Wicked Bronze Ambition: A Garrett, P.I., Novel (40 page)

The centipede surged up an
d out, off my face, leaving a hundred stinging scratches. The chant ended; then stunned silence gave way to a weird, girly squeal that did not come out of the only girl in the room.

I surged up, right hand seizing the throat of an old goat with wild white hair and a repulsive growth on the front and top of his head. He wore one of the robes tailored at Flubber Ducky. The best of the bunch, I’m sure. He dropped a bronze sword. His eyes bugged. He tried to shake his head. “No!” I couldn’t tear my gaze away from that monster blemish, bigger than a pomegranate and the same color, with ample decorative liver spots.

I thought about Strafa and squeezed.

The centipede had one end each around the throats of two hired hands, the youngest and healthiest of the lot. They were outfitted with robes and swords, too. They wouldn’t have drawn a second glance on the street tonight. There were others, but most were barely breathing or were Mikon D. Stornes. Mikon hadn’t rated his own costume or sword, even incomplete.

He moved toward Kevans and Kip, who were laid out Mandela-style atop a plank table positioned at the heart of the most elaborate and colorful mystical diagram I’d ever seen. Kip was unconscious. Kevans was not. Magister Bezma had resisted villain stereotype enough not to have stripped her down before he got to work. She was sort of half-ass draped in one of the robes, though. Second best, probably. And a sword lay upon her chest, grip in her bound hands and tip between her knees. She got all loud again before I finished crawling out of the coffin. I hoped Mikon’s intentions were good. There wasn’t much I could do if he went bad on me before I finished with his cousin.

No worries needed, though.

The front door and surrounding wall exploded inward.

The Black Orchid emerged from the debris, very much meeting my inclination to see her as a death spirit. She was dreadful. She gave off her own dark glow and darker sparks. A stench preceded her. It would have been totally appropriate had she been sporting a jewelry ensemble made of rotting baby heads and severed penises.

The wall in the back blew in. Magister Bezma’s wards and alarms hadn’t been worth much. Moonblight and Moonslight arrived. Their blazing anger did not nourish the hope that flashed across my victim’s face. Moonslight was the more grim twin. She had a full charge of woman-scorned going on.

The house shook so violently that even the centipede lost its grip for an instant.

The blonde’s mighty companion dropped through the ceiling, like a stone falling from a great height . . . Actually, he was standing on a pointed ton of stone, an inverted, stolen tombstone stele, having already penetrated the roof and several higher floors. He drove on down through the floor in this room, too, missing Kevans, Kip, and Mikon by inches, stopping hip deep in hardwood. Every waking eye looked his way. And the little blonde floated down through the opening that he had broken.

I got my grip back. Magister Bezma passed out from lack of air.

Morley, Singe, and Dollar Dan charged in through the breach opened by the Black Orchid.

Everybody looked at everybody. Only Kevans had anything to say, but plenty of that, loud, filthy, and virulent, until Moonblight extended a hand the way she had in front of my Macunado place, with similar advantage to the public peace—for maybe twenty seconds. Then something gave and Kevans started right up again.

Mikon fumbled at Kevans’s bonds, finished, turned to Kip. The liberated cords and gag went right onto Magister Bezma. The moment Meyness B. was sewed up I hied my handsome but worried butt over to Kip, who did not look good. He had an ugly blue-gray hue to him. “Somebody look at this kid and see what’s wrong with him.” I was talking to the twins, but the death master left Magister Bezma in response. She had Kip’s color coming back in seconds.

“You!” I told Kevans, finger stabbing. “Shut the hell up!” It was time. Her butt had been saved. She wasn’t required to fawn or be grateful, but she could cut back on the godsdamned complaining.

Teenage girls: got to sing, got to dance, got to whine about every damned thing. And I had another one, live-in, coming up.

“You,” I told Singe. “I don’t want to hear a word.”

She didn’t say anything, either, but I knew what she was thinking. I said, “Let’s get them together in one place,” like that really needed saying. The bad guys were crowded together already, now absent their bronze toad stickers. “And get their costumes. We can use those.” They were in no mood to resist, just standing, sitting, or lying there looking unhappy and hopeless. The one who did break for freedom smacked right into a combo mechanical and magical snare that, through absurd happenstance, hadn’t inconvenienced a single invader.

“Mariska, get that moron loose. Morley, let’s you and me and Mikon get the big fellow out of that hole.” He had begun struggling. That just got him more stuck. I met the little blonde’s gaze. She awarded me a very slight smile and a tiny nod of appreciation. In that moment she seemed more than a little familiar. But how?

The feeling that I should know her was stronger than the feeling with Hagekagome, which seemed mostly nostalgic.

Dollar Dan tied bad guys wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle with cord off a roll he found on steps leading to the second floor. That cord was the same as what had been used to bind Kevans and Kip. Kip was breathing better but sleeping. He must have been drugged to keep him pliable.

Dan made sure each healthy villain was tied between two who couldn’t get around under their own power, then put a dead guy at each end attached by a tangle that only a knife would ever defeat. The bad boys were not pleased to be at the mercy of the least of the Other Races. Only one commented, though. Tara Chayne fixed him up with a throat spell that worked better than had the one she’d wasted on the sorceress’s daughter.

Mud Man appeared up front. “Hey, we got it, Dan.”

“Good work.”

“It” was the wagon that Evil Lin had taken away, without the gray teamster. Dollar Dan had sent Mud Man to get it because he figured some of us might not be able to walk away from the scuffle.

Mud Man also announced, “There are tin whistles filtering into the neighborhood. They appear not to know what they are after, but they are looking for something.”

Dan told me, “We should finish here and leave before we find ourselves trapped in an interview that never ends.”

Tara Chayne grumbled, “Why the hell aren’t they off riding herd on the All-Souls revelries?”

The costume folks should be out by now, in the better-lighted parts of town, since no rain had yet materialized. Pickpockets and purse snatchers would be out with them. After the fireworks the drinking and rowdiness would really begin. If the red tops were serious, they would concentrate on keeping the worst incidents nonfatal, local, and unpopular.

Hell. General Block’s people would be doing that. Anyone filtering into this neighborhood would be up to something special. They would be Specials. It wouldn’t be smart to count on a friendly mind-set in Deal Relway’s Special fellows.

They might be under special instructions to make a special example of a certain special pain-in-the-ass-type professional snoop. They might make a special effort to catch said special guy in sufficiently special circumstances that his only way to weasel out would be to claim special immunity as Prince Rupert’s personal special agent.

I said, “We maybe ought to consider getting out of here especially fast.”

Special minds were already thinking along those exact lines. John Stretch had his crew, including himself and Dollar Dan, gone in a trice—not just doing a fast rat scurry but getting out in front of the Specials with intent to provide mystery shadows for them to chase.

We finished tying Magister Bezma’s crew to one another. They stayed to greet the Specials. Bezma and Mikon went into the wagon along with still-sleeping Kip Prose, still-fuming Kevans Algarda, who had been tied up so long that her circulation wouldn’t let her get around under her own power, along with all the weapons and costumes originally intended for the Ritual. All four dogs found ways to climb in with the people.

They had kept a low profile during the excitement. They knew when it was best to stay out of the way.

Morley brought us down to earth, dispersing a growing communal urge to do something hasty and probably foolish. “With all the talent we have here, we should be able to leave without being seen as anything but some people headed for the celebrations.”

“Good thinking,” Tara Chayne opined, considering Morley with that speculative look that women get around him. “We have their costumes.”

Singe rolled her eyes, shook her head, and whispered, “Don’t get jealous.”

“Yeah? This could be fun.” Too bad Belinda wasn’t around to impress us with her lack of humor.

Then we were rolling with no ratfolk but Singe visible, nor any Black Orchid, nor even the little blonde’s big-ass friend. Nor the blonde herself, come to that. I hadn’t noticed Orchidia disappearing. I last saw her when she told me to take the gang to Shadowslinger’s place. Her turning into a ghost was a disappointment but no surprise. The blonde vanishing was a bigger disappointment. I’d been all set to get to know her better.

The big guy managing to vanish was more of an amazement.

I was sure I’d see them all again.

Shadowslinger, Barate, and accomplices employed intimidation, negotiation, and more intimidation to evade custody. It helped that the Crown Prince was a friend and big fan of Furious Tide of Light, complicity in whose murder by an Orthodox magister had provoked the Chattaree invasion. A witness statement from one Niea Syx tilted the balance—once Shadowslinger agreed to underwrite repairs.

That promise was likely worth the paper on which it wasn’t written. It would happen only if Constance found Meyness Stornes’s stolen money.

Mikon said a stash existed. He didn’t know how much. Meyness had thrown money away lately, arguing that there was no point having a fortune he was too dead to spend.

Shadowslinger eyed my crew and its featured captive. I observed, “You’re looking remarkably hale after your debility and extended day.”

She grunted, then glared at Stornes—sparing just enough attention to make sure that nobody with a grievance did anything premature.

The possibility of treasure had softened vengeful attitudes, though.

The Church’s money had been filtering through Magister Bezma’s sticky fingers for a long time.

Singe gave me a dirty look, knowing that I was thinking treasure, too. She figured I was well off enough already. I owned a house on the Hill.

She willfully ignores the fact that I have a house full of females, some getting fashion conscious and all too damned – liberal with my funds. How could it hurt to put together a pile too big for them to spend?

Oddly, no one objected to Singe’s presence.

Bashir came in to announce, “The Lady Orchidia Hedley-Farfoul has asked to join the conversation.”

Bash was holding up well for a man who had lost his wife—so thought a widower who had spent several days willfully and with malice aforethought holding up well himself. I knew what was going on inside Bash’s head. The truth shone through when he eyed Meyness Stornes.

Stornes was oblivious. He had vested himself in a false conviction that the Breaker friends of his youth would make allowances.

Idiot. He could really think that way while surrounded by people whose family members would be celebrating All-Souls from the shady side because of the wicked ambition of Meyness B. Stornes?

He appeared to lose volume and mass when Shadowslinger chirped, “Bring her in, Bashir. It would be unfriendly and impolitic to deny Orchidia a part in the process. She lost more than any of us.” She laid a ferocious scowl on Kevans, who took the hint to remain silent. The girl could be intimidated by her grandmother.

Shadowslinger asked, “Richt? You want to say something about your niece?”

“Only that I suggest you be careful what you wish for.”

He and Constance glanced at me. For no obvious reason most everyone moved a step this way or that, as though some silent, unconscious realignment had begun.

Bashir said, “Very well, madame.” He offered Constance a shallow bow, then moved a step toward me. He murmured, “I have seen the dogs fed and bedded down, sir.”

“Why, thank you.” Somewhat surprised.

Out he went.

In came the Black Orchid, slightly more than a minute later.

Slightly more than a minute. Into that interim I interjected the announcement “My matchless resources have discovered the ballista used against Strafa.”

I wouldn’t say that there was a stunned silence, nor even a nervous or guilty silence.

“It’s in the basement at Strafa’s house, disassembled. It appears to have resided there for decades. Someone took it out, refurbished it, assembled it, and used it—then broke it down and put it back.”

Singe oozed closer, till she was in actual contact on my left. She had a look on that said that this was something I should have shared with her before we ended up isolated among sorceresses, with temperatures falling.

Though it may have sounded that way, I hadn’t meant to be accusing.

Then in came the Black Orchid, having overheard my announcement.

Meyness Stornes was one of the more relaxed people in the room now.

I saw no signs of guilty knowledge. People still moved, realigning. The Machtkess girls drifted closer to me.

Orchidia grabbed my right elbow almost as if we were a couple. “Are you suggesting something?”

“No. Just reporting. But part of the report has to be that Meyness Stornes had nothing to do with Strafa’s murder, considering he had no access to the weapon, the timing was wrong, and Vicious Min, far from being a Dread Companion, was a hired hand. So is the one protecting the kid who keeps turning up. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s Min’s brother.”

Constance Algarda had become a great blank-face pile of blubber who, nonetheless, radiated the suspicion that a certain former Marine might not be as dim as he put on.

Hard to be, some might argue. Not while being deft enough to stay alive without the protection of a dedicated murder of guardian angels.

“Well?” Orchidia, but speaking to me or to the crowd?

It was a tense moment. She, for reasons unclear, was an ally for now.

“Well . . . ,” I responded. “Well. It’s self-evident that somebody knows more about what happened than they’ve admitted so far.” Maybe even Dr. Ted, who could be considered a principal but wasn’t with us tonight.

Bashir reappeared. “Excuse the additional interruption . . .” His eyes got big as his body arched.

The little blonde shoved him forward, demonstrating incredible strength with no leverage. She floated four inches off the floor and still moved him easily.

She was dressed the same as always. She folded her arms in front of her, sliding hands inside opposite sleeves.

Barate Algarda spoke for the first time since my arrival. Resolutely, powerfully, loudly, he proclaimed, “Ah, holy shit! This is not possible!”

Kyoga Stornes had been just as quiet—while easing closer to his father, to lay unhappy hands on if Meyness showed any sign of pulling some sorcerer’s stunt. He agreed with Barate. “Oh, holy shit indeed! Nana! What have you done?”

Barate and Kyoga had called Constance “Nana” when they were little, though she was grandmother to neither. It came from some amusing toddler comment become family in-joke with sense and meaning only for those who had been there.

Barate demanded, “Exactly, Mother! What have you done?”

Constance herself showed us the fabled eyes the size of saucers.

The little girl squeezed in between Orchidia and me, as though by right. The Black Orchid yielded gracefully. The girl said, “Yes, Grandmother, you totally screwed the pooch. That spell caused a double, even a triple rebound, in time and place, both.”

Suddenly, I knew why she was familiar. Suddenly, I knew who she was. Suddenly, I was a huge, ready-to-melt lump of gelatin.

I was married to her.

Well, I had been about to marry her. Then something happened that split her into a corpse and a feisty little thing that could get me a year in a work camp for thinking about us being married. . . .

She slid her left hand into mine, tugged. “They can finish up here. We have to go. We don’t have much time.”

Orchidia agreed. “There isn’t much at all. Don’t waste it being you.”

Shadowslinger looked scared, compassionate, furious, self-pitying, self-loathing, and just plain crushed, all together and/or in lightning rotation. She said, “Go ahead, Garrett. I did screw up. We’ll talk later. We have this part under control.” A lot of eyes focused on Meyness B. Stornes. His life could get more difficult in a hundred interesting ways.

Shadowslinger made weird noises, twitched, shook oddly. I thought she might be about to stroke again—if ever she really had.

Even so, Barate was more concerned about Kevans, and about Kip because Kip meant so much to Kevans. Kyoga forgot his father. He beat me out of the room, off to get Dr. Ted. Hopefully, Ted wasn’t off somewhere watching fireworks and impossible to find.

Kevans was working on a refreshed case of attitude but couldn’t quite go public while her grandmother was shaking and making ever stranger noises. She didn’t seem affected by the fact that her mother might now become her little sister.

Singe had no idea what was going on with Little Strafa but did get that this was no time for Garrett to mope around demanding answers to any trivial question that occurred to him. Something needed doing, and soon. I’d already mentioned All-Souls deadlines several times. She started shoving. Little Strafa pulled, demonstrating more of the power she had used to move Bashir. The Black Orchid got out front and ran interference.

Morley Dotes hadn’t been invited upstairs. He hadn’t gone away, either, contrary to his earlier determination. He had been amusing himself in the kitchen but now was waiting at the front door with the dogs. He and they were wide awake and seemed renewed. Little Strafa led us into Shadowslinger’s garden. “Each one take a dog.” She snatched up Number Two, shoved her at Singe, in whose arms the mutt wriggled just enough to get comfortable. Then she fell asleep.

Little Strafa told the rest of us, “Come on. Do it.”

Brownie made it easy for me.

Morley snagged a mutt, as did Orchidia, who shuddered at the contact but forged manfully on.

“All of you crowd in facing me. Push in tight. Hold your dog with your left arm. Put your right arm around the person next to you.”

Singe and Orchidia, in almost identical language, instructed me to shut up and do as I was told.

I did as I was told. I didn’t say anything, either.

Brownie licked my face, then shut her eyes. I slipped my right arm around Singe as low as I could. She did the same with Morley. He got Orchidia. Orchidia put her arm around me, as high as she could get.

“Wait! Wait up!” Tara Chayne charged out of the house as if she were a hundred years younger than she was. The cluster hug fell apart.

“What?” Orchidia demanded.

“I should go with you.”

Little Strafa nodded. “She’s right.” She shivered, cold despite that coat. She laid a hand over Morley’s heart, showed him a child’s forerunner of the smile that always conquered when she was a grown-up. “Please? Let Moonblight take your place? I know it’s a lot to ask but I promise I’ll take good care of him.”

Morley checked me, Singe, and even the dog he carried, now sound asleep. Even Brownie had only one eye open. He considered the three witchy women, calculating. “Garrett?”

“I can’t offer an informed opinion. I don’t know what’s going on. But I can say that I trust Strafa.” Still, I didn’t want my best friend to think I was pushing him out.

“We have a problem with time,” Orchidia reminded.

“Her skills . . . ,” Strafa began.

Morley presented his dog to Tara Chayne. “I understand skills.” His face said a good deal more. There would be unhappy folks on the Hill if anything untoward happened because he wasn’t there to prevent it, Enma Ai or no.

Orchidia said, “Your sacrifice is both appreciated and useful.”

I reminded him, “You were going to bail after the raid anyway.”

“Got my third wind.” Morley touched two fingers to his right eyebrow in salute.

I nodded. He might do so in a state of blind exhaustion, but he would turn up at the house on Macunado.