Wicked Bronze Ambition: A Garrett, P.I., Novel (35 page)

No plan surv
ives contact with the enemy. That is common wisdom, becoming a storyteller’s cliché. It is the iron law encountered by every commander headed into action. It could be called Garrett’s First Law of Investigative Dynamics, too.

Nothing goes according to plan.

We doughty adventurers, and our tails, passed the Al-Khar en route to look for Vicious Min. I had no intention of visiting. I had no intention of consulting anyone there, nor of being noticed by its denizens. Either Womble and/or Muriat rejected my script.

Maybe I should have gone a longer way.

Whatever, my crowd suddenly expanded to include Brevet Captain Deiter Scithe, Target, and a vigorously limping Helenia, who looked like there was nothing she’d love more than to take a big, steaming dump on the altar of Fortune, she was so happy to be out in the weather with me. The dogs, though, greeted her cheerfully and begged for treats she didn’t have, which softened her mood from diamond to ice.

“There you are,” I said. “But why?”

Scithe said, “Prince Rupert came to see the General and the Director. He wants the business involving your wife solved and wrapped.”

“Why? It’s none of his business.”

“It’s all his business, Garrett, and not just because she was a family friend. He’s the Royal responsible for ‘Public Safety.’ Right now that means he has to please the Hill, where people are outraged. He hopes to score political points, too.”

Which made sense of a sleazy sort. Prince Rupert would be our next king, maybe not long from now. He wasn’t keen on that, but he was realistic. Whatever skin he had pinched in the crimes and facts of the tournament, he had to bow to political considerations. Karentine princes who ignore politics always suffer brief, miserable reigns once they take the throne.

I didn’t like it, but that was the way it was. A weasel Rupert might be, but he should be the best king we had during my lifetime. He had a knack for seeing snippets of realities outside the neverlands of his palaces.

“He also wants to see you about making you his personal investigative agent. Again.”

“I have other stuff to do.” The brewery. Amalgamated. Revenge for what happened to Strafa. Avoiding the bitter insanity of Karentine politics.

“He’s willing to work with you on your concerns. He says you wouldn’t have to give up your normal life.”

“You smell that? It’s piled so high a tall troll would drown in it.”

“Garrett, you’re being willfully difficult.”

Helenia surreptitiously checked a waterlogged list, ready to prompt Scithe if he overlooked a talking point. Number Two was curious about that, probably hoping it was a treat that Helenia would give up eventually.

Scithe noted, “You spend ninety percent of your life doing nothing productive. He’s only interested in buying a fraction of that.”

Morley chuckled but eschewed going after the deeper dig.

“To start. That’s what he’d say. But how long before he claimed he owned me body and soul, day and night, till he used me up or got me killed?” I stopped. No point working up a lather. Scithe was carrying out instructions, by the numbers, with just enough enthusiasm to get by.

He concluded, “Just come by the Al-Khar and talk.”

“Some other time. Maybe after I’ve settled this business.” Strafa’s face came to me, sweetly supportive. Could I get to the cemetery today? The afternoon was getting on.

Helenia crumpled her list. The ink had run. Anything they had missed was gone. She was ready to get the hell gone herself, somewhere safe and out of this crappy weather.

Number Two was deeply disappointed.

Scithe had a point or two left but decided, screw it. “It might be a sweet gig, Garrett.”

“You could be right. Volunteer for it yourself.”

“I did. But he’s got Garrett, Furious Tide of Light, Shadowslinger, and the Algarda clan on the brain. See him. He’ll put up with you turning him down, but there’s no way he’ll take you disrespecting him by ignoring him.”

A point worth remembering. Prince Rupert would be king. New kings close out old accounts.

Morley put that into words as we watched Scithe, Helenia, and Target head for the yellow rock pile. Target hadn’t spoken the whole time.

“I know. You’re right. I don’t need Rupert laying for me for the rest of my life.”

“My little boy is starting to grow up.”

“Blame that on Strafa.” I watched the red tops till they disappeared, wondering what had become of Womble and Muriat. “Let’s get on with getting on.” Later, I asked, “What’s with you and Belinda?”

“We’re two people desperately trying to make something work with somebody crazier than we are.” Which ended the discussion.

I hoped their thing didn’t turn darkly bad. Both were my friends. And both were dangerous and disinclined, in heated moments, to demonstrate outstanding emotional restraint.

“That would a
ppear to be the place,” Morley said, less fiercely than you would expect of someone who had just discovered the base of a long-sought and troublesome adversary.

Mud Man and crew were not to be seen. Dollar Dan, still tagging along, was worried. The mutts smelled something to make them nervous, too.

Adversary? Did we have that kind of relationship with Min?

I didn’t think so.

I shared Morley’s mood. The trouble in troublesome felt likely to shift and make for challenging footing.

This Vicious Min hole-up was sadder than the last. It was a literal hole in a wall, the sort of place an outcast, later to become known as Vicious Min, might have spent a grimly impoverished childhood.

The hole had been hollowed out of the downhill-side foundation of an enormous windmill crowning a rock upthrust that rose twenty feet above street level on that side. The mill no longer worked but did have strong wards against the usual threats of thievery, scavengers, and squatters. You could smell the sorcery like garlic in a century-old tenement. The air crackled, but the protective spells didn’t reach down to the foundation on this side. Someone had figured that out and had removed blocks of stone one by one to create a man-made cave underneath the mill.

This was Beifhold’s Mill, a notorious landmark from the last century. It had the protection of the Crown and city because it was unique and storied but not enough so that anyone wanted to invest in upkeep. The last maintenance I recalled was a whitewashing the year before Mom passed away. Nothing else had gotten done since the last Beifhold died in the Cantard.

The cave entrance didn’t look big enough to pass someone Min’s size, which might explain her need for that other place, which she hadn’t shared. She did not appear to be around now, but someone was sitting outside, bent over his lap in the rain, unconscious or sleeping. He could be Min’s little brother—though he still went twice as bigger than me. The dogs didn’t like him. They showed a lot of teeth, for no obvious reason.

Morley opined, “It looks like a whole family lives there.”

“Sad, huh? Maybe that’s deeper than it looks.”

“Yes. And yes, it is about as sad as I can imagine anything being.”

I said, “I see why Min would get into something sketchy.”

“The price of keeping body and soul and family together.”

“Um. But I won’t forgive her. However much I understand. Is that creature even alive?” I checked to see what Preston Womble and his henchwoman were doing. Whatever that might be, I didn’t catch them doing it. They had become invisible. We hadn’t caught a whiff of them since the encounter with Scithe. Speaking of which, what had become of Lurking Fehlkse? Even Dollar Dan hadn’t caught wind of him lately.

At the moment he was sniffing after Mud Man. He said, “The creature is breathing, but it may be damaged or drugged.”

The character beside the cave mouth was less active than a decorative gargoyle. Not only had he not moved; I couldn’t detect his breathing. Had the Black Orchid gotten here already? Shouldn’t there be more blood?

“See no evil,” Morley breathed as a woman approached from our left, strolling toward the cave, not obviously interested and in no great hurry. She had acquired an umbrella. She stopped just out of reach of the sleeping giant—using
giant
loosely, descriptively instead of ethnically—and began speaking too softly to hear. She folded her umbrella as she did.

Giant Boy didn’t twitch when she poked him.

Brownie made a snorting noise that I expected to give us away. Orchidia didn’t react. The giant toppled, then slowly relaxed into a half-fetal position, on his right side, still showing no sign of life.

A chubby raindrop got me on the left cheek despite my waterlogged hat, which drooped around the brim. I glanced up. Behold, there was the blond child sitting on the hub between two sails where they were rooted in the axle that transferred wind energy to the innards of the mill. Just sitting there. Watching.

Orchidia surely sensed me, Morley, Dan, and the dogs, but she had no clue about the child in the sky. She focused on the unresponsive big boy.

That was bizarre. I had a hard time keeping my yap shut. Dollar Dan Justice had as hard a time not fussing about the absence of Mud Man.

Keeping her umbrella aimed at her victim, Orchidia moved to the cave. With her other hand she conjured one of those glow balls beloved of her kind.

She took a close look at the sleeper, her head sideways to the cave.

A fist shot out. It clipped her despite a reflex move so fast that master martial artist Morley Dotes gasped in admiration.

Orchidia staggered a dozen feet, collapsed to one knee. Morley and Dollar Dan both snagged my arms so I wouldn’t go all white knight, but I had no intention of rushing in.

The big thing who ran with the blonde emerged from the cave supplely as a snake. At that range and in that light, I saw a definite resemblance to Vicious Min.

He thumped Orchidia again, deftly bound her with cords hanging ready at his belt, gagged her, stuffed her into a big jute gunnysack handed to him by another big thing who emerged from the cave after him, this one old, stooped, arthritic, and one-eyed, with a left leg that had been broken below the knee and never properly set. Old One tossed Sleeping Boy onto a shoulder, started limping. Blondie’s friend tucked his sackful of Black Orchid under his left arm and followed. Neither ever looked our way.

Morley said, “Let’s don’t ever mix it up with those people.”

“Not without me bringing my siege engine.” I looked up. Sure enough, Little Bits no longer decorated the windmill hub.

Dollar Dan said, “I’m on it,” and headed out after the big folks.

“Be careful,” Morley told him.

“Let’s see what’s in the cave,” I said.

“Like maybe another one of those things?”

“We should look because we came here to look instead of heading straight for the smith’s.”

“I’ll haunt you forever if something mashes my head in.”

The hole-up was empty and sad. Min’s people did not live a good life.

“We know one thing for sure now,” I said, eyeing the squalor. “Neither Min nor that other one qualifies as a Dread Companion.”

“There’s a blessing. Min was here.” He indicated a bloody rag.

“I never doubted that. Mud Man followed her here. Dan will probably find her wherever those people go.” I hoped he looked up once in a while. The girl was sure to notice him. “Let’s go see what the smith has to say.” Then maybe I would sneak off to see Strafa.

“Look here.” He picked up Orchidia’s umbrella, which the big folks hadn’t taken along. “Not all the news is bad.”

Brownie and the girls seemed to know where we were headed right away. Brownie stuck by me, as always, while the others ranged ahead.

They didn’t turn up anything. Not a Lurking Fehlkse, a Preston Womble, nor even an Elona Muriat.

We made the journey quietly. I brooded on what we had learned.

Trivias Smith visit provided some unwanted physical exercise but not much else. Smith handed me half a dozen tracers smashed by Operators he said were the same pair who had placed the order. One sounded like Magister Bezma in a bad mood. He had called his companion “brother.” Smith wasn’t sure if that meant a relationship or was a title. Did Kyoga have any uncles? I’d have to ask.

“Brother” hadn’t been happy. He’d done his work, reluctantly, never speaking. He would rather have been elsewhere doing anything else.

“Probably a religious brother,” I said. “The ugly one with the deformity is a magister from Chattaree, in a bad temper because his evil scheme is falling apart. His own grandson was killed.”

“I fear I cannot generate much sympathy.”

Morley opined, “The fool didn’t just ask for the pain, he begged.”

I asked Smith some general questions. He didn’t mind answering. Yes, the Guard had been underfoot but hadn’t interfered with business. The villains, after collecting their swords, had headed for Flubber Ducky.

We chatted briefly, me thinking he might be good to know down the road. Meanwhile, Morley showed a surprising interest in the practical side of smithery. And I thought some more about sneaking off to the family mausoleum.

The Flubber Ducky boys must have held a strategy session and decided that cooperation would be their least costly policy, going forward. They didn’t hold back. Magister Bezma and his sidekick had roared in, done some damage, then carried off everything having anything to do with their order, complete or not. It all went into a generic little covered wagon drawn by a single ox. They had headed toward the Dream Quarter. And that was that, except that Pindlefix was so bold as to suggest that I should shun Flubber Ducky now and forevermore. That or suffer the burden of a thousand curses.

Morley observed, “Too bad Singe isn’t with us. She could find those idiots fast. Though that’s maybe too optimistic in this drizzle.”

That had let up for a time but now looked like it was about to come back. On the upside, we did have Orchidia’s umbrella.

“I think we know where to find them.”

“Chattaree?”

“Where else?”

“Been a while.”

“It has. And they’ll be ready this time. Chances are, we’ll be at the tail end of a line.” I reminded him who would be ahead of us, in case he hadn’t been paying attention.

He said, “This Bezma is one dumb shit. Your Algardas are bad enough to poke a stick in the eye, but the Black Orchid? She’ll be back. Those big things weren’t planning to hurt her. I’ve only ever heard rumors, but I know I don’t want her on my case. She’s like a supernatural force, not just some slick killer.”

“That’s what they say. That she might be an incarnation of a death spirit. A real shinigami. Look, I’m pretty sure this tournament was a jackleg operation from the get-go, a case of incompetent ambition driving the halt and blind in a scheme fancied up by a brain-dead sociopath born with no imagination.”

The dogs stopped to stare.

“Be sure you let us know what you really think, old buddy.”

“The only reason we haven’t buried the whole mess already is that it’s so stupid we can’t figure it out.” Or maybe because there was more than one thing going on and I kept pounding square pegs to make it a solitaire.

“Uh . . . way to make yourself clear.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Actually, I do. It’s like trying to find a serial killer. They aren’t usually smart, they just don’t have any obvious connection to their victims, and the logic driving them is alien.”

“That’s kind of basically it.”

“Here’s an odd thought. Assuming you’re figuring on heading on back home. How about we visit Playmate?”

“It needs doing. It would do wonders for my attitude if he turned out spanking good. But there is the matter of pending excitement at Chattaree.” And of my ever-growing inclination to go see Strafa.

Something was going on way down below the surface of my mind. I couldn’t get it to come out, but I had experience enough with me to know it was coming. To suspect that seeing Strafa might break it loose.

I couldn’t shake Shadowslinger’s dread prophecy about an onrushing deadline.

Morley grumbled, “There is Chattaree, yes.” After a dozen steps, he mused, “Maybe it would have been wiser to swallow your pride and hand it off to the tin whistles.”

Whoa! “Damn! I did waste a fat opportunity when we had Scithe right there. We had one of Block’s top boys and Relway’s own cousin besides. What more could I ask?”

“So we’ll see Play on the way back from Chattaree.”

I like how he remains optimistic.

“Seen the blond kid around?” I asked.

“Not since Beifhold’s Mill. But don’t bet a rusty Venageti fil that she isn’t watching.”

My own thoughts exactly.