Wicked Bronze Ambition: A Garrett, P.I., Novel (20 page)

We we
re coming up on Flubber Ducky. I kept fighting the snickers. We had no shadows at the moment. Tara Chayne was not feeling talky. I was positively chatty. For me.

Moonblight pulled up, eyed the costume and props shop, finally spoke. “That was fun, pulling the little man’s ears.”

“It was,” I admitted. “But don’t make a habit of it. Deal Relway is the most dangerous man in Karenta because he’s one of those guys who knows he’s right. The gods themselves are behind him. He is the anointed voice and fist of justice. He has no reservations and doesn’t care who gets in his way, except tactically.”

“Stipulated. He could be dangerous. But I suspect you exaggerate that danger as much as you do everything else. This is the shop, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll look inside.” She swung her mount in to the horse trough and hitching post. “Did anyone touch you while we were inside the Al-Khar?”

She had been insultingly reluctant to allow anyone near her.

“I don’t think so.”

“It could be important. You had two tracers on you when we started. You picked up another passing through the Al-Khar. We’ll tamper with that one so it looks like it doesn’t always work right. That might be handy later.”

I chewed some air, surprised. “Helenia touched me a few times. Light brushes. I didn’t pay attention.”

“Because you’re used to women touching you during a conversation.”

Well, yes. That happened. Tara Chayne had done it herself sometimes when there wasn’t room for me to increase my personal space.

“They have a good book on you at the Al-Khar.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought about that before, but it exactly fit Relway’s character, tracking the habits and foibles of people of interest.

I dismounted without embarrassing myself, to the amusement of the sorceress. She had a book on me herself, inside her head. “We’ll have you cavalry-qualified in no time.”

Oh my gods! I suffered a horrified flashback. What if they had put me in the cavalry when they called me up? What a nightmare, that would be rolling along still because I would still be down there slumbering under the cacti right now if I hadn’t been lucky enough to have become a Marine.

“Get it together, Garrett. I’m beginning to see why Strafa fell so hard. You’re as distracted and flaky as she was. How have you stayed alive so long?”

“You aren’t the first to ask. I don’t know. I wasn’t always this way.”

She shrugged, indicated the shop door. We waited as a party of eight came out, stage crew folk from the World led by Heather Soames-Gilbey. Heather eyeballed me, Tara Chayne, the mutts, and the horses. “Garrett.” And that was it. She focused on the horses, stifled a grin. She knew about my horse allergy.

The World gang moved along, Heather shaking her head.

Tara Chayne and I seized the opportunity to operate the otherwise unoccupied door.

The first native we encountered was the little baldish guy I’d nicknamed Feisty, real name Pindlefix, that Belinda had sent to party with the Dead Man. “Welcome to Flubber Ducky, sir and madam.” He pronounced “madam” old-fashioned, so it sounded like “my lady,” from ages past. Pretense was part of the Flubber Ducky ambience. “How might we be of service?” He recognized Tara Chayne’s status. But then he decided to see what her man-toy looked like, recognized me, and became all attitude. He sputtered instructions to me to get my ugly butt out while trying to summon some security thug to chuck said homely delectation into the nearest horse apple pile. Somebody hunt one of those up if none was readily available.

Moonblight extended a delicate, timeworn hand to Feisty’s throat, as though to make sure that nub really was an Adam’s apple. Pindlefix continued his rant in silence. People gathering for some flash entertainment suddenly lost interest.

It took Pindlefix a few seconds to realize that his voice box was hoarse de combat. “Frog in your throat, buddy?”

He was fresh out of interest in me. Life was all about the dread in front of him: a Hill creature who could silence him with a touch.

A mercurial sort, Feisty adjusted, becoming deeply obsequious in just a few heartbeats.

Moonblight told him, “Gently, sir. Gently. A good customer service attitude is critical to business success. Don’t you agree?”

Feisty mouthed, “Yes, ma’am!” and bobbed his upper torso as if she were a foreign dignitary, or he was from one of those countries where their heads are always wobbling up and down.

“Much better.” She touched his throat again. He regained the power of speech, sagged in relief. “I can make that permanent.”

Feisty stopped trying to suck up by expressing his gratitude.

I let him know, “We just want to browse.”

“As you will, sir. As you will. Summon me if I can help. I will be close by.”

I told Tara Chayne, “I wish I could do that trick.” Hoping my envy wasn’t totally obvious.

“It takes a special talent. Otherwise every husband would do it.” Grinning, she began to wander, pushing her fingers and nose in everywhere. Pindlefix stuck close, usually staying ahead to warn everyone to look out, till someone came in talking a sizable order. With Feisty distracted, Tara Chayne invited us into a back room normally closed to the punters. Teams of seamsters were building costumes. Tara Chayne found one little man stitching a long, heavy, hooded robe, vaguely clerical, in dark umber with planned embroidery rough-sketched in yellow chalk. She asked nothing and touched nothing but made the little man intensely aware of her presence. She got scary close, maybe shedding girl cooties.

He worked slower and slower. She watched for several minutes, then told me, “I’ve seen enough. Almost time to go. But first.” She snagged a seam ripper, pushed me against a wall, and began to pat me down. I remained polite and tolerant on the assumption that she wouldn’t make an unwelcome move in public. Though she might not be able to resist the absurdity of trying in the middle of this particular crowd.

“Turn. The other way. Stop.” She poked around behind and above my right hipbone, used the seam ripper. The tailors stopped work to watch. She showed me a small canvas patch. “Tracer One, gone.”

“I saw that but never thought anything about it. Singe is always fixing stuff without telling me.”

“Turn a little more. Did that Helenia creature put her hand in your pants?”

“No.”

“The Guard tracer got in there somehow.” She tugged at the top of my trousers.

“We were going to keep that one, remember?”

“Spoilsport. I wanted to go fishing. Another quarter turn, please. Perfect.” She patted my left calf down, down, and down. “Weird. Where did it get to? Hey. Pull your pants leg up.”

I did that. She frowned some, thought some. “Lift your foot but keep your toe on the floor. And here the devil is!” Then, puzzled, “But how did they manage this?” Using fingernails and the seam ripper, she worked on something on the top center back of my shoe, above and behind my ankle. “Did you have some bimbo hanging on your leg while you were fighting the zombies? This one has been there awhile.”

I no longer bothered arguing that they hadn’t been zombies. “You told me to wear comfortable shoes. But I didn’t.”

“What?”

“I didn’t. I forgot. These are the ones I always wear. That patch is really clever. I don’t know when or how the damned thing . . . you wouldn’t notice it even if you were looking.”

“Not with untrained eyes. Besides tracer elements, there are spells making it hard to see. Which didn’t work against me.”

“They do say it ain’t bragging if you can do it.”

She gave me the fish-eye. “I’ll let that opportunity slide.” She held both tracer patches to the light. It looked like the clouds might be thinning outside. “These are first-rate.”

“Same craftsman made both?”

“I think so. Someone compelled to engage in commerce.”

Behind that lay prejudices seldom encountered anymore. Times are tough and even the gentry likes to eat.

Moonblight did something quiet and clever that stopped work while the tailoring crew boggled. She summoned a rat, a big bull that didn’t want to play. He fought her. He lost. He responded to her will. He came to her.

She had just finished working a tracer into the rat’s back fur when Feisty arrived with smoke streaming out his ears. He bellowed, “What the hell do you people think you’re doing?” Bellow being relative, considering his limitations. “Enough is enough. . . .”

Moonblight’s fingers wove patterns in her lap. Pindlefix approached her showing the same ferocious reluctance that the bull rat had.

Tara Chayne welcomed him with love talk he’d never heard from a girl, so deftly that I failed to mark the transaction when she fixed him up with his own inherited tracer.

Scary, scary, scary once I got to brood on it.

The woman might be able to manipulate anyone that way.

Maybe I should have Kevans Algarda rig me a custom anti-Moonblight hair net.

She told me, “Don’t worry your pretty head. You’re special to me. Well, look here. It’s time to go.”

Second time
running I boarded my horse without error or mishap. Brownie yipped happily, impressed. Admittedly, though, my dressage needed polish.

As did the mare’s. She was strictly economy transportation.

Moonblight asked, “Did we learn anything useful there, professional investigator Garrett?”

“Yeah.” Like, don’t underestimate Tara Chayne Machtkess. She was more than just another dirty old woman.

I said, “It was your idea to go stir them up.”

“But isn’t that your special technique? Don’t you always do that before you show off your formidable skills as a survivor and observer?”

She was playing with me again. “There was nothing to observe. My partner already interviewed the noisy little man and one of his associates. They were exactly what they showed the world. Pretentious, sure, but only peripherally involved in the tournament absurdity and ignorant about what happened to Strafa.”

Why couldn’t it be simple? Just once. Just march straight to whoever hurt Strafa and hurt them back with usurious interest.

Tara Chayne said, “The red tops have caught up.” Proving that she could be attentive when she wanted. I had only just glimpsed a brushy-haired, bearded Preston Womble myself—though why I was sure that was Womble in the underbrush I couldn’t explain.

“The Director was blowing smoke when he yelled at Womble and Muriat. He was just irked because they got noticed.”

“Oh yes. He is a bad, bad man.”

Sarcastically said, still having fun.

We headed for the Trivias smithy. Master Trivias came out personally, maybe sensing that someone of standing had arrived.

Moonblight offered him a cloth-wrapped object the size of the box lunch you can purchase from street vendors. “There are six pieces.”

“That should do.” Trivias was more deferential than I figured he should be. He placed the box on a massive wooden workbench, untied the cloth, unfolded it, opened an actual used lunch box gently. Inside, on white cloth, lay six teak-colored cylinders three inches long and less than half an inch in diameter, like fat sticks of dark chalk. He was impressed. “Oh! And you created these overnight?”

“I did. It’s a knack.” She was pleased by his reaction.

They commenced what sounded like people in vaguely related trades talking shop. I took the opportunity to roam the smithy and try picking the brains of the staff. Most were happy to explain their trade to an old guy who wasn’t just interested when he wanted to yell at somebody for not having been born perfect. I learned from them and played with the dogs till Moonblight said something about the swords needing to be peace-bonded in their sheaths, which the law demanded, so the tracers would activate when the swords were unsheathed the second time. Trivias ought to discourage experimentation by his clients when they took delivery. If one of those old men was sensitive, he might feel the surge when a tracer went active.

So I volunteered, “Don’t deliver the damned things sheathed. Lay them out like you want them checked over. Let them sheathe them, then bond them and bum-rush them out.”

They eyed me with that numb look people get when they have missed the snakebite obvious. It was a look I knew well because it turns up on my clock most every damned day.

Tara Chayne snickered. “Now you see why I keep him around.”

Trivias nodded. “I had an intimation that it couldn’t be for his prowess in the night lists.”

Ouch!

Brownie distracted me. She remained a big fan. And she still wanted to play. I followed her out of the shop. We amused ourselves by playing “Where’s Womble?”

Tara Chayne joined us. “I’m finished here.”

“Were you actually hitting on that little man?”

“I was. I had to give up on you.”

I felt my cheeks get warm.

She laughed as she readied her gelding. “Let’s go find the priest with the knot on his head.”

So. Yes. Off we went, horses, dogs, and people, with spies behind, probably aware that they had been spotted but going through the motions anyway.

“I’ve been thinking,” I told Tara Chayne, around a mouthful of a particularly nasty vegetable mix, foully spiced, inside a wrap, the principal ingredient of which seemed to be gritty sand.

“I worry when you do that.”

We were having a snack at a place called Sasah. She was known there. She had enthused about the menu till I agreed to stop in. I regretted my weakness. I blurted, “This stuff is awful!”

Probably not the smartest reaction, which I realized a moment too late. So, naturally, I dug the hole deeper. “It has peppers in it. Bell peppers. Everything here has peppers in it. That’s sick. When I’m king of the world, as soon as we finish off the lawyers, we’re going to torch the pepper fields.”

She managed a strained smile. “You’ll just add a new angle to the underground economy. Your friends will start planting secret pepper patches, picking and packing by the peck.”

I answered with a gagging noise.

The nearest staffers, having overheard, looked baffled. Mental defectives every one, they couldn’t imagine anyone thinking that peppers were anything less than a blessing from the gods.

This town is afflicted with way too many freethinkers.

It does take all kinds, granted. But the world could get along fine without those nasty vegetables and, more so, without people compelled to put them in stuff that actual living, breathing human beings have to eat.

Sasah’s was a sidewalk café. It was in a fine part of town, just outside the Dream Quarter, including many big homes owned by top priests suffering through their vows of poverty and service. The mutts were right there with us, drawing scowls from other patrons and passersby. Staff did not have what it took to face us down, though.

Tara Chayne spotted me trying to slip my lunch under the table, where I had no takers. Not even contrary Number Two was hungry enough. “I rest my case. These are stray dogs. They never skip a chance to eat.”

“I believe I get it. Bell peppers don’t suit your taste.”

“Yes, dear. That’s true. Anyway, what I was thinking? Should we be making a move on this priest before his crowd collects those swords?”

She chomped down a gob of pepper chum like it was good. I tried to keep my reaction off my mug but couldn’t help recalling that she’d wanted me to kiss her.

She gave me a big smile. Her teeth needed work. Surprising, that, what with the options available to people with all the wealth and power she had. Colorful bits of pepper had gotten caught between several teeth.

“What are we going to do about your sister?”

“She’s good right where she’s at.”

“But . . . family . . .”

“Yeah? You try being her kin.”

But they lived together.

“Hell, Garrett, she’ll be fine as long as they think they can use her. Her personality being what it is, she might gloom them all into committing suicide before they figure out that she’s useless.”

She slapped some coins down. Too much. Showing off. “Sorry you didn’t enjoy it. Next time you pick, your treat. Let’s go find our man.”

While I was working out which foot went into which stirrup which way, I glimpsed Helenia, in ineffective disguise. Her crew included Womble and Muriat. The Director must be letting Helenia hone her field skills.

Family evidently meant a little something to Deal Relway.

“I have a cunning plan,” I announced. “Once we spot our man we turn him in to the Unpublished Committee. The Specials can handle the dirty work. They can make him disappear and then turn up at my place to chat with my partner. The Operators would never know.”

If she and I weren’t obviously involved, we would retain our freedom of action. Relway sticking an oar in anywhere wouldn’t surprise anyone who followed current events. That was what the man did.

Nobody, not even the Palace, could get him to stop.

I added, “The more I think about it, the better I like that.”

“There is a problem.”

“Yeah. It might look like Relway was being manipulated. He wouldn’t want anybody to get that idea.”

“You’re entirely too cynical. And you ignore the benefits of open communication.”

“Huh?”

“Just explain what you’d like done and why. Clearly. In short, declarative sentences. No asides. No parenthetical remarks. No historical justification or moralizing. The way you wish clients would talk to you.”

That sounded like . . . Hell, I don’t know what. Maybe just something too sensible, simple, mature, and unlikely for human nature, especially if the nether half of the transaction was a nut job like Deal Relway.

“Overwhelming as a concept, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“The idea of just stepping up and saying something.”

She was messing with me, ringing the wind chimes of a lesser and tangled intellect. She pranced back to her original point. “There would be a legal problem if our man is a priest. Clerics are supposed to be handled inside their churches even when they commit civil crimes. That goes back centuries.”

I understood. There had been a stink about exactly that a few years ago. The Courts of Resolve ruled for a temple where a priest had committed rape, citing past practice, common law, and the fact that the cult was signatory to the Canonical Accord of the Synod of TiKenvile.

Life gets stupid once politics become involved.

“Got you. But what do you want to bet the Unpublished Committee doesn’t give a rat’s whisker?”

It wouldn’t go down in total secrecy, either, if ever it happened. Relway would want the priests to know that they enjoyed no more immunity than any other criminal class.

Yes. His branch of the Guard probably felt strong enough to begin eroding clerical privilege employing a time-honored tool: divide and conquer.

Every cult wanted to cut the rest down. There were hundreds to cut.

Relway might see a chance to establish the primacy of the Unpublished Committee because one of the Operators was a priest in TunFaire’s biggest denomination. If we told him.