Deadly Quicksilver Lies

  “All right. I don’t know anything about anything like what you’re hunting, but I got me a strong suspicion that they’s a whole passel of rich folks getting used by some real nasty demon worshippers. Wixon and White is where you start. They’ll sell anything to anybody what’s got the money.”

  “That’s all I wanted. A place to start. You remember Maggie Jenn?”

  “I recollect the scandal.”

  “What kind of woman was she? Could she have been connected to the Rainmaker?”

  “What kind of woman? You think we was friends?”

  “I think you have an opinion.” If she didn’t, it would be a first.

  “They was a thousand stories. I think maybe they was some truth in all of them. Yes, she was connected. Bothered that Teodoric considerable. One time he threatened to have the Rainmaker killed. Worried the Rainmaker enough that he got out of town. I heard Teodoric was plotting to hunt him down when he got killed hisself.”

  “Any connection?”

  “Coincidence. Every king makes him a crop of enemies. The Rainmaker staying away after Teodoric died says he had other reasons to go. There was talk he got the wise guys mad. I wonder what brought him back?”

  She mentioned wise guys. It could have to do with Chodo’s semi-retirement. Already several ambitious men had tried to take advantage, but Chodo’s daughter played the game as hard as her father. She would cast a cold eye on the Rainmaker if he made a wrong move.

  And on the law side we had us the new Guard, who would love to lay hands on a famous villain — if one could be found who didn’t have connections. The Rainmaker might do.

  I inched toward the exit. “Wixon and White?” I was afraid she’d do the old give us a kiss.

  “That’s what I said. You come around more than once every twelve years, you hear?”

  “I will,” I promised, with all the good intentions I always have when I make that promise.

  She didn’t believe me. It was getting so I was beginning to doubt myself.

  25

  I’ve done some dumb things in my time — for example, forgetting to ask Handsome where Wixon and White hung their shingle. I remembered after I was three blocks away. I hustled back — and got what I deserved.

  Her shop wasn’t there anymore. The alley wasn’t there. I was boggled. You hear about that stuff, but you don’t expect it.

  After that disappointment, I just strolled to the nearest place where I knew somebody and asked if they’d ever heard of Wixon and White. It’s a fact. Somebody you know will at least know somebody who knows the person or place you want.

  That’s the way I got to it. A bartender I knew, name of Shrimp, had heard of Wixon and White from a client. So Shrimp and I shared a few beers on me, then I started hiking. The Wixon and White establishment lay way out in the West End.

  They were closed. Nobody answered my knock. The place was a rental. Wixon and White were so highly priced and cocksure they didn’t live on the premises.

  That part of the West End is pure upscale. The shops all serve those who have money they don’t know what to do with. Not my kind of people. Not any kind of people I can understand, buyers or sellers.

  I kept an eye out for armed patrols. Those had to be around, else the shops would all be boardups. I wondered if the Outfit wasn’t involved. Some of the shops had glass windows. That meant real heavyweight protection.

  Wixon and White looked like a place that would serve upper-crust dabblers in black magic, at embarrassing prices. Wixon or White, whoever did the buying, probably acquired inventory from Handsome, tripled her retail, then tripled it again. Then they’d probably jack up the price on particularly thick-witted customers. The people who shopped the area would be the kind who got off on telling friends how much they paid for things.

  Feeling my prejudices coalesce into an urge to break glass, I got me out of there.

  I had nothing to do and no inclination to go home to a house where all I’d have for company would be a psychotic parrot and a couple of bark-at-the-moon boys. I hoped that foul-mouthed squab was starving to death.

  I asked myself why I didn’t stop in and see how Playmate was doing. He might have regained consciousness by now.

  26

  Damn! Playmate looked none the worse for wear. I snapped, “What the hell are you? Twins?”

  “Garrett!” He swept out of the shadows of his stable, arms spread wide. He’d been using a pitchfork to do what you do a lot of if you operate a stable. He didn’t seem stiff or sore. He swept me up in a hug. He’s never stopped being demonstrative when I come around, though it’s been a long time since I saved his business.

  “Easy, man. I’m breakable. Unlike some I could name.” The tenderness wasn’t gone from my ambush bruises.

  “You heard about my mishap?”

  “Heard? I was there. I’m surprised you can walk, what they had to do to bring you down.”

  “I am a little sore. But somebody’s got to care for the beasties.”

  “So send for the boys from the tannery.” Me and horses don’t get along. Nobody takes me seriously, but I know for a fact that the whole species is out to get me. The moment nobody is looking, the moment I have my back turned, those damned oatburners start moving in.

  “Garrett! What a cruel thing to say.”

  “You think the best of everybody.” They’ve got Playmate fooled. They stood right there in their stalls sneering and measuring me for a shroud while he defended them. He actually loves the monsters. He thinks I’m just ribbing him, making jokes in bad taste.

  Somebody he’ll learn. When it’s too late.

  I asked, “Got a lot of work to do?”

  He indicated the manure pile. “You have to haul the hay in and the fertilizer out. They don’t take days off.”

  “Make that pressing work. You have time for a few beers? On your old buddy? That pile won’t go anywhere.”

  “Not if I don’t move it.” He frowned. “On you? Must be an awful big favor.”

  “What?”

  “Must be some giant favor you want. You never offered to buy me a beer before.”

  I sighed. “Wrong.” This was a battle I’d been fighting for years. All my friends insist I never come around unless I want something. Wasn’t all that long since I’d bought Playmate dinner and all the beer he could drink, so he’d introduce me to a man who made coaches. “But I’m not going to fight.” I’d show him.

  “You coming?”

  The trouble with a guy Playmate’s size is, he can’t just drink a beer. One beer is a drop in the necessary stream. The man decides to get seriously ripped you have to send for the beer wagons.

  He picked the place. It was a small, dark, shabby one roomer furnished in Early Thrownaway. Everyone there knew Playmate. They just had to come say hello. It was a long time before we could talk — and that got interrupted every time another body arrived.

  Meantime, we ate. And drank. On me. Ouch, said my purse.

  Hole in the wall though that place was, it served a fine dark ale supposedly brewed on the premises. And someone in the kitchen had a more than nodding acquaintance with the art of cookery. I devoured slice after slice of a roast that would have embarrassed Dean’s best effort.

  The prices were reasonable, too — for those not trying to support a one-man regiment in the habit of eating only when someone else was buying. I asked, “How come this place isn’t swamped with customers?”

  Playmate awarded me one of his righteous, thoughtful looks. “Prejudice, Garrett.”

  “Uh-hum?” It was testing time again. Playmate, who wanted to be a priest once, has to keep checking to make sure I stay more good guy than bad.

  Forewarned, sure he was going to zing me by telling me the place was run by ratmen — whom I dislike more than I dislike horses, with, admittedly, weaker cause — I was pleasantly surprised when he told me, “It’s run by centaurs. A refugee family from the Cantard.”

  “Where else?” Through a heroic effort I kept
a straight face. “I can see how they might have trouble building a clientele.” Centaurs aren’t beloved. They’d long served Karenta’s forces as auxiliaries in the Cantard. But when the mercenary Glory Mooncalled defected and proclaimed the Cantard an independent republic, every centaur tribe joined him. Chances were this family had fought Karenta till recently. When things fell apart down there, where did they run? Straight to the cities of Karenta, whose soldiers they’d been killing.

  I don’t understand why they’re welcomed. Sure, there’s room in the economy, what with all the young men gone for soldiers. But all those young men are going to be coming home. Venageta has been driven from the Cantard. Glory Mooncalled has been crushed. Sort of.

  Centaurs. Bloody hell.

  I kept my thoughts to myself, shifted subjects, told Playmate what I was doing for Maggie Jenn. I didn’t overlook such embarrassing adventures as my unexpected visit to the Bledsoe. Playmate wasn’t Winger. He wouldn’t spread it all over town. He smiled gently and forebore the opportunity to score a remark on the state of my mental health. That’s why I love the guy. None of my other friends could have resisted.

  He asked, “What do you need from me?”

  “Need? Nothing.”

  “You come, brought me out here, fed me, and filled me up with beer, Garrett. You got to want something.”

  “That stuff used to be funny, Playmate. About a thousand years ago. Ragging me for the fun, I can go along with that. For a while. But it’s gotten real old. I wish you guys would find a new song to sing.”

  “You mean that?”

  Butter wouldn’t have melted in my mouth. “Damned straight.” I was getting what I needed already, an uncritical ear and a break from loneliness.

  “You just don’t realize,” he muttered. Louder, “In that case, maybe I can help.”

  “Huh?”

  “I know a little something about the witchcraft scene. I have clients who belong to that world.”

  I was surprised. His religion, a self-defined offshoot of Orthodoxy, doesn’t hold much truck with witches. Which doesn’t make a lot of sense when you think about how big sorcery and demonism are in this burg. But I have a suspicion that religion isn’t supposed to make sense. If it did, there’d be no buyers.

  This was Playmate showing off his tolerance again.

  “All right. I’ll take you up on it. There any new covens around?”

  “Of course. In a city this size, there are always covens forming and falling apart. Human nature, being what it is, there are always egos getting bruised and —”

  “I understand. You heard of any in particular? Any that have been recruiting young women?”

  “No.”

  “Damn! So, that’s that. Well, then, tell me about Maggie Jenn. Morley tells me you’ve got the skinny on the royals.”

  “Tell me what you already know.”

  I highlighted.

  He told me, “There isn’t much I can add. She did have a daughter. I thought the girl died but evidently not. Nobody’s proved it, but Maggie probably was a pricy pro before Teodoric took her up. Under a different name, of course. Morley was wrong about her being in exile. She does spend most of her time on the Isle of Paise, but that’s preference. She spends a month each year in the Hill place. If she doesn’t use it, she loses it. She does keep her head down when she’s in town. She doesn’t want her enemies to get too unhappy.”

  I nodded, understanding. I signaled for more of that excellent house brew. I had enough inside me already that sounds had buzzes around their edges, but that superman Playmate hadn’t yet stumbled over his tongue.

  “Grange Cleaver,” I said. “The Rainmaker. What about him?”

  “Been a while since I’ve heard of him. Curious that he’s back in town.”

  “Maybe. I think it has something to do with Maggie Jenn.”

  “You be careful of him, Garrett. He’s crazy. Blood crazy. They called him the Rainmaker because he left so many weeping widows around. He was big into torture.”

  “Just your average, everyday psycho next door. What was between him and Maggie Jenn?”

  “I can’t swear. From the little I’ve heard, he could’ve been her pimp.”

  “Her pimp?” I tried it out. “Her pimp.” That had a feel to it, all right.

  I dropped some money in front of Playmate, for the house. “Enjoy. I’m going to go put my thinking cap on.”

  Playmate divested himself of various remarks of the sort that have become fashionable among my acquaintances. I ignored him.

  That last piece of news put a whole different weight on everything. Unless I was guessing way wrong.

  It could happen.

  27

  Once bitten, twice shy? How often have I gotten nipped because I don’t have the sense to get out of this racket? Often enough that I no longer wander around without tools to defend myself. Often enough that I stay alert once somebody starts getting physical.

  Despite a few ales too many, I spied the ambush on Macunado — mainly because the night traffic was missing. The denizens of my fair city can smell trouble at a thousand yards, like small game when a troll is prowling the woods.

  So it was as rowdy as a desert ruin around my place. It was so quiet I had trouble picking out the ambushers.

  I finally caught the stir of a shadow in a breezeway across Macunado. There was no way to sneak up from where I was, so I retreated, took a long way.

  All of a sudden I felt cheerful, the prospect of cracking heads making me high. That wasn’t my way. The case was getting to me — if it was a case. I wasn’t convinced.

  I came at the guy from behind, singing a ratman working song. Far as I know it’s the only working song they have, so few of them actually hold jobs —

  Between the fake accent and fake drunken singing, my man was way off guard. He cussed me instead of getting set for trouble.

  I staggered up and popped him between the eyes with my headthumper. He said “Gleep!” and stumbled backward, his knees watery. I grabbed his shirt, pushed him down onto his knees, slipped behind him, and laid the length of my stick under his chin. “All right, bruno, I lean back sudden and you find out what it’ll be like the day you hang.” I gave a little jerk to make my point. Also to keep him from getting too much air. He wouldn’t be interested in much else if I kept him on short rations. “Get the point?”

  He got the point. He grunted cooperatively — after I’d cut him off for a while.

  “Excellent. Now here’s the part where you tell me who sent you and how many buddies you have and where they’re hanging out.”

  Give the guy credit. He was loyal to his pals. You don’t see a lot of that in street thugs. He made me take him to the brink of the big sleep before he gave in. That was right after I whispered, “I’ve always found that the best way to run a bluff is don’t be bluffing. You don’t help me out here I’ll just hunt me down another guy.”

  I was bluffing.

  He made noises indicating that I’d smooth-talked him into cooperating. I eased off on the stick. “Maybe you better talk on the exhale. Or I might get edgy. You guys messing with me last night got my dander up.”

  Wham! I quick thumped him for thinking about what he was thinking of trying. “So who sent you?” I went back to choking him.

  “Cleafer,” he gasped. “Guy named Cleafer.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” I muttered. “He happen to say why?”

  Grunt and choke. Meant no, and who gave a damn why anyway? This Cleafer was paying real money.

  “How may pals you got with you?”

  Seven. Seven? “I’m flattered. This Cleafer must have a high opinion of me.” I have a high opinion of me, but my enemies don’t usually agree.

  My man made sounds indicating he couldn’t have agreed less. I took that to mean that he was recovering too fast. I popped him again.

  I get less nice as I get older.

  We chewed the fat till I knew where his buddies were hiding and I understood their g
rand strategy, which was to round me up and drag me off to their boss’s hideout. Friendly Grange Cleaver, pre-owned property salesman, wanted to have a chat.

  “Yeah. I like that idea. We’ll do that. Only maybe we won’t stick too close to the original scheme.”

  I popped the guy again, hard enough to put him to sleep. He was going to have a headache worse than the one his gang had given me.

  Funny. I didn’t feel bad about that.

  So I went around pounding the stuffings out of guys till thumping heads no longer made me feel better. I wondered what folks on the shadow side would say when word got around. After the usual exaggerations, it might start worrying the kind of people who get in my way.

  Nobody would believe it, probably. Everybody thinks I use Morley Dotes for all my heavy work.

  I rounded up the smallest thug, a bit of a guy so tiny he had to be a breed. I slung him over my shoulder and headed for the Joy House.

  Sometimes you can use a helping hand.

  28

  Morley tousled the little fellow’s hair. “He’s mad, Garrett. This is one you’d better not leave behind.” We were in Morley’s office upstairs at the Joy House. The veggie killers were rioting downstairs.

  “And after I decided to give him a break. Any of those guys related to you, Stubby? Your lover or something?”

  The little breed glared.

  “I like this guy.” Morley frowned at Spud, who was sizing the prisoner up for some painful burns.

  “What?” the kid demanded.

  “He’s still officially a guest.”

  “Sure. And if I was here with a guy who’d just offed my whole gang but me I think I’d be a little more disturbed. Look at that fool. He’s already sizing us up for some pain when it’s him that’s in the shit.”

  “Narcisio! Language!”

  “He’s got a point, Morley,” I said. “The clown ought to be more scared.”

  “He’s going to be, Garrett. It’s just that he’s from out of town.”

  I agreed. “How can you tell?” I wanted to see if his thinking paralleled mine.