Dread Brass Shadows (9 page)

“It’s an idea. One of your more outrageous ones, but an idea. How am I supposed to con some witness into talking?”

Pass word to the fairy and pixie communities saying you will pay for information about what happened in that alley. Those people are not afraid of Chodo Contague. In fact, they hate him. They would not help him. If he has a similar notion, they will thumb their noses at his men. They can fly faster than his thugs can run.

Legwork again. He was coming up with these things just to get more hoofing around town.

Still, it might be worth a shot. If I could get the message across. It’s hard to communicate with those people. They speak Karentine but somehow it isn’t always the same language I speak. You have to be careful what you say and precise in how you say it. No ambiguities. No words or phrases that can be understood in more than one way. You do and ninety-nine times in a hundred they’ll take you the wrong way. I think they do it on purpose, to give us a hard time.

I’d never thought much about it, but there are peoples with little to fear from Chodo. It might behoove me to find friends among them. Sure as the sun will rise in the east, there’ll come a day when Chodo and I go head-to-head; I don’t want that day to come and I expect he doesn’t, either, but we both know our natures make it inevitable.

I said, “Crask and Sadler got me spooked.”

They did more good than harm.

“I heard that. Those dwarves weren’t taking me to a party.”

Time to consider taking on backup.

“Yeah.” He was being awful practical. “I wanted to keep the little leaf-eater out of it but I’m really not at my best when the odds are eight to one.”

I sensed faint amusement over there.
There are other possibilities. The groll brothers, Doris and Marsha, make effective bodyguards.

“They also tend to stick out in a crowd.” Grolls being part giant, part troll, and the brothers in question being twenty feet tall and green. And they don’t speak Karentine. The only man I know who speaks grollish is Morley Dotes. I’d have to enlist him anyway. “Why don’t I sleep on it?”

Because if you sleep now, you may waste the chance to enjoy sleeping a few thousand times more. It is not legwork that is going to kill you, Garrett. It is lack of legwork.

“Who walked twenty miles today? And who stayed home contemplating his own genius?”

I pondered the mystery of Glory Mooncalled.

“That’ll help us out.” How old Chuckles preens and crows when he guesses right what the mercenary will do next. And how he cringes and whines when that sumbitch surprises him.

I hate to admit it, but I kind of long for the old days last year when Mooncalled was on our side and just gave the Venageti fits and made our generals look like simpletons.

Maybe I should worry more. Mooncalled may be the most important man alive today. The fate of his republic will shape that of Karenta and Venageta. If the two kingdoms can’t squash him and regain access to the silver mines that are the object of the ancient war, sorcerers on both sides will soon be out of business. Silver is the fuel that makes their magic go.

Mooncalled’s strategy is to hang on till the wizards fade. He doesn’t fear our mundane generals. Most of them can’t find their butts with a seeing-eye dog. They get their jobs through brilliant selection of parents, not competence. Mooncalled may not be a genius, but he can find his butt with either hand, in the dark, which is plenty good enough when dealing with Karentine generals or Venageti Warlords.

I said, “I take it you think something is about to happen down there.”

Perhaps. And the news may be less than favorable to those who find hope in Mooncalled’s mutiny. Both Karenta and Venageta have kept the pressure on but have not run blind into his traps. His native support appears to be dwindling. You mentioned spotting a centaur family today. A few months ago centaurs were Mooncalled’s most devoted allies, vowing to fight till they were extinct if that was the price of ending foreign domination of the Cantard.

I hadn’t thought about the political implications of a centaur presence here. Did it mean negotiations for a sellout? Usually I turn a deaf ear to such speculation. I have the romantic, silly idea that if I ignore politics steadfastly, maybe politicians will ignore me. You’d think I’d have learned after having spent five years helping kill people on behalf of politicians.

Don’t tell anybody on the Hill, but I—like almost everybody who doesn’t live up there—have rooted for Glory Mooncalled in my secret heart. If he actually manages the impossible and hangs on, he’ll break the backs of the ruling classes of both of the world’s greatest kingdoms. In Karenta’s case that could mean the collapse of the state and either the return of the imperials from exile or evolution into something entirely new and unique, built upon a mixture of races.

Enough. Whatever happens on the Hill, or in the Cantard, it won’t change my life. There’ll always be bad guys for me to chase.

You had better get on your horse.

“Yuk! Don’t even mention those monsters.” I hate horses. They hate me. I think there’s a good chance they’ll get me before the kingpin does. “I’m on my way.”

15

Morley Dotes’s Joy House is only a short way from my place, but by the time you get there you wonder if you haven’t fallen through a hole into another world. In my neighborhood—though it’s not the best—the nonhumans and baddies are mostly passing through. In Morley’s, the Safety Zone, they’re there all the time.

TunFaire is a human city, but just about every other species has an area of its own staked out. Some are a quarter unto themselves, like Ogre Town or Ratman Creek. Some occupy only one tenement. Even though individuals may live anywhere in town, somewhere there’s a home turf that’s fiercely defended. There’s a lot of prejudice and a lot of friction and some races have a talent for that which makes our human bent toward prejudice look wimpy. Thus the Safety Zone evolved, of its own accord, as an area where the races can mix in relative peace, because business has to get done.

Morley’s place is right in the heart of the zone, which seems to have gelled around it. It was always a favorite hangout for baddies who mix, before the zone became an accepted idea. Morley is becoming a minor power. I’ve heard he’s turned into a sort of judge who arbitrates interracial disputes. Useful, but he’d better not get too ambitious. Chodo might feel threatened.

Chodo only tolerates Morley now because he owes him. Morley spiffed his predecessor and created a job opening at the top. But Chodo remains wary, maybe even nervous. What Morley did once he might do again, and there’s no more sure an assassin than Morley Dotes.

Killing people is Morley’s real line. The Joy House started out as cover. He never expected the place to become a success and probably didn’t want it to.

Thus do the fates conspire to shape our lives.

It was getting on dusky, with the first morCartha out reconnoitering, as I approached Morley’s place. “Well,” I muttered unhappily as I turned into the street that runs past the Joy House. And “Yeah, hello,” as a couple of overdeveloped bruisers fell into step beside me. “How’s the world treating you guys?”

Both frowned as though trying to work through a problem too difficult for either. Then Sadler materialized out of shadow and relieved them of the frightful and unaccustomed task of thinking. Sadler said, “Good timing, Garrett. Chodo wants to see you.”

They must have seen me coming. “Yeah. I suspected.” A big black coach stood in front of Morley’s. I knew it better than I liked. I’d ridden in it. It belonged to that well-known philanthropist, Chodo Contague. “He’s here? Chodo?” He never leaves his mansion.

Crask appeared, completed the set. I had me bookends who would strangle their own mothers not only without a qualm but who wouldn’t recall it a day later with any more remorse than recalling stomping a roach. Bad, bad people, Crask and Sadler. I wish I didn’t, but whenever I run into them I waste half my little brain worrying about how bad they are.

I’m glad they don’t make a lot like them.

Crask said, “Chodo wants to talk, Garrett.”

“I got that impression.” I kept my tongue in check. No need to mention that Sadler had told me already.

“He’s in the coach.”

They couldn’t have been sitting there waiting for me. That wasn’t their style. They must have had business with Morley and I was just a target of opportunity.

I walked to the coach, opened its door, hauled my carcass inside, settled facing the kingpin.

You take your first look at Chodo, you wonder why all the fuss. Everybody’s scared of this old geek? Why, he’s in such lousy shape he spends his whole life in a wheelchair. He can barely hold his head up, and that not for long unless he’s mad. Sometimes he can’t speak clearly enough to make himself understood. His skin has no color and it seems you can see right through it. He looks like he’s been dead five years already.

Then he works up the strength to meet your eye and you see the beast looking out at you. I’ve been there several times and still that first instant of eye contact is a shocker. The guy inside that ruined meat makes Crask and Sadler look like streetcorner do-gooders.

You get in Chodo’s way, you get hurt. He don’t need to be a ballerina. He has Crask and Sadler. Those two are more loyal to him than ever any son was to a father. That kind of loyalty is remarkable in the underworld. I wonder what hold he has on them.

He has them and a platoon of lieutenants and those have their soldiers on the street. Those have their allies and informants and tenants. Chodo flinches or frowns, somebody can die a gruesome death real sudden.

“Mr. Garrett.” He had the strength to incline his head. He was having a good day. Wiry wisps of white hair floated around.

“Mr. Contague.”
I
call him Mr. Contague. “I was considering coming to see you.” But not very seriously. His place is too far out. It’s a disgustingly tasteless mausoleum (sour grapes, Garrett?) that dwarfs the homes of most of our overlords. Crime pays. And for Chodo it pays very well indeed.

“I thought you might when I heard from Dotes.”

Thanks a bunch, Morley. There you go thinking for me again.

“I know how a man feels in such a situation, Mr. Garrett. I once lost a woman to a rival. A man grows impatient to restore the balance. I thought I would save time if I came to the city.”

Huh? Didn’t he know Tinnie was going to be all right? Or did he know something I didn’t? That was likely, since almost everybody knows something I don’t—but not about Tinnie, he shouldn’t. “I appreciate it more than you know.” He had a girl once. Funny. I’d never thought of him having been anything but what he is right now.

“You’re surprised. It’s a pity you’re so determined to maintain your independence.” That’s a problem between us. I want the world to know I’m my own man. He’d like to get a hold on me. He said, “I admire you, Mr. Garrett. It would be interesting to sit and talk sometime about have-beens and might-have-beens. Yes. Even I was young once. Even I have been in love. I once considered getting out of this life because a woman caused me such despair. But she died. Much as yours did. I recall the pain vividly. For a time it left my soul as crippled as my flesh is now. If I can help, I will.”

For the first time I began to suspect there was something going on between me and Chodo that was on a level having nothing to do with antipathies and favors accidentally or knowingly done. Maybe he’d glommed me as some kind of tenuous lifeline from his shadow world to one where “higher” standards reigned. And maybe his continued attempts to seduce or coerce me into his camp had something to do with tempering that lifeline.

Whoa! Hip boots time, Garrett. “Sure. Thanks. Only, Tinnie didn’t die, see? She was hurt, but they say she should get better. Squirrel was supposed to tell you, only . . .”

His face darkened. “Yes. Squirrel. Mr. Crask and Mr. Sadler told me what you said. I failed to make sense of it.”

“I can’t, either. But the whole world is going crazy. We got morCartha fighting all night, mammoths and saber-tooth tigers roaming around, thunder-lizards maybe migrating south. Today I saw centaurs on the street and almost tromped a gang of gnomes. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

He made a feeble gesture with one hand, a sure sign his blood was up. He seldom spends the strength. “Tell me.”

“You have a professional interest?”

“Tell me about it.”

My mama didn’t raise many kids dumb enough to argue with Chodo Contague while hip-deep in Chodo’s headbreakers. I gave him most of the bag. Exactly what I’d given Crask and Sadler. I didn’t contradict myself. The Dead Man taught me well when it comes to retaining detail. I added some speculation just to give the impression that I was making a special effort for him.

He listened, relaxed, chin against chest, gathering his strength. What went on inside that strange brain? The man was a genius. Evil, but a genius. He said, “It makes no sense in terms of the information at my disposal.”

“Not to me, either.” I arrowed to the key point. “But there’re dwarves under arms roaming the streets.”

“Yes. Most unusual.”

“Is there a dwarfish underworld?”

“Yes. Every race has its hidden side, Mr. Garrett. I’ve had contact with it. It’s trivial by human standards. Dwarves don’t gamble. They are incapable of making that mental plunge into self-delusion whereby others become convinced that they can beat the odds. They don’t drink because they make fools of themselves when they’re drunk and there is nothing a dwarf fears more than looking foolish, They shun weed and drugs for the same reason. There are individual exceptions, of course, but they’re rare. As a breed, they have few of the usual vices. I’ve never known one to become excitable enough to employ lifetakers.”

“Pretty dull bunch.”

“By your standards or mine. All work, all business, very little play. But there is one game they do enjoy. One weakness. Exotic females. Any species will do, though they gravitate toward big-busted human women.”