker. Provision of public horse troughs encourages the public to harbor horses. And horses are nature’s favorite weapon when it comes time to tormenting guys named Garrett.

  I had cleaned my left shoe and was trying to get the right off without getting anything on my hand when I spotted the redhead through a sudden parting in the crowd. Our eyes met. I gave her my biggest, most charming grin and a look at my raised right eyebrow. That combination gets them every time.

  She took off.

  I took off after her. Now I was in my element. This is what I live for. I would have called for foxhounds and a horn, but they would have brought horses along.

  The Goddamn Parrot made some kind of interrogatory noise. I didn’t catch it and he didn’t repeat himself.

  4

  Again I noticed that curious phenomenon: guys didn’t pay the girl any mind. Maybe my eyes were going. Maybe my run of bad luck was giving me a case of wishful thinking. Maybe those other guys were so happily married they never looked at pretty girls. Maybe the sun came up in the west this morning.

  I ducked a swooping shoat and tried to catch up a little since I could not track the girl by the stir she was causing. The street was crowded like today was a holiday, but everybody was growling and snapping at everybody else. We needed some miserable weather to cool everybody down. A really hot spell might be like a torch to tinder.

  I spied a familiar face headed my way, ugly as the dawn itself. Saucerhead Tharpe towered above the crowd. Nobody gave him any grief. He was a bone-breaker by trade, which meant prosperous times for him. He spotted me and hoisted a ham-sized hand. “Yo! Garrett, my man. How they hanging?” It is always good to have Saucerhead on your side, but he isn’t overly blessed with brains or a flair for language.

  “Low. You notice a cute little redhead about a hundred feet up? She’s so short I can’t keep track.”

  His grin broadened, exposing the remnants of truly ugly teeth. “You on a case?” Cunning fellow, he had an idea he could get me to hire him to help.

  “I don’t think so. She was watching my house, so I decided to follow her around.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yeah.”

  His grin turned into a horror show. “Dean come home? Or did the Dead Man wake up?” He winked at the Goddamn Parrot.

  He was smarter than a rock, anyway. “Both.”

  Saucerhead chuckled. It was the kind of chuckle I get too often. My friends figure I was put here to amuse them with my travails.

  “Look, Saucerhead, this gal is going to lose me if I don’t...”

  “Speaking of ones that got away, I seen Tinnie Tate yesterday.”

  Tinnie is one ex that my cronies won’t let go away. “Great. Come by the house later. Tell me all about it.”

  “I seen Winger, too. She...”

  “That’s your problem.”

  Our mutual acquaintance Winger, though female, is as big as me and goofier than Saucerhead. And she has the moral sense of a rabid hyena. And, despite that, she is hard not to like.

  “Hey, Garrett, come on, man.”

  I was drifting away.

  “She had a good idea. Honest, Garrett.”

  Winger is chock-full of good ideas that get me up to my crotch in crocodiles. “Then you go in on it with her.” There was a small thinning of the crowd uphill. I caught a glimpse of my quarry. She seemed to be looking back, puzzled, maybe even exasperated.

  “I would, Garrett,” Saucerhead shouted. “Only need somebody with real brains to get into it with us.

  “That leaves me out, don’t it?” Didn’t it? Would a guy with real brains keep following somebody when it was evident that that somebody had decided that she wanted to be followed and was getting impatient with my delays?

  Seemed like a good idea at the time. We have all said that.

  I considered waving so she would know I was coming, but decided to keep up pretenses.

  Saucerhead followed for a way, babbling something about my manners. I showed him my worst. I didn’t answer. I trotted after my new honey. The crowds were thinning. I kept her in sight. Her passage caused no more stir than if she were the crone I had seen looking into Barley Close.

  We were just past where Macunado becomes the Way of the Harlequin when she glanced back, then turned into Heartlight Lane, where some of TunFaire’s least competent astrologers and diviners keep shop.

  5

  “Hey, buddy,” I called to a stout-looking old dwarf lugging an old-timey homemade club. That tool was as long as him, crafted from the trunk and roots of some black sapling that had wood harder than rock. “How much you want for that thing?”

  The price went up instantly. You know dwarves. You show interest in a broken clothespin... “Not for sale, Tall One. This is the world-renowned club Toetickler, weapon of the chieftains of the Kuble Dwarves for ten generations. It was given to the first High Gromach by the demiurge Gootch...”

  “Right. And it’s still got dirt on its roots, Stubby.” The dwarf swung that club down hard enough to crack a cobblestone.

  “Three marks,” I barked before he gave me more details of the club’s provenance or maybe demonstrated its efficiency by tickling my favorite toes.

  “Not one groat under ten, Lofty.” Even national treasures are for sale if you are a dwarf. Nothing is holy except wealth itself.

  “Thanks for talking, Lowball. It was just an idea.” I started moving.

  “Whoa there, Highpockets. At least make me an offer.”

  “My memory must be playing tricks again. I thought I did make an offer, Shorty.”

  “I mean a serious offer. Not a bad joke.”

  “Three and ten, then.”

  He whined. I started moving.

  “Wait, Tall One. Four. All right? Four is outright theft for such a storied weapon, but I have to get some cash together before you people run us out of town. I tell you, I’m not looking forward to rooting around in the old home mines again.”

  Sounded like there might be a tad of truth in that.

  “Three ten and a parrot? Think what you could do with his feathers.”

  The dwarf considered Mr. Big. “Four.” Nobody wanted the Goddamn Parrot.

  “Done,” I sighed. I turned out my pockets. We made the exchange. The dwarf walked away whistling. There would be tall tales told at the dwarf hold tonight, of another fool taken.

  But I had me a tool. And with fate seldom able to gaze on me favorably for long, I would not have long to wait to field-test Toetickler’s touch.

  Heartlight Lane was not crowded, which surprised me. Given the
political climate, more folks ought to be checking into their futures. I saw a lonely runecaster tossing the bones, trying to forecast her next meal, and an entrail reader much more interested in plucking his chicken carcass. Palm readers and phrenologists swapped fortunes. Aquamancers, geomancers, pyromancers, and necromancers all napped in their stalls.

  Maybe customers were staying away in droves because they did not need experts to tell them that bad times were coming.

  I got some interesting discount and rebate offers. The most attractive came from a dark-haired, fiery-eyed tarot reader. I promised, “I’ll be right back. Save a dance for me.”

  “No, you won’t. Not if you don’t stop here. Now.”

  I thought she was telling me, “That’s what you all say.” I kept on keeping on. The Goddamn Parrot started muttering to himself. Maybe the Dead Man’s compulsion was wearing off.

  “I warned you, Handsome.”

  How did she manage to see her cards?

  I had not seen the redhead since before my negotiations with the runt arms merchant. I didn’t see her now, but something flashed around a turn of brick up ahead. The guy who laid out Heartlight Lane was either a snake stalker or a butterfly hunter. It zigs and zags and comes close to looping for no reason more discernible than the fact that that is the way it has got to go to get between the buildings. A few quick turns and the lane became deserted except for a big brown coach, its door just closing.

  Empty streets are not a good sign. That means folks have smelled trouble and want no part of it.

  Maybe somebody just wanted to talk to me. But then why not just come to the house?

  Because I don’t always answer the door? Especially when somebody might want me to go to work? Maybe. Then there is the fact that the Dead Man can read minds.

  I took a couple of cautious steps, glanced back. That tarot girl sure was a temptation. On the other hand, red hair is marvelous against a white pillowcase. On the third hand...

  I got no chance to check my other fifteen fingers. From out of the woodwork, or cracks in the walls, or under the cobblestones, or a hole in the air came the three ugliest guys I have ever seen. They had it bad. I think they wanted to look human but their mothers had messed them up with their hankering after lovers who spelled ugly with more than one G. All three made me look runty, too, and I am a solid six feet two, two hundred ten pounds of potato-hard muscle and blue eyes to die for. “Hi, guys. You think we’re gonna get some rain?” I pointed upward.

  None of them actually looked. Which left me with a nasty suspicion that they were smarter than me. I would have looked. And they hadn’t followed some wench-o’-the-wisp up here where some humongous brunos could bushwhack them, either.

  They said nothing and I didn’t wait for introductions and didn’t wait for a sales pitch. I feinted left, dodged right, swung my new club low and hard and took the pins right out from under one behemoth. Maybe the dwarf did me a favor after all. I went after another guy’s head like I wanted to knock it all the way to the river on one hop. Big as he was, he went ass over appetite and I started to think, hey, things aren’t going so bad after all.

  The first guy got up. He started toward me. Meantime, the guy I hadn’t hit planted himself resolutely in the way in case I decided to go back the way that I had come. My first victim came at me. He wasn’t even limping. And his other buddy was back up, too, no worse for wear, either.

  You could not hurt these guys? Oh my oh my.

  “Argh!” said the Goddamn Parrot.

  “You said a beakful, you piebald buzzard.”

  I wound up for a truly mighty swing, turned slowly, trying to pick a victim. I picked wrong. I could not have chosen right.

  I took the guy I hadn’t hit. The plan was to whack him good, then display my skill as a sprinter. The plan didn’t survive first contact with the enemy. When I swung he grabbed my club in midair, took it away, and flipped it aside with such force that it cracked when it hit a nearby building.

  “Oh my oh my.”

  “Argh!” the Goddamn Parrot observed again.

  I went for the fast feet option, but a hairy hand attached to an arm that would have embarrassed a troll snagged my right forearm. I flailed and flopped and discovered ingenious ways to use the language. I got me some much needed exercise, but I did not go anywhere. And big ugly didn’t work up a sweat keeping me from going.

  Another one grabbed my other arm. His touch was almost gentle, but his fingers were stone. I knew he could powder my bones if he wanted. Which did not slow my effort to get away. I didn’t give up till the third one grabbed my ankles and lifted.

  The Goddamn Parrot walked down my back muttering to himself. Mumble and mutter was all he seemed capable of anymore.

  The whole crew lockstepped to the coach. I lifted my head long enough to see a matched set of four huge horses, the same shade of brown. On the driver’s seat was a coachman all in black, looking down at me but invisible within the depths of a vast black cowl. He needed a big sickle to make the look complete.

  The coach was fancy enough, but no coat of arms proclaimed its owner’s status. That didn’t do wonders for my confidence. Here in TunFaire even the villains like to show off.

  With nary a word, the ugly brothers chucked me inside. My skull tried to bust through the far door. That door didn’t give an inch. My headbone didn’t give much, either. Like a moth with his wings singed, I fluttered down into that old lake of darkness.

  6

  When you are in my racket — confidential investigations, lost stuff found, work that doesn’t force me to take a real job — you expect to get knocked around sometimes. You don’t get to like it, but you do catch on to the stages and etiquettes involved. Especially if you are the kind of dope who trails a girl you know wants to be followed, right into the perfect spot for an ambush. That kind of guy gets more than his share of lumps and deserves every one of them. I bet guys like Morley never get bopped on the noggin and tossed into mystery coaches.

  Your first move after you start to stagger back toward the light — assuming you are clever enough not to do a lot of whimpering — is to pretend that you are not recovering. That way maybe you will learn something. Or maybe you can take them by surprise, whip up on them, and get away. Or maybe they will all be out to dinner and some genius will have forgotten to take the keys out of the door of your cell.

  Or maybe you will just lie there puking your socks up because of a rocking concussion rolling your hangover.

  “O what foul beasts these mortals be! Jorken! Fetch a mop!” The voice was stentorian, as though the speaker was some ham passion player who never ever stepped offstage.

  A woman’s voice added, “Bring an extra bucket. They leak at the other end as well.”

  Oh no. I already had a bath this week.

  “Why me? How come, all of a sudden, I get stuck with scutwork?”

  “Because you’re the messenger,” said a wind from the abyss, cold as a winter’s grave. That had to be my buddy the faceless coachman.

  I was confused. My natural state, some would say. But this was bizarre.

  Maybe it was time to get up and meet the situation head-on. I gathered my corded muscles and heaved. Two fingers and a toe twitched. So I exercised my skill with colorful dialogue. “Rowrfabble! Gile stynbobly!” I was on a roll, but I didn’t recognize the language I was speaking.

  I cooled down fast when a load of icy water hit me.

  “Freachious moumenpink!” Driven by a savage rage, I managed a full half pushup. “Snrubbing scuts!” Hey! Was that a real word?

  Another bucket of water hit me hard enough to knock me off my hands and roll me over. A ragmop came out of the mist. It started swabbing. Somebody attached to the mop muttered while he worked. That was a dwarfish custom. But this beanpole was so tall he could only have been adopted.

  There was something weird about the mopman. Beside the fact that he carried on several sides of a conversation all by himself. He had little pigeon wings growing o
ut of his head where his ears ought to be. Also, you could sort of see through him whenever he moved in front of a bright light.

  A really intense light blazed up. I managed to get into a sitting position but could not look up. That light was worse than sunshine on the brightest-ever morning after a two-kegger.

  “Mr. Garrett.”

  I didn’t lie about it. I didn’t admit anything, either. I didn’t react at all. I was busy trying not to make more work for that princely fellow with the mop. I succeeded. And I managed to get one hand clamped over my eyes. Somewhere way in the back of my head a little voice told me I should take this as a lesson in chemistry. Don’t play with stuff that might blow up in your face. Like strange redheads.

  I know. I know. All redheads are strange. But there is strange and strange.

  A different woman said, “Ease up on the glow. You’re blinding him.” She had a voice of a type you never hear except from the women who haunt your fantasies. It was the voice of the lover you have been waiting for all these years.

  Something was going on here.

  The light faded till I could stand to open my eyes. It continued to wane till there was no more than you would find in your average torchlit dungeon, which was my first guess as to my whereabouts. But I didn’t recognize any voices. I thought I pretty well knew everybody who had a dungeon in the family inventory.

  Well, it’s a big city.

  Hell. No. Not a dungeon. This was some kind of big cellar with a high ceiling and only a couple of really dirty windows practically lost in rusty steel bars, way, way up at the back. The cellar was mostly empty except for pillars supporting the structure overhead. The floor was old stone, a dark slate-gray. Hard as a rock, hard on a sleeper’s back.

  I took inventory. I didn’t have any bits missing or any open wounds. My headache had not abated, though. My main injury was a knot on my conk from my attempt to dive through that coach door.

  And I still had a hangover.