PettyPewterGods

I greeted the morning the only way that makes sense. I groaned. I groaned some more as I pried me off the sheet. Several thousand maniacs were raising hell out in the street. I muttered dreadful threats, dropped my feet into the abyss beside my bed. My threats didn’t scare up any peace.

Pain blazed from my right temple to my left, ricocheted, clattered around inside my skull. I must have had a great time. I told me, “You got to quit drinking that cheap beer.”

The guy jacking his jaw was yakking way too loud. I clapped a hand over his mouth. He shut up. I used my other hand to open a curtain a peek. I had some morning-mad notion that by looking I could grab a clue about all that racket.

A club of sunshine whacked me right between the eyes. Like to laid me out. Gah! An ill omen for sure. These bright days are never kind. Everybody I ran into would be just like the weather: warm and sunny. Argh! I was in the mood for low overcast and light drizzle, maybe with a frigid south wind.

I peeled layers of fried skin off my eyeballs, took another look. Where there is life there is hope.

“Well.” Across Macunado, standing out like she might be the source of the brightness, was a trim piece of work who would have no trouble making the short list for girl of my dreams. She looked right at me, like she knew I was watching. My toes curled. Wow!

I didn’t notice the human rights guys and their ugly banners shoving dwarves and elves aside as they chased a gang of centaur refugees, flinging bricks and stones. I didn’t chuckle when some fool bounced a rock off a fourteen-foot troll’s beak and took up a brief career as a human club. Just another day of political dialogue in my hometown.

I was focused. Maybe I was in love. Again.

She had all the right stuff in all the right places in absolutely perfect proportion. She was a small thing, not a rat’s whisker over five feet, and of the redheaded tribe. I would have bet the deed that she had green eyes. I drooled. I wondered what madness was loose upon the earth, that all those lunatics down there weren’t dropping their sticks and stones and surrounding her, panting gales of garlicky breath.

“Whoa, Garrett,” I muttered, after the curtain slipped from numb fingers and broke the crackling magic connecting my eyes with hers. “Where have we heard all this before?” Female is my weakness. Pretty redhead will do me in every time.

Oh, but what a delicious failing!

I wrestled with my clothes for a minute before daring another look. She was gone. Where she had stood, a drunken one-armed war veteran was trying to assault an even drunker centaur. The centaur was getting the best of it because he had more legs to keep him off the ground.

That troll must have been in a bad mood anyway. He bellowed his intention of clearing the street of anyone who didn’t have green skin. He had a good work ethic, too.

Down the way Mrs. Cardonlos and her broom vigorously defended the stoop of her rooming house from fugitives. How would she blame this on me? I was confident that she could find a way. Too bad she couldn’t saddle that broom and fly away.

Some dreams arrive stillborn. There wasn’t a sign of that redhead anywhere.

But nightmares always come true.

Instead of young and gorgeous I spied old and homely and not even female.

Old Dean, my resident cook, housekeeper, and professional nag, was home from his journey north to make sure one of his numerous ugly duckling nieces didn’t weasel out of her wedding plans. He was standing at the foot of the front steps. He stared up at the house with pinch-lip disapproval.

I shambled toward the stairs. Somebody had to let him in.

Dean’s knock set the Goddamn Parrot to squawking obscenities.

Garrett! Oh, boy. That was my sidekick, the Dead Man, only recently awakened for the first time in months. He had a lot of vinegar stored up. Kindly set aside your sensual maunderings and still that horrible thumping.

It was, for sure, going to be one of those days.

2

T. G. Parrot—whose given name is Mr. Big—started whooping as I worked the latch. “Help! On, please, Mister, don’t hurt me no more.” He sounded like a terrified child. He thought it was great fun trying to get me lynched.

Mr. Big was a practical joke that had been played upon me by my alleged friend Morley Dotes, who must have spent years teaching that bird bad manners and worse language.

Dean wrinkled his nose as he pushed inside. “Is that thing still here? And what is that dreadful odor?”

By “thing” he meant the bird. I pretended to misunderstand. “He was too heavy for me to move by myself.” The Dead Man goes somewhat over four hundred pounds. “Maybe he’s getting ripe. You better work on his room first thing.” Dean hates the Dead Man’s room. He doesn’t like being in the presence of a corpse, possibly because that rubs his nose in his own mortality.

Your sense of humor has putrefied.

Dean, of course, didn’t receive the Dead Man’s mind message. Wouldn’t have been fun for His Nibs if he caused a reaction that the old man understood.

I didn’t pay him any mind. That always irks him. I was preoccupied, anyway. Still looking outside, I noticed that the redhead was back, watching from across the street. Our gazes met. That energy crackled. Down the block my favorite neighbor, the widow Cardonlos, spotted my open doorway. She pointed, jabbered, probably telling one of her tenants that I was the linchpin of all the evils plaguing our street.

Her mind would not stretch any farther.

Other than making herself a boil on the bottom of my happiness, she did not much matter in my life.

Dean expelled one of his mighty, put-upon sighs. He dropped his duffel, stood there shaking his head. He wasn’t three steps inside, but he had to assure me that his absence had been a domestic disaster. As had been inevitable.

I looked for the girl again. Redheads are trouble. Always. But that kind of trouble looked real appetizing.

Gone again, damn it. A mob of street rowdies had come between us, pursuing the ethnic debate with club and brickbat. Enterprising folk of several tribes tagged along, hawking sausages and sweetmeats and souvenirs to the participants. Never is there an event so wild, so dire or disgusting but what some entrepreneur can create collectible memorabilia.

Story of my life. Find my true love and lose her in a matter of minutes, while being tormented by a hangover and a carping housekeeper.

What were you gawking at?

“Huh?” You don’t usually get much expression out of the Dead Man’s mind messages. This time he seemed puzzled. “A girl.” He ought to be able to figure that just because I was drooling.

More puzzled. I see nothing but chaos.

Neither did I, now. “That’s the way it is these days. You didn’t spend all your time napping, you’d know we’re getting into the hell times.” Damn! Me and my mouth. Now he would insist I spend another day bringing him up to date. A lot had been happening.

The Goddamn Parrot was squawking with a vengeance now. He had discovered that I had not put out birdseed before I’d hit the sack. Hell, I’d barely remembered to lock the door. I’d only just survived a near terminal case of redheaditis complicated by psychopathic killer transvestites and I had wanted to unwind.

Dean got to the kitchen before I could head him off. His howl stilled hearts for miles. Mr. Big squawked in fear. The Dead Man offered some mind racket meant as commiseration. Fetishist household order is not a priority with him, either.

Dean had started through the kitchen doorway. He froze there. He posed, the most put-upon old boy who ever lived. “Mister Garrett. Will you please come here and explain?”

“Well, I did kind of get behind on the dishes.” I headed for the stairs. He wanted to give me a few choice pieces of advice, but the words all tried to come out at once. He began shaking in frustration when he could not get them untangled. I made my escape.

Sort of. I headed for his room upstairs, which I had not gotten straightened up after having stashed a fugitive girl there while he was away. He would get really excited if he saw the mess she had left.

I could feel the Dead Man’s thoughts riding with me, amused, looking forward to the explosion. To him the world is one grand, enduring passion play, going on without end. He is settled comfortably in the wings enjoying it at little risk because he has been safely dead for four hundred years already.

Somebody clever and really fast stuck a knife into him way back then. That or some ordinary dumbbell caught him taking one of his naps. Did Loghyr take those long naps when they were alive? I’d never seen a living Loghyr. I knew nobody who had, save the Dead Man himself. He hadn’t been born dead. Hell, I’ve only ever run into one other dead Loghyr.

A rare breed, they. And major pains in the social fundament, generally, which probably has something to do with why they are so rare.

One is compelled to support your earlier remark concerning the quality of the beer you imbibe. Those cheap barley squeezings have poisoned your mind with premature bitterness and cynicism.

“That’s on account of my environment and evil companions. How come you’re following me around the house?”

I hurled things around in Dean’s room as fast as I could, but I knew I was fighting another losing battle.

Maybe the stress of the kitchen mess would burst his heart before he decided to put his stuff away.

It was unusual for the Dead Man to extend himself beyond the walls of his room, though he could reach a long way when he wanted. He claims he limits himself out of respect for others’ privacy. I have never believed a thought of that. Laziness has got to be involved somewhere.

I am sure that even were he alive he would not move an ounce or an inch out of his room for years at a time. My guess is he died because it would have been too much trouble to get out of the way of the assassin.

Not only bitter and cynical, but uncharitable.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

The deterioration has progressed faster than I anticipated. The city is at the brink. I have wakened to imminent chaos.

“Yeah. We’re beating up on each other instead of the Venageti.”

After so many of your mayfly generations. Loghyr live for ages, apparently. And they do take their sweet time dying. Peace. Can you stand the strain?

Us humans are a hobby with him, by his estimation created exclusively for his amusement. He likes to study bugs, too.

I had gotten distracted from my mission. A sound like that of a strangling crow startled me. Dean stood in the doorway, duffel at his feet, mouth open. The noises came from behind his teeth but maybe started out in a dimension where people didn’t let undisciplined young ladies invade your quarters in your absence.

“I had to hide . . . ”

“Another of your bimbos. I understand completely.” He articulated each word in isolation. “No doubt you had another already installed in your own bedroom.”

“Hey! It wasn’t that way at all.”

“It never is, Mr. Garrett.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Downstairs, the Goddamn Parrot went crazy. And the Dead Man insisted, Come to my room, Garrett. You must tell me more. So much more. I sense so many wonderful possibilities. Glory Mooncalled is here in TunFaire? Oh, the marvel of it! The wonder! The insane potential!

“Glory Mooncalled here? Where did you get that idea?” Mooncalled was a legend. He started as a mercenary general during the recent generations-long disturbance between Karenta and Venageta. He fought for the Venageti at first, but their arrogance offended him so he came over to our side. Where he was treated about the same despite his being the only skilled field commander in the theater. So somewhere along the way he got together with the sentient natives of the Cantard and the whole crazy bunch declared the war zone an independent republic. That led to some intriguing triangular headbutting.

In the end, though, Karenta triumphed, our generals and sorcerers having been marginally less incompetent than those of Venageta while outnumbering anything Mooncalled could muster.

The tribes were on the run. And every refugee seemed determined to immigrate to TunFaire—at the very time when returning soldiers were coming home to find most jobs already taken by nonhumans and most businesses now owned or operated by dwarves or elves. Thus the permanent floating riots in our streets.

Is it not self-evident? He must be here.

Actually, I had begun to suspect that weeks ago. So had the secret police.

The Goddamn Parrot grew louder and more vile of beak. Dean became more articulate with every word, nagging in double time. And the Dead Man grew increasingly insistent.

My hangover didn’t bother me nearly as much as those three did.

It was time to go somewhere where I could be alone with my misery.

3

They didn’t turn loose willingly. In fact, as I descended to the street, Dean wished me bon voyage in words I had not realized he knew. The Goddamn Parrot fluttered past him and chased me up the street. That flashy little garbage beak did tone it down because the Dead Man shut him up. I mean, if they hang me on the testimony of a bird, who’s going to keep a roof over his head?

He would have no trouble finding somebody to take him in, but he wouldn’t find anyone as undemanding. Most folks would expect him to stay awake and devote his multiple-brained genius to their enrichment.

Oh, yes, the Loghyr is a genius. His intellect dwarfs that of anyone else I have ever met. He just don’t want to use it.

I was barely a block from the house, contemplating selling the Dead Man into slavery, when I glimpsed red hair. Since I was glancing over my shoulder at the time, it seemed possible the girl with the goodies was following me.

This did not excite me as much as you might think. Like the Dead Man, I am not big on work. Still . . . that was one tender morsel.

She wasn’t much of a sneak. Her good looks weren’t a handicap, though. You’d think every guy on the street would drop whatever throat he was throttling or would close the lid on his display tray so he could look without becoming vulnerable to shoplifters, or whatever, but hardly anyone noticed the girl. The few who did were nonhumans who shuddered as in a sudden draft and looked befuddled.

Of course you wouldn’t expect a normal dwarf to get excited about a sweet slip like that, but . . . It was weird. And I don’t like weird. Weird comes at me like I am a lightning rod for the bizarre.

I left the house considering a visit to Morley Dotes’ Joy House, to see how he was doing at turning that vegetarian thug’s harbor into an upscale hangout called The Palms. But there was no way I was going to drag this redheaded sweetmeat across Morley’s bow. He had dark elf good looks and charm to waste and was not a bit shy about taking unfair advantage of them.

I bustled down Macunado till I reached the mouth of Barley Close, a tight, dark alley no longer used to make back door deliveries because all the mom-and-pop businesses had been scared away. Buildings leaned together overhead. The alley was dark and dirty and stank of rotting vegetation despite recent heavy rains that should have sluiced it out. I stepped over the outstretched legs of a drunken ratman and tried to stay near the centerline of the Close, where the footing was least treacherous. I disturbed a family of rats making a holiday feast of a dead dog. They showed their teeth and dared me to try stealing their dinner. I gave the biggest rat a quick toe in the slats. My new honey might be scared of rats.

I drifted deep into the gloom, past sleepers of various tribes and sexes, careful to disturb no one. I’m a Golden Rule kind of guy. I don’t like it when people bother me in my home.

I paused at a cross alley eighty feet in. The sunlight blazing in from the street dry-roasted my eyeballs.

I waited. I waited a little more. Then I waited some. Then, after I had done some waiting and was about to say oh well and give it up, a woman did come to the mouth of the Close. She was the right size, but her age was off by four generations. She was a slow, raggedy street granny propped up by a crooked cane. She peered out from under a yellow straw hat with devilish concentration, like she was sure some evil was afoot inside the Close. A woman her age could not have survived the streets without becoming constitutionally paranoid.

I like to think I’m a nice guy. I did nothing to frighten her. I just waited till she decided not to enter the alley.

To my utter astonishment the Goddamn Parrot never said a word. The Dead Man really had the muzzle on him.

Looked like my ploy had failed. A girl amateur had outwitted me.

I would keep that to myself. My friends ride me hard enough as it is. I did not need to pass out ammunition.

I eased back into the street. My luck turned no worse. No traveling brawl tried to suck me in. I went to a watering trough, used some green fluid to swab the muck off my shoes. I didn’t mind making the liquid thicker. Provision of public horse troughs encourages the public to harbor horses. And horses are nature’s favorite weapon when it comes time to tormenting guys named Garrett.

I had cleaned my left shoe and was trying to get the right off without getting anything on my hand when I spotted the redhead through a sudden parting in the crowd. Our eyes met. I gave her my biggest, most charming grin and a look at my raised right eyebrow. That combination gets them every time.

She took off.

I took off after her. Now I was in my element. This is what I live for. I would have called for foxhounds and a horn, but they would have brought horses along.

The Goddamn Parrot made some kind of interrogatory noise. I didn’t catch it and he didn’t repeat himself.

4

Again I noticed that curious phenomenon: guys didn’t pay the girl any mind. Maybe my eyes were going. Maybe my run of bad luck was giving me a case of wishful thinking. Maybe those other guys were so happily married they never looked at pretty girls. Maybe the sun came up in the west this morning.

I ducked a swooping shoat and tried to catch up a little since I could not track the girl by the stir she was causing. The street was crowded like today was a holiday, but everybody was growling and snapping at everybody else. We needed some miserable weather to cool everybody down. A really hot spell might be like a torch to tinder.

I spied a familiar face headed my way, ugly as the dawn itself. Saucerhead Tharpe towered above the crowd. Nobody gave him any grief. He was a bone-breaker by trade, which meant prosperous times for him. He spotted me and hoisted a ham-sized hand. “Yo! Garrett, my man. How they hanging?” It is always good to have Saucerhead on your side, but he isn’t overly blessed with brains or a flair for language.

“Low. You notice a cute little redhead about a hundred feet up? She’s so short I can’t keep track.”

His grin broadened, exposing the remnants of truly ugly teeth. “You on a case?” Cunning fellow, he had an idea he could get me to hire him to help.

“I don’t think so. She was watching my house, so I decided to follow her around.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah.”

His grin turned into a horror show. “Dean come home? Or did the Dead Man wake up?” He winked at the Goddamn Parrot.

He was smarter than a rock, anyway. “Both.”

Saucerhead chuckled. It was the kind of chuckle I get too often. My friends figure I was put here to amuse them with my travails.

“Look, Saucerhead, this gal is going to lose me if I don’t . . . ”

“Speaking of ones that got away, I seen Tinnie Tate yesterday.”

Tinnie is one ex that my cronies won’t let go away. “Great. Come by the house later. Tell me all about it.”

“I seen Winger, too. She . . . ”

“That’s your problem.”

Our mutual acquaintance Winger, though female, is as big as me and goofier than Saucerhead. And she has the moral sense of a rabid hyena. And, despite that, she is hard not to like.

“Hey, Garrett, come on, man.”

I was drifting away.

“She had a good idea. Honest, Garrett.”

Winger is chock-full of good ideas that get me up to my crotch in crocodiles. “Then you go in on it with her.” There was a small thinning of the crowd uphill. I caught a glimpse of my quarry. She seemed to be looking back, puzzled, maybe even exasperated.

“I would, Garrett,” Saucerhead shouted. “Only need somebody with real brains to get into it with us.

“That leaves me out, don’t it?” Didn’t it? Would a guy with real brains keep following somebody when it was evident that that somebody had decided that she wanted to be followed and was getting impatient with my delays?

Seemed like a good idea at the time. We have all said that.

I considered waving so she would know I was coming, but decided to keep up pretenses.

Saucerhead followed for a way, babbling something about my manners. I showed him my worst. I didn’t answer. I trotted after my new honey. The crowds were thinning. I kept her in sight. Her passage caused no more stir than if she were the crone I had seen looking into Barley Close.

We were just past where Macunado becomes the Way of the Harlequin when she glanced back, then turned into Heartlight Lane, where some of TunFaire’s least competent astrologers and diviners keep shop.

5

“Hey, buddy,” I called to a stout-looking old dwarf lugging an old-timey homemade club. That tool was as long as him, crafted from the trunk and roots of some black sapling that had wood harder than rock. “How much you want for that thing?”

The price went up instantly. You know dwarves. You show interest in a broken clothespin . . . “Not for sale, Tall One. This is the world-renowned club Toetickler, weapon of the chieftains of the Kuble Dwarves for ten generations. It was given to the first High Gromach by the demiurge Gootch . . . ”

“Right. And it’s still got dirt on its roots, Stubby.” The dwarf swung that club down hard enough to crack a cobblestone.

“Three marks,” I barked before he gave me more details of the club’s provenance or maybe demonstrated its efficiency by tickling my favorite toes.

“Not one groat under ten, Lofty.” Even national treasures are for sale if you are a dwarf. Nothing is holy except wealth itself.

“Thanks for talking, Lowball. It was just an idea.” I started moving.

“Whoa there, Highpockets. At least make me an offer.”

“My memory must be playing tricks again. I thought I did make an offer, Shorty.”

“I mean a serious offer. Not a bad joke.”

“Three and ten, then.”

He whined. I started moving.

“Wait, Tall One. Four. All right? Four is outright theft for such a storied weapon, but I have to get some cash together before you people run us out of town. I tell you, I’m not looking forward to rooting around in the old home mines again.”

Sounded like there might be a tad of truth in that.

“Three ten and a parrot? Think what you could do with his feathers.”

The dwarf considered Mr. Big. “Four.” Nobody wanted the Goddamn Parrot.

“Done,” I sighed. I turned out my pockets. We made the exchange. The dwarf walked away whistling. There would be tall tales told at the dwarf hold tonight, of another fool taken.

But I had me a tool. And with fate seldom able to gaze on me favorably for long, I would not have long to wait to field-test Toetickler’s touch.

Heartlight Lane was not crowded, which surprised me. Given the political climate, more folks ought to be checking into their futures. I saw a lonely runecaster tossing the bones, trying to forecast her next meal, and an entrail reader much more interested in plucking his chicken carcass. Palm readers and phrenologists swapped fortunes. Aquamancers, geomancers, pyromancers, and necromancers all napped in their stalls.

Maybe customers were staying away in droves because they did not need experts to tell them that bad times were coming.

I got some interesting discount and rebate offers. The most attractive came from a dark-haired, fiery-eyed tarot reader. I promised, “I’ll be right back. Save a dance for me.”

“No, you won’t. Not if you don’t stop here. Now.”

I thought she was telling me, “That’s what you all say.” I kept on keeping on. The Goddamn Parrot started muttering to himself. Maybe the Dead Man’s compulsion was wearing off.

“I warned you, Handsome.”

How did she manage to see her cards?

I had not seen the redhead since before my negotiations with the runt arms merchant. I didn’t see her now, but something flashed around a turn of brick up ahead. The guy who laid out Heartlight Lane was either a snake stalker or a butterfly hunter. It zigs and zags and comes close to looping for no reason more discernible than the fact that that is the way it has got to go to get between the buildings. A few quick turns and the lane became deserted except for a big brown coach, its door just closing.

Empty streets are not a good sign. That means folks have smelled trouble and want no part of it.

Maybe somebody just wanted to talk to me. But then why not just come to the house?

Because I don’t always answer the door? Especially when somebody might want me to go to work? Maybe. Then there is the fact that the Dead Man can read minds.

I took a couple of cautious steps, glanced back. That tarot girl sure was a temptation. On the other hand, red hair is marvelous against a white pillowcase. On the third hand . . .

I got no chance to check my other fifteen fingers. From out of the woodwork, or cracks in the walls, or under the cobblestones, or a hole in the air came the three ugliest guys I have ever seen. They had it bad. I think they wanted to look human but their mothers had messed them up with their hankering after lovers who spelled ugly with more than one G. All three made me look runty, too, and I am a solid six feet two, two hundred ten pounds of potato-hard muscle and blue eyes to die for. “Hi, guys. You think we’re gonna get some rain?” I pointed upward.

None of them actually looked. Which left me with a nasty suspicion that they were smarter than me. I would have looked. And they hadn’t followed some wench-o’-the-wisp up here where some humongous brunos could bushwhack them, either.

They said nothing and I didn’t wait for introductions and didn’t wait for a sales pitch. I feinted left, dodged right, swung my new club low and hard and took the pins right out from under one behemoth. Maybe the dwarf did me a favor after all. I went after another guy’s head like I wanted to knock it all the way to the river on one hop. Big as he was, he went ass over appetite and I started to think, hey, things aren’t going so bad after all.

The first guy got up. He started toward me. Meantime, the guy I hadn’t hit planted himself resolutely in the way in case I decided to go back the way that I had come. My first victim came at me. He wasn’t even limping. And his other buddy was back up, too, no worse for wear, either.

You could not hurt these guys? Oh my oh my.

“Argh!” said the Goddamn Parrot.

“You said a beakful, you piebald buzzard.”

I wound up for a truly mighty swing, turned slowly, trying to pick a victim. I picked wrong. I could not have chosen right.

I took the guy I hadn’t hit. The plan was to whack him good, then display my skill as a sprinter. The plan didn’t survive first contact with the enemy. When I swung he grabbed my club in midair, took it away, and flipped it aside with such force that it cracked when it hit a nearby building.

“Oh my oh my.”

“Argh!” the Goddamn Parrot observed again.

I went for the fast feet option, but a hairy hand attached to an arm that would have embarrassed a troll snagged my right forearm. I flailed and flopped and discovered ingenious ways to use the language. I got me some much needed exercise, but I did not go anywhere. And big ugly didn’t work up a sweat keeping me from going.

Another one grabbed my other arm. His touch was almost gentle, but his fingers were stone. I knew he could powder my bones if he wanted. Which did not slow my effort to get away. I didn’t give up till the third one grabbed my ankles and lifted.

The Goddamn Parrot walked down my back muttering to himself. Mumble and mutter was all he seemed capable of anymore.

The whole crew lockstepped to the coach. I lifted my head long enough to see a matched set of four huge horses, the same shade of brown. On the driver’s seat was a coachman all in black, looking down at me but invisible within the depths of a vast black cowl. He needed a big sickle to make the look complete.

The coach was fancy enough, but no coat of arms proclaimed its owner’s status. That didn’t do wonders for my confidence. Here in TunFaire even the villains like to show off.

With nary a word, the ugly brothers chucked me inside. My skull tried to bust through the far door. That door didn’t give an inch. My headbone didn’t give much, either. Like a moth with his wings singed, I fluttered down into that old lake of darkness.

6

When you are in my racket—confidential investigations, lost stuff found, work that doesn’t force me to take a real job—you expect to get knocked around sometimes. You don’t get to like it, but you do catch on to the stages and etiquettes involved. Especially if you are the kind of dope who trails a girl you know wants to be followed, right into the perfect spot for an ambush. That kind of guy gets more than his share of lumps and deserves every one of them. I bet guys like Morley never get bopped on the noggin and tossed into mystery coaches.

Your first move after you start to stagger back toward the light—assuming you are clever enough not to do a lot of whimpering—is to pretend that you are not recovering. That way maybe you will learn something. Or maybe you can take them by surprise, whip up on them, and get away. Or maybe they will all be out to dinner and some genius will have forgotten to take the keys out of the door of your cell.

Or maybe you will just lie there puking your socks up because of a rocking concussion rolling your hangover.

“O what foul beasts these mortals be! Jorken! Fetch a mop!” The voice was stentorian, as though the speaker was some ham passion player who never ever stepped offstage.

A woman’s voice added, “Bring an extra bucket. They leak at the other end as well.”

Oh no. I already had a bath this week.

“Why me? How come, all of a sudden, I get stuck with scutwork?”

“Because you’re the messenger,” said a wind from the abyss, cold as a winter’s grave. That had to be my buddy the faceless coachman.

I was confused. My natural state, some would say. But this was bizarre.

Maybe it was time to get up and meet the situation head-on. I gathered my corded muscles and heaved. Two fingers and a toe twitched. So I exercised my skill with colorful dialogue. “Rowrfabble! Gile stynbobly!” I was on a roll, but I didn’t recognize the language I was speaking.

I cooled down fast when a load of icy water hit me.

“Freachious moumenpink!” Driven by a savage rage, I managed a full half pushup. “Snrubbing scuts!” Hey! Was that a real word?

Another bucket of water hit me hard enough to knock me off my hands and roll me over. A ragmop came out of the mist. It started swabbing. Somebody attached to the mop muttered while he worked. That was a dwarfish custom. But this beanpole was so tall he could only have been adopted.

There was something weird about the mopman. Beside the fact that he carried on several sides of a conversation all by himself. He had little pigeon wings growing out of his head where his ears ought to be. Also, you could sort of see through him whenever he moved in front of a bright light.

A really intense light blazed up. I managed to get into a sitting position but could not look up. That light was worse than sunshine on the brightest-ever morning after a two-kegger.

“Mr. Garrett.”

I didn’t lie about it. I didn’t admit anything, either. I didn’t react at all. I was busy trying not to make more work for that princely fellow with the mop. I succeeded. And I managed to get one hand clamped over my eyes. Somewhere way in the back of my head a little voice told me I should take this as a lesson in chemistry. Don’t play with stuff that might blow up in your face. Like strange redheads.

I know. I know. All redheads are strange. But there is strange and strange.

A different woman said, “Ease up on the glow. You’re blinding him.” She had a voice of a type you never hear except from the women who haunt your fantasies. It was the voice of the lover you have been waiting for all these years.

Something was going on here.

The light faded till I could stand to open my eyes. It continued to wane till there was no more than you would find in your average torchlit dungeon, which was my first guess as to my whereabouts. But I didn’t recognize any voices. I thought I pretty well knew everybody who had a dungeon in the family inventory.

Well, it’s a big city.

Hell. No. Not a dungeon. This was some kind of big cellar with a high ceiling and only a couple of really dirty windows practically lost in rusty steel bars, way, way up at the back. The cellar was mostly empty except for pillars supporting the structure overhead. The floor was old stone, a dark slate-gray. Hard as a rock, hard on a sleeper’s back.

I took inventory. I didn’t have any bits missing or any open wounds. My headache had not abated, though. My main injury was a knot on my conk from my attempt to dive through that coach door.

And I still had a hangover.

Maybe they turned down the lights too far. Now I could see my captors. All eight of them. I would rather not have.

There was a long drink of water who maybe used to be a pigeon, your basic roof rat, leaning on his mop. There were the three characters I had met already, all looking bigger and uglier than ever. Those guys could get work as gargoyles at any of the major cathedrals. Then there were three females. None was my redhead. The closest to her was a brunette with a paler skin and eyes that were smouldering pits of promise and curves that had been drawn by a dreaming celestial geometrician. Her lips made me want to bounce up and run over there. Presumably she owned the sexy voice.

Next to her was a gal with the biggest hair I have ever seen. What looked like snakes seemed to peek out. Her skin was a sort of pale pus-green color. Her lips were gorgeously tasty but dark green. When she smiled she showed you sharp vampire teeth. Not to mention that she sported two extra arms, the better to whatever you with. I decided I would put off asking her out.

She stared at me with a heat—or a hunger—that set those old frozen-toed mice to rambling along my spine.

The third woman was a giant of a blonde, maybe ten feet tall and at least that many years past her prime. She had put on weight where women generally do not need much, and overall she projected a sort of middle-class goodwifely dowdiness—with a suggestion of all the hidden bitterness that so often goes with that.

A guy I took to be her old man sprawled on some sort of stone throne that was so chipped and crumbly it looked like it could collapse under his weight. He was a couple of feet taller than the blonde. He wasn’t wearing much but a stripey leather loincloth that looked like it had been ripped off a saber-toothed tiger on the fly and nobody bothered to cure it. He was built like a muscle freak who had gone to seed. He could have lugged minotaurs on those shoulders in his prime.

His eyes were a blazing blue, almost as gorgeous as mine. His hair was white and there was a lot of it, flying out all around his head in tangles and spikes. His beard was white, too, and had not been trimmed in decades. Despite his lovely eyes he seemed to be bored or almost asleep.

Everybody stared at me like they expected me to do something clever. I did not have my cane nor my tap shoes, so I couldn’t go into my dance routine. Those words that escaped my mouth still had no discernible meaning, so I could not sing. I reached deep into my trick bag for the last thing left.

I tried to stand up.

I made it! But to stay standing up I had to hang on to one of the ugly guys. This particular one lacked a forehead and had a mouth like a lamprey. I bet all the girls wanted to tongue-kiss him. His eyes were fish eyes, too, yellow and shadowy and covered by that milky membrane.

That popped up and down a couple of times, but otherwise he ignored me. I managed to croak, “Who are you people? What are you?”

Two of these characters could pass for giants and one for human, but the rest were not like anything I had ever seen on the streets of TunFaire. You spend any time at all out there, you will see members or virtually every sentient species, from pixies the size of your thumb to giants twenty feet tall. You will even see some horrors like the ratmen, who were created by sorcery run amok.

Maybe that was what we had here, fugitives from some cellar way up at the pinnacle of the Hill, where our magician masters live. Trouble was, for the last four generations most of them people had spent their lives in the Cantard, managing the war. None of them would have messed up this much.

Some things you could be sure of just by experience.

I sagged. My ugly buddy did not help. I hung on like a drowning man, gradually pulling myself back into our world. I had had practice climbing lampposts on nights when the weather had turned incredibly alcoholic. “I know you people can talk.”

Speaking of talk, where was my curse, the feathered prince of gab, the Goddamn Parrot? He sure wasn’t in this basement—unless he was dead. Even the Dead Man could not stop his beak from rattling here.

The big guy, who was pretty obviously the head weirdo, nodded to the guy who had feathers for ears. But Beanpole Man just looked at me and shrugged like he did not have a notion.

I muttered. “I have been kidnapped by morons.”

Yeah. Right. And what did that say about the blinding intellect of the guy who got kidnapped?

Gravity would not leave me alone. I sagged yet again.

Maybe I should let go, fall back down, go to sleep, and eventually wake up again somewhere else, where all the nightmares had not yet wormed their ways into every human mind.

Et tu, Cthulhu? The world is full of crackpots, and who can you trust?

7

The greenish woman moved toward me. “Please accept our apologies, Mr. Garrett. We needed to see you quickly. Daiged, Rhogiro, and Ringo,” she said, aiming a wicked nail with each name by way of making introductions, “had to work fast. They aren’t used to being gentle.”

“No kidding.”

I looked around for the Goddamn Parrot. Still no sign of him. Maybe he had had sense enough to get away. Maybe I was in real luck and he mouthed off and got his neck wrung.

Somehow some of the woman’s arms had disappeared. Her hair had become more managable. Her color had improved, her teeth had lost their sharpness, and her neckline now plunged to navel level.

I had fallen in with shapeshifters.

Now that I noticed it, the giants were several feet shorter, the ugly boys were less repulsive, and the long pale guy had ears. The sexy gal had changed, too, though she had been fine the way she was. She had shortened up and gone blonde. She giggled. Her appeal had not faded a bit.

Why would she want to turn into a bimbo?

Soon they all looked normal, within the very extended range considered normal in TunFaire. They could have gotten by outside—except that they tended to be a little ethereal in a strong light.

Did somebody feed me magic mushrooms while I was asleep?

I said, “That’s a better look for you.” The woman was too close. I watched her hair. Fleas and lice are bad enough.

She flashed an inviting smile, licked her lips with a tongue that split at the end. She told me, “I appreciate your thoughts. They’re flattering. But you don’t want to get too close to me.” She gestured at the blonde, who stared at me like she wanted me for dinner. In a less stressful moment I would have leaped onto her plate. I failed to correct the snake woman’s misconception about her effect on me.

“You got any chairs around here?” I had a concussion for sure. I was keeping my balance about as good as a ratman on weed.

“I’m sorry. We jumped into this rather precipitously.”

I lowered myself back down to the floor so I would not have so far to fall when the time came. “Tell me something useful. Who are you? What are you? What do you want? Give me some of the good stuff before I fade away again here.” My head really hurt.

“We are the last of the Godoroth. Through no wish of ours, nor any fault, we have become entangled in a struggle with the Shayir.”

“The sun of knowledge shines on me,” I muttered. “I’m afraid not.” I didn’t have a clue.

“Only one group can survive. This place is the cellar of our last mortal follower. We will shelter here till the contest is decided. In his prayers our follower suggested we enlist your aid. By temperament you are well suited.”

“Leave my tailor out of this.”

She scowled. She didn’t get it. “We were considering bringing in a nonbeliever already. The Shayir must have gotten wind of you and so set a trap for you.”

“Must be the bump on the head. I’m not understanding any of this.” I asked again. “Who are you? What are you?”

The blonde giggled. That rogue Garrett. He says the cleverest things. However, the boss guy didn’t find me amusing. Lightning crackled on his brow. Literally. He had grown a tad again, too. Should have clued me right then. His type don’t have any patience.

“You’ve never heard of the Godoroth?”

“ ’Fraid not. None of those other names, either.”

“Ignorance was one point that recommended you.” She didn’t sound like she believed in ignorance, though.

Thunders pranced around the big guy’s melon. The brunette flashed him a look that might have been disgust. Then she told me, “I’m Magodor. Collectively, we are the Godoroth. We were the patron gods of the Hahr, one of the first tribes to settle this region. They were primitive by your standards. They planted crops and herded cattle but were not very good at it. They lived as much by raiding as by agriculture. Almost all physical trace of them has vanished. Their blood still runs strong in the rulers of this city, but their culture is extinct. And their gods are on the verge of extinction.”

That bad at agriculture—and the interest in institutionalized thievery sounded like a cultural aspect that had persisted amongst our rulers.

“The worship of the Shayir was brought into this region by the Ox-Riders of Grim during the Gritny Conquest. The Gritny were much like the Hahr in the ways they lived. They did not last long. They were just the first wave in an age of great migrations. Every decade saw its raiders or conquerors. Each wave left its seed and a few settlers and their ideas. Of the Ox-Riders no physical trace remains. But their gods, the Shayir, are persistent and resilient. And now, brought low by time, we and the Shayir must fight for a place on the Street of the Gods.”

Street of the Gods. That was the insiders’ name for the avenue that runs the length of what cynical and undereducated types refer to as the Dream Quarter, that part of the South Side where TunFaire’s thousand and one gods all have their main temples. Another legacy of the remote past, from an age when the temporal power reigned supreme and was totally paranoid about the worldly ambitions of priesthoods. Those old emperors had wanted every priest where he could be watched easily—and could be round easily at massacre time.

I looked around. Gods? Right.

“You know how it works on the Street? It’s all marketing. If you win a good following, you migrate west to temples and cathedrals nearer the Hill. If you lose market share, you slide downhill eastward, toward the river. For three decades we have hung on by our nails, in the last temple to the east, while the Shayir holed up across the Street and one place west, with a monotheistic god named Scubs in the status niche between us. But Scubs won a family of converts last month. And immigrants from the Cantard have imported a god named Antitibet who has enough followers to seize a place a third of the way to the west. Which means a lot of shuffling around is due. And which also means that either we or the Shayir will have to leave the Street.”

Yeah. I understood that. I knew how things worked in the Dream Quarter. I didn’t have a clue why, or how, the priests worked it all out amongst themselves, but the results were evident.

Farthest west are the Chattaree cathedral of the Church and the Orthodox compound. These are feuding cousin religions that, with their various schismatic offspring, claim the majority of TunFaire’s believers. These are rich and powerful cults.

And at the east end are dozens of cults like this one represented here, gods and pantheons known only to a handful of faithful. At that end of the street the temples are really nothing but worn-out storefronts.

I thought I understood the situation. Which did not mean I believed these characters were actual gods and goddesses. Didn’t mean I didn’t believe, either. You ask me, the evidence in the god business is always thin and, in most cases, thoroughly cooked by priests who survive by charging admission to heavenly attention. But this is TunFaire, the wonderful city where any damned thing can happen.

“You are a skeptic,” Magodor observed. She looked very pretty right then.

I confessed with a nod. I did not confide my own beliefs, or the lack thereof.

Wisps of smoke trailed from the big guy’s nostrils. He was up to eighteen feet tall. If he got any more perturbed he would run out of headroom.

“We will explore your thinking another time. For the moment let’s just say that we Godoroth are in a situation both simple and desperate. We or the Shayir are going to leave the Street. For us that would mean oblivion. The Street has a power all its own, a manna that helps sustain us. Off the Street we would be little more than wraiths, and that only transiently.”

Maybe. The ugly boys looked as solid and eternal as basalt.

She reiterated, in case her point had gone over my head the past several times: “If we’re forced off the Street we are done, Mr. Garrett. Lost. Forgotten.”

I’m not often accused of thinking before I open my big yap. I could not be convicted this time, either. “What actually does happen to gods who run out their string? You have gods or your own to report to, stand on the scales, be judged and all?”

Rumble-rumble. A crown of little thunderheads rode the big guy’s head now. He was over twenty feet tall. Too tall for the cellar, even sitting down. He was bent over, glaring at me ferociously. I got the impression that, despite being the boss, he was not too bright.

Isn’t that a lovely notion? Even in the supernatural world it isn’t necessarily the cream that rises to the top.

Lack of brilliance was a suspicion I had entertained concerning numerous gods. Mostly their myths consist of vicious behaviors toward one another and their worshippers, spiced up with lots of adultery, incest, bestiality, parricide, and whatnot.

“Some just fade till even the ghost is gone. Others become mortals, prey for time and the worm.” I cannot say that she sounded entirely convincing.

The big guy closed his eyes, breathed lightning. His companion had better control. She had gotten herself down to six feet tall and was quite attractive in a mature, country sort of way. I had no trouble picturing her galloping across the sky on a stormy night, wearing an iron hat with horns, scattering ravens while harvesting the fallen heroes. Trouble was, she eyed me like she had no trouble picturing me dangling across the neck of her mount.

My head still hurt. My stomach kept rolling over. I wanted desperately to go back to sleep.

I said, “I’m not comfortable here.” I was also, still, very confused, completely distrusting of my senses. “Is there somewhere we can sit down, just you and me, so I can get a handle on this without being distracted?” If I wasn’t trying to keep from stepping on my tongue when I looked at the blonde I was worrying about the big guy’s temper or about the ugly brothers taking a notion to bang me around again. I did know I was in one bad spot, whatever these things were.

The big guy spat from the side of his mouth, like those country boys who chew weed instead of smoking it. A ball of fire hit stone a few yards from my hand, melted right down into the slate. Charming.

8

There was another cellar above part of the one where I had awakened. It was more normal, used for wine storage and lumber rooms. Lots of dust and spiders. Plenty of rats. Refreshingly mundane. My companion illuminated our way with a light from within herself. She seemed fuzzy but appeared solid once we climbed into a kitchen where a dozen women were cooking and baking. They paused to stare, baffled. Who was this guy coming out of the cellar?

Apparently they didn’t see Magodor. Nor did they seem inclined to challenge my presence. They went back to work. That was not reassuring. It meant they were used to strange doings and to minding their own business.

Their number meant I had to be way up the Hill. And that meant the house probably belonged to one of the great and most wicked of the sorcerers who are the true powers in Karenta.

I hate it when I get noticed by those people. That never is good for me.

Magodor led me into a small drawing room apparently set up just for us. She told me, “You will have to manage without refreshments. We’re not allowing ourselves to be seen by mortals.”

I dropped into a chair so overstuffed I sank almost out of sight. I caught an arm and saved myself. In moments I was so comfortable I was ready to sleep. I knew I had a concussion, so I fought the drowsiness. “How come?”

“Our enemies would find out where we are.”

“That’s a problem?”

She offered me a sour look. Must have been my tone. “You’ve never seen a war of the gods. Pray you don’t.” The woman with all the teeth and arms and the snake problem shone through momentarily. “Neither we nor the Shayir need worry about injuring mortals under our protection.” But wasn’t that sort of thing supposed to be bad for business in general?

The nasty side faded. Lovely. Yum!

“That wouldn’t be smart, Garrett.”

“Huh?”

“Your thoughts are obvious. They were with Adeth. They were with Star. They are with me. You should know that my lovers seldom survive. I offer the warning only because we need you healthy. I am Magodor the Destroyer.”

Into my head flooded images of famine and pestilence, of acres of bones, of cities burning and ravens darkening the sky. Boy, would she be a fun date. When the visions cleared, Magodor looked her loveliest yet, a make-the-celibate-monks-howl-at-the-unfair-moon sort of girl.

“Resist me.”

“Will do.” I was not sure that these Godoroth were not just slick con artists with a little hedge wizardry, aiming to use me as a stalking-horse. But why take chances?

“Until we triumph over the Shayir.” If anything, she grew more desirable.

“Uh,” I said, wondering if I ought not to hold a hand over my eyes. “Let’s have some details. Like who was who down there and what you expect me to do.”

“Meaning, if we really are gods, why not handle our problems ourselves?”

“Something like that.” She talked too much for any god I ever heard of.

“Even gods are constrained.”

“How?”

“We cannot, for example, invade the temple of the Shayir. More will become evident in time. You haven’t agreed to help.”

I didn’t intend to, either. I didn’t tell her that. I don’t have much use for gods of any sort. I figured what I needed to do was be polite, stall, ride it out, and soon enough I would be out of there. All the gods I had heard of had notoriously short attention spans. They all wanted to go boff their father’s girlfriend or their brother or their pet three-headed dragon. Two hours after I was gone, these characters wouldn’t remember me.

‘Are you going to help?”

“You haven’t told me anything. I don’t even know who I would be representing. I know the name of one lovely who dotes on devastation. I know the name of a long drink of water who has feathered ears. That’s not much.”

“Jorken the Messenger. He is of no consequence.”

“Then there are the big guys. Daiged, Rhogiro, and Ringo? What are they?”

“Avars. We inherited them. They were servants of the Old Ones. They have no attributes but strength.”

“Don’t forget ugly. They’re really big on ugly.”

“You have no idea. And of course, being you, you’re really interested in Star.”

“Star?”

“She has an older name, but it means Morning Star. She is the whore avatar of Woman, the Temptress, the temple prostitute who always comes across.”

“How romantic.”

“I could see the romance in your eyes whenever you looked at her.”

“Some things we can’t control.”

“Or you wouldn’t have followed Adeth.”

“Adeth?”

“The one trying to lead you into a trap. You are lucky we were watching. You would not have enjoyed her company as much as Star’s.”

“The redhead? Some things we can’t control.”

“If you must lose it, concentrate on Star. She might get interested. She hasn’t turned it on for you yet, Garrett.”

Wow. She ought to bottle and sell that indifference, then. Be a comedown from the god racket, but she would get rich and famous and maybe famous would put her feet on the ladder back to the top. I could get rich myself, managing her. Cut myself a percentage of the take and . . .

Sssss!

Snakes out of green hair. Magodor was irritated. I don’t think she could read my mind, but she was bright enough to realize I wasn’t paying attention. I came alert fast. They might not be gods, but they might believe they were and had every right to be vicious and capricious. I put on my killer grin, hoisted an eyebrow charmingly, said, “I’m awake! I’m awake!” same as I used to tell the sergeant of the guard when he caught me with my attention wandering back in those good old Marine Corps days, dancing with the Venageti in the islands.

“You don’t seem especially interested.”

“Consider the mortal’s viewpoint. He’s been kidnapped. He has a knife across his throat. Somebody supposedly wants to hire him, but he can’t find out what for. You haven’t said a word about payment. The one thing that does come across is that these would-be employers don’t look any more trustworthy or stable than any other gods.”

With every word sweet Maggie grew less attractive. I quit before she decided to drop me down a hole and interview elsewhere. “Why not finish telling me about the others?”

I basked in the pale green light of her disapproval. She wasn’t used to backtalk. But she took control. Maybe she was desperate.

Doubtless, in the shadows of her heart, she put a tick beside “Garrett” in her book of destruction.

“How about the boss couple? Who are they?”

“Imar and Imara.” I didn’t have to be told, brother and sister and man and wife. “Lord and Mistress of All, Skystrider and Earth Mother. Sun and Moon, Scatterer of Stars and She Who Calls Forth the Spring.”

“And so forth,” I muttered. When you have the habit of backmouthing crime bosses and Guard chieftains, it ain’t easy to break the circle.

“And so forth. We tend to accumulate titles, of both supplication and accusation.”

That fit with what I knew about other gods. The Church, where I was raised, didn’t have a full crew of gods like most religions. We had one God, No God But God—and about ten thousand saints who covered the same ground as lesser gods and goddesses. The Church had a whole heavenly bureaucracy, with saints who didn’t do anything more strenuous than find lost buttons or keep an eye on the wine grape harvest. The Church’s supernatural establishment was so big the whole thing would continue on inertia for ages after its last believer perished.

“All right. Now that I know who you are, I have a vague notion what your problem is. One temple. Two bunches of gods. Whoever loses out loses big time.”

“Exactly.” She was all business now. As if a beautiful woman can ever be all business, however much she wants to think that. Nature does not care about the clutter in the mind. Decorum is just another obstacle to be surmounted by instinct.

I tried being all business, too.

Instinct could get me dead.

I reminded me that lady spiders eat their mates.

9

“Listen,” Magodor snapped. “You get to hear this once.”

Generous. “I’m all ears, Maggie.” I tried to wiggle them encouragingly, but I just don’t have that talent. What an unfair world. A big goof like Saucerhead Tharpe can wiggle one of his ears, but I am stuck with . . .

“Garrett.”

Whoops. “I’m awake! I’m awake!”

“You may not accept it, but we gods have dealings amongst ourselves. Few of your priests are aware of this.”

“Yeah. Mostly they’re big on declaring their own gods to be the only gods.”

“Partly. Some younger religions are intolerant that way. About rules. There is a set that governs the situation that exists now. Additionally, there are custom and past practice. It’s not explicitly forbidden, but past practice is that pantheons don’t fight over places on the Street.”

“Bad for business, eh?”

“You have no idea. Customarily, a committee of more successful gods oversee a competition. Winner takes all.”

“Ah.” That was my polished professional ah, my ah of illumination.

“The competitions are unique each time so the contestants cannot rig the results beforehand.”

“I’ll bet they never even try.”

Maggie smiled me a genuine smile. “Indeed.”

“So what’s the contest? Where do I fit in?”

“The prize temple has been sealed. Neither the Shayir nor we can get in. Somewhere there is a key. Whoever finds it, and recognizes it, can open and take over the temple.”

I used my eyebrow trick. “Oh?” She wasn’t impressed.

“It’s supposed to be ordinary but rendered invisible to immortal eyes. The lock it fits cannot be broken. It will open only to the key. The Board probably expects us to rely on our faithful to do the legwork, but there is no specific prohibition against employing a professional. So we turned to you. And it seems that the Shayir, apparently having gotten wind of our interest, tried to lure you away.”

“I see,” I said, not sure that I saw anything. “I’m supposed to find this key, scoot to this temple, and let you in before the Shayir find it.”

“That’s the meat of it.”

“Interesting.” If I was not caught up inside some bizarre con. That would fit my luck. Time and again I get dragged in where nobody plays me even close to straight.

All part of the business.

I had questions. Were the contesting gods, though discouraged from bushwhacking each other, allowed to make life hard for the opposition’s mortals? I have enough troubles.

Maggie looked at me like she meant to glare a hole through.

“It’s worth thinking about. My weirdest case yet. Great for my references later.” I had to get out without making commitments. I knew I could not get away with a flat no.

“There’s a time limit, Garrett. The sands are running already. We have maybe another hundred hours.”

Gah. “What happens if nobody finds the key?”

“These southern immigrants could bring more gods than Antitibet.”

“Everybody loses?”

“It has happened before.”

“Let’s talk money, then.”

Her face tightened. Prospective clients never want to talk about money.

I told her, “I have a household to support. The usual story stuff—like maybe a night with Star, like a night in Elf Hill, wonderful as that might be—won’t put food on the table.”

10

“I have hovered above a thousand battlefields, Garrett. I can tell you where the treasure of a hundred vanquished armies are hidden.”

Handy trick. “Excellent. Then clue me about one small one that’s close by.”

Her green began to rise. But she nodded abruptly. “Very well. The workman is worthy of his hire. And it is necessary that we trust one another. There is no time for anything else.” She stalked across the room, bad Magodor becoming luscious Maggie as she walked. My instinctual side was adequately impressed. “Come see, Garrett.”

She indicated a hand mirror on the room’s small mantelpiece. There was nothing mystical about it. The dwarves produce them by the thousands. Maggie passed a hand over the metal in a circular motion, as though polishing it. A mist formed between her hand and the metal. That faded. The mirror no longer reflected here and now.

Woodland scene with men who rode desperately, low upon the necks of lathered horses. Arrows fell around them. A rider fell. The rest swept on into forest so dense their horses could make little headway. The riders dismounted and fled on foot. One led them to a trail hidden in the growth.

“Amis the Third. In flight from the uprising masterminded by his brother Alis. He failed to make proper sacrifices. We turned our eyes away. We were strong in those times. Here. This is the treasure they were able to carry away. They buried it in a badger’s den. It is still there.” Her hand made that wiping motion again. The view backed off enough to give me a good idea where to look. Then the view changed.

Now the fugitives were cornered. Their guide had led them into a trap. Their pursuers showed no mercy.

“That’s inside the wall now, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. That will do for a retainer if it’s still there.”

“I wouldn’t have chosen something that wasn’t. One thing more.” She took a cord from around her waist, a cord that had not been visible till she unwound it. It was four feet long. She wrapped one end around her left hand once, let the cord dangle from between thumb and forefinger, drew the thumb and forefinger of her right hand along the length of the cord.

The cord became as stiff as an arrow. “Neat trick.”

She jabbed it, swordlike, right into my breadbasket.

“Oof!” said I.

“Had I pinched the end down into a point, so, it would have gone through you.”

“Uhm.”

She swung the cord, hit me on the left elbow. Right on the funnybone. I said something like, “Yeow! Oh shining wondrous mudsuckers fingushing wowzgoggle! That hurts!”

“Pain is the best teacher. Watch.” She reversed her fingerwork. The cord fell limp. She was a lefty. I was not surprised. Most artists and sorcerers I run into seem to be. So are most of the more successful villains. The really stupid bad guys, the kind who try to get in somewhere by sliding down the chimney without checking first to see if there is a fire burning, are always righties. But I am not a lefty myself, so not all righties are dumb.

Magodor grabbed the middle of the cord and pulled. It kept getting longer. “Just like this, Garrett. Hands extended, level, palms up, heels of your hands together. Pull outward from the middle. It will stretch as long as you need it to.”

“That’s one handy piece of rope.”

“Yes. It is.” She stopped when she had twenty-five feet of cord. “It can be used as a garrote, too.”

“I saw that right off.” It looked very much like the ritual garrotes the Kef sidhe use to carry out their holy murders.

“Pay attention. To shorten it you rumple it all up in a ball, so.” The cord crushed up small. She rolled the wad around on her palms, grabbed the ends that were sticking out, pulled. The cord was four feet long again.

She stretched it to ten feet. “If you need more than one piece of line, tie a slip knot in the middle, so. Pull out a loop as long as you need. Cut the loop right at the knot.” She held cord and knot with two hands. Another hand clipped the cord with a thin knife. Yet another hand dealt with the second piece of cord, which she handed to me. She dropped one end of what was left, grabbed the knot and slid it right to the end.

I had seen this trick’s cousin before. It was in the arsenal of most street conjurers. Only it didn’t seem to be a trick this time.

She took the cord back from me, wadded, rolled, had one four-foot piece again. “I will want this back.”

“Darn! I was afraid of that.”

She eyed me sharply. “I’ll show you one more thing. For you this is likely to be its most useful facility.”

She stretched the cord to six feet, tied a small bowline at one end, ran the other end through the resulting loop, forming a large noose. She set the circle of cord on the carpet, stepped inside, lifted the cord. Everything of her below the rising cord vanished. In a moment there were just hands floating in the air. Those disappeared as she pulled the loop shut. “Pull the cord inside but leave it hanging.” I could hear her fine.

“That’s astounding.”

“There is still one little hole up high where someone can see inside. You must be careful about making sounds. You can be heard. If you take reasonable precautions neither people nor animals should be able to scent you.” A knot appeared in the air. Fingers poked through, expanded the loop outward. It dropped.

Magodor stepped out. She untied the bowline, handed me the cord. Her fingers were soft and hot, but I jerked away from the prick of a talon as sharp as a razor. She raised a finger to her lips.

I pulled that cord around my waist the way she had worn it. It stayed in place without any special tucking or tying. I couldn’t see it but could feel it. I observed, “The sands are running. How do I get out of here?” See? No commitment at all. Any she heard she made up herself out of wishful thinking.

“Abyss.”

The guy who had driven the coach floated out of a shadow. I had not suspected his presence. Magodor was pleased by my surprise. “Show Mr. Garrett to the street.”

Abyss looked at me from eyes that were leagues away inside his hood. The air grew cold. I got the reeling he resented being forced to bother with me. I thought of a couple of cracks but doubted he had the brain or sense of humor to understand. And I still had to get out of there.

As I left that room, Magodor said, “Be careful. The Shayir are desperate and dangerous.”

“Right.” The Godoroth, of course, were just playful puppies.

I encountered several servants before leaving the house, startling every one. None paid Abyss any mind, though one who passed close by suffered one of those unexpected chills that sometimes fall upon you for no obvious reason.

Abyss never said a word. I felt his eyes upon me for a long time after I got my feet onto cobblestones.

11

Just playful puppies, the Godoroth.

I moved fast for a few blocks, just to get some distance. Then I stopped to get my bearings.

I had been right. The place was right up there. I didn’t recognize the particular house, out it wouldn’t take much effort to find out who owned it. I wondered if I should bother. Knowing might be too scary.

Before I moved on, I charted a course unlikely to lead me into trouble. I had to get to the Dead Man. I needed some serious advice. I had fallen into deep shit if I was dealing with real gods. I might be into it deep anyway.

I moved fast and tried to watch every which way at once, sure that the effort was a waste because I was dealing with shapeshifters who could walk behind me and just be something else every time I looked around.

My head still hurt, though my hangover had faded. I was past the sleepiness, but I was starved and all I really wanted was a sample of Dean’s cooking.

The streets were not crowded. Up there they never are. But times have changed. I saw several enterprising pushcart operators trying to sell trinkets or services. They would not have dared in times past. Used to be privately hired security thugs would send their kind scurrying with numerous bruises.

They still did, I discovered. I came on several brunos bouncing an old scissor sharpener all over an acre of street. They eyeballed me but saw I was headed downhill. Why risk any pain encouraging me to hurry? I guess those other cartmen were around because the thugs did not have time to get them all. Or they had purchased a private license from the guards.

Not long after I crossed the boundary into the workaday real world, I realized that I had acquired a tail. She didn’t give me a good look, so I could not be sure, but I suspected she might have had red hair when I was on the back end of the chase.

Sometimes you just got more balls than brains. You do stuff that don’t make sense later. Especially if you blow it.

I was lucky this time but still can’t figure out why I headed for Brookside Park instead of going home. If that was the redhead back there she knew where I lived.

The park was a mile out of my way, too. It is a big tract of trees and brush and reservoirs fed by springs that fill a creek running off the flank of the Hill. There are Royal fishponds and a Royal aviary and a stand of four-story granaries and silos supposedly kept full in case of siege or disaster. I wouldn’t bet much on there being a stash if ever we are forced to tap those resources. Corruption in TunFaire is such that the officials in charge probably don’t even go through bureaucratic motions before selling whatever the farmers bring in.

But, hell. Maybe I am too cynical.

The park police force, never numerous nor energetic nor effective at their best, had worse problems than the thugs up the Hill. Whole tribes of squatters had set up camp. Again I wondered why they found TunFaire so attractive. The Cantard is hell by anybody’s reckoning, but a lot less so if you were born there. Why leave the hell you know, walk hundreds of miles, plunk yourself down in a town where not only do you have no prospects but the natives all hate you and don’t need much excuse to do you grief?

On the other hand—and I don’t understand why—TunFaire is a dream for this whole end of the world, the golden city. Maybe you can’t see why if you are looking at it from the inside.

The woman gave me more room out there, off the street, so she would be less obvious. I didn’t get a better look.

I strode briskly, hup two three four. Up and down hump and swale, round bush and copse. I darted into a small, shady stand of evergreens in a low place, careful not to disturb the old needles on the ground. Hey, I used to be Force Recon. I was the bear in the woods.

I selected a friendly shadow, did the trick with the cord that was supposed to make me invisible. I waited.

She was careful. You have to be when you are tracking somebody and they drop out of sight. They could be setting an ambush.

I didn’t plan to jump her. I just wanted to try my new toy and get a look at someone who seemed interested in me.

She was about six feet tall, dishwater blonde, sturdy, maybe twenty-five, better groomed than most gals you see on the street. She had an adequate supply of curves but wasn’t dressed to brag. She wore a homespun kind of thing that would have looked better cut up and sewed up and used to dress large batches of potatos. From what I could see she lacked legs and feet. Her skirts were that long. She made me think of a younger version of Imar’s wife, Imara.

She moved cautiously, as though she knew I had turned. She eased past not ten feet away. I held my breath. It was obvious she could not see me. It was just as obvious that she felt I was real close. She had the heebie-jeebies. I restrained my boyish side and didn’t yell “Boo!” I studied her but didn’t come up with a clue. She might be some nightmare in disguise. Whatever, she was no smouldering redhead.

She seemed human. Do devils get the heebie-jeebies?

She decided to get the hell out of there before bad things happened. Which suggested that bad things could. But that might only be because she was Shayir and knew something unpleasant about the Godoroth.

Some surprise that would be.

I do a good tail. I decided to put off seeing the Dead Man, and suffering his wisdom, long enough to see where this mouse ran. I spotted her a lead.

I discovered that becoming invisible imposes limitations. Like I was enclosed inside some kind of sack I could see through. There was plenty of air in there with me. The walls of the sack didn’t collapse. It was like being inside a big, floppy bubble that wobbled and tangled and toppled when you moved. You could get around, but you had to be careful. If you got in a hurry, you stumbled and rolled downhill into a soggy low spot. The bag didn’t keep water from soaking your knees and elbows.

Rorjfrazzle! Mirking sludglup! Everything just has to have a down side.

Or three. It took me ten minutes to get back out of the sack. The loop in the cord has to line up with the closed hole just right. If you have been moving around, you probably didn’t keep track of where that hole went. Rotten racklefratz!

As I stumbled out and crawled away and started undoing my bowline, I realized that the tittering above wasn’t the gossip of sparrows. A tiny voice only inches overhead piped, “We seen what you done. We seen what you done.”

A pixie colony inhabited the grove. Now that they were bouncing around and giggling they were obvious. I hadn’t noticed a thing when they were silent.

I didn’t commence my rebuttal till I was safely away from any branch likely to serve as an aerial outhouse.

12

I headed for my house. The girl was long gone.

Used to be whenever I was out I had to knock so Dean would let me in. Before he left town he looted my savings to have a key lock installed so I could let myself in. Being a bright boy, I had my key with me. I used it.

The door opened an inch and stopped. Dean had the chain on.

I closed the door gently, took a moment to collect myself, knocked briskly. The Goddamn Parrot started up inside. O Wonder of Horrors, the little vulture had made it home on his own. I tried to avoid worrying about what kind of omen that might be.

I stepped back while I waited, studied the face of my house. It was a very dark brown, built of rough brick. I saw several places where the mortar needed tuck-pointing. The upstairs window trim needed fresh paint. Might be a job for Saucerhead some time when he wasn’t tied up cracking skulls.

“Damn it, Dean! Come on! If you’ve had a heart attack and I’ve got to bust the door down I’m gonna break your legs.”

There was a horrendous squawl behind me. I whirled. A huge, ugly ogre had gotten too near a donkey cart. A wheel had crushed his toes. He was bounding around on one foot offering to whip all comers.

“Ah, shuddup!” an old granny lady advised. She hooked the heel of his good foot with the crook of her umbrella. He went down hard. Ogres are solid-bottomed fellows, as a rule. This one was no exception. His breath deserted him in a mighty whoof. The cobblestones buckled. I might have a traffic hazard out front for months now. Maybe years. Who knew when a city crew would come and actually do something?

The crowd howled and mocked the ogre. Ogres are not popular because they are just not nice people, generally, but this was an especially tough crowd. They would have laughed had he been a sweet little old nun. Times had the mob in a vicious humor.

I spied my new friend Adeth. She wore a darker, longer wig and had changed apparel, but I was sure it was her. She moved like a cat now, without wasted motion, absolutely graceful. Maybe while Dean made up his mind to answer the door I could stroll over there and invite her to dinner.

I hammered the door some more. Then I got my key out again. I would unlock the damned thing again, then kick the chain loose. I was in one bad mood.

My head still throbbed like a couple of pixies were in there waltzing in combat boots.

Dean opened up as I reached with the key. “We have to talk,” I told him. “Let’s rehash the argument over that damned lock that cost me more than most guys make working twelve hours a day for two months.”

“What happened?”

“I couldn’t get into my own house, that’s what happened! Some damned fool put the chain on!” The Goddamn Parrot was in fine voice. “When did that damned thing come home? How did it get inside?”

“Hours ago, Mr. Garrett. I thought you sent it.” He nodded his head toward the Dead Man’s room, scowled. “He told me to let it in.” Dean shuddered.

On cue, I heard from Old Bones. Garrett. Come here. I want to review events of the past few months.

Him and his hobbies. “What you’re going to hear about is events of the past few hours.”

Dean shivered again. The Dead Man gives him the creeps. He has as little to do with His Nibs as he can.

“That dressed-up buzzard over there should of let you know I was having some trouble.”

“I’ll make some tea,” Dean said, by way of offering a white flag.

“Sounds good. Thanks.” When he gets those big hurt eyes it is hard to stay mad at him. “But you, you traitor, you deserter,” I snapped through the doorway of the small front room, “you’re going to star in an experiment to see if parrots make good hasenpfeffer.” The shape my head was in, I was real short on tolerance.

I went into the Dead Man’s room.

Pickled parrot?

“He must be good for something.”

Do I detect a measure of crabbiness?

“Things are closing in on me. I was getting used to not having to deal with Dean’s nagging. I was getting used to not having to deal with your outrageous demands. Then you woke up. He came home. I went out for a walk and a bunch of ugly wazoos bopped me on the head.”

The picture the bird brought in had you lunging through a coach without the forethought to open the nether exit.

He has moments when he looks beyond the end of his nose. And an ugly nose it is, too.

The Dead Man has a human look to him. You glance into his room—the biggest in the house and poorly lighted at his insistence even though he cannot see—and your gaze is drawn to a wooden chair at the room’s center. Maybe you could call it the Dead Man’s throne. It is massive—but it has to be to support four hundred and some pounds. He has not moved in all the years I have known him. He has grown seedier. Though he can protect himself if he concentrates, mice and bugs do nibble when his attention wanders.

His outstanding feature, other than size, is his schnoz. It’s like an elephant’s trunk a little over a foot long.

Bad day?

“It was a bad day when I got woke up at a totally ridiculous hour, thank you very much. It has gone downhill ever since. Why don’t you just dig into my head?”

I would prefer that you told it. I get more subtext examining the subjective side.

This from a guy who insisted I had to maintain my emotional distance when I reported to him. We might as well be married. You can’t win with him.

This is not good.

“Hey, I hardly got started.”

I read you. These are not friendly gods. These are old-style gods, all wrath and thou shalt not.

“You know them?”

Dean brought in a tray with teapot, honey, cup, spoon. What? Usually he just handed me a mug ready to go. Was he kissing up?

Only by reputation. They have been marginal pantheons since the beginning, deities of ancient nomadic immigrants. Both religions were too cold and hard to win many converts. They are much alike.

“Oh, your head!” Dean said. He was looking straight down at the top of my conk. “No wonder you’re in a black mood. Don’t move. I’ll clean that up.” He bustled out.

Apparently your skull is as thick as I have claimed.

“Huh?”

Your head wound is worse than you realized.

“What did I say? The good news just piles up.” I reflected on what he had sent. “I got a question.”

Yes? I felt a mental smirk.

“Back when we dealt with that crazy Loghyr you told me Loghyr never found proof of the existence of any gods and claimed logic suggests they can’t exist. I believe you said ‘They are not necessary to explain anything. Nature does not provide that which is not needed.’ ”

That is correct. There is no concrete proof that any of the deities worshipped in this city exist as independent entities, outside the imaginations of those with the will to believe.

“Who tried to toss me through that coach door, then? You telling me they were scamming?”

That is a possibility deserving of examination. But to your question. For the sake of argument, your interlocuters were indeed Daiged, Rhogiro, and Ringo. Magodor gave you your answer in her remarks.

Oh boy. Here came my favorite part of our relationship, the part where he tries to expand my horizons by forcing me to expand my intellect.

Dean came back with our first aid stuff. I keep a good home medicine cabinet. For a while I had a girlfriend who was a doctor. She fixed me up because I seem to get dinged up every time I turn around.

“I’m a little woozy here, Chuckles. How’s about you just hand it to me this time?”

All the span is gone out of you, Garrett. The very nature of their situation should shriek the answer. If they fall off the Street of the Gods, if they are forced to leave the Dream Quarter, if they lose their last True Believer, they cease to exist.

“Ouch!” Dean was dabbing at my head with a hot, wet rag. “You mean I wouldn’t have this dent in my head if somebody didn’t believe in the ugly boys?”

Essentially.

Dean asked, “Who sewed this up for you, Mr. Garrett?”

“Sewed what?” And to His Nibs, “But they exist on their own. Nobody dreamed what was happening to me.”

Dean told me, “You have three . . . six . . . nine stitches here. You must have bled pretty bad.”

“No wonder I’m so weak. I thought it was a concussion.”

“Might be that, too.”

They need only be imagined and believed in fervently enough, on the right level. They assume an existence of their own, within the attributes assigned them.

“Careful!” I snapped at Dean. “That’s tender. They must have given me something to make it not hurt. Ouch! Damnit! . . . ”

“Don’t be such a pansy.”

“You aren’t digging for gold. Old Bones, your theory is absurd.”

Gods are absurd, Garrett. And it is a hypothesis, not a theory. A theory is supported by experimental proof.

“I’m just looking to see if there’s any infection,” Dean grumbled, doing his hurt thing.

I ignored him, told the Dead Man, “There you go splitting hairs.”

“Theory” is a much-abused word, particularly by those in the divinity trades. Be careful, Dean. If those stitches break, his brain may leak out. Have you formed any plans, Garrett? To deal with your situation?

My situation. “I take it I need to worry in a big way.” When the Dead Man sets aside his own self-centered interests, I know he is troubled deeply. It was obvious that he had no problem believing that I could have fallen afoul of real gods and not just sleight-of-hand con folk somehow setting me up.

I answered his question. “I don’t have a clue. That’s why I came home. Are you going to pay your rent?” Though he insists he is a full partner, the most work he does is aimed at getting out of doing anything constructive.

“Right now I don’t see any choice but to play along.”

Indeed. Wriggling out of this will require intense self-discipline and long hours of work by all concerned.

“Don’t whine. I hate it when you whine. You were way overdue to kick in around here anyway. You could’ve saved me a ton of grief with Maggie Jenn if you would’ve just woke up.” He had unraveled the mystery at the heart of my most recent case before I had finished telling the first half of the tale. It was a case he had slept through stubbornly.

13

It was great to be in the righteous right so solid I could bury my spurs in the Dead Man.

“Will you hold still?” Dean snapped. “Looks like a little pus here. Let me clean it out so we won’t have to cauterize later.”

I had a vision of my handsome face set off by a strip of scar tissue skewed across my scalp. I held still, but it hurt.

Dean said, “Miss Tate was here while you were away, Mr. Garrett. She . . . ”

“She must have been watching the place.” To know he was home so soon after he arrived. Tinnie probably shouldn’t be the ex-girlfriend. She was waiting for me to make the first move toward reconciliation. I liked to think.

“News travels fast, Mr. Garrett.”

“Did it have some help?”

“It’s possible.” Dean is as stubborn as I am. He is determined to get me hooked up with Tinnie Tate or Maya Stubbs, both of them beautiful, squared-away sweethearts who deserve Prince Charmings who are the real thing.

The Dead Man sent, Miss Tate was as charming, witty, and beautiful as ever and her companion, Miss Weider, cannot be encompassed by normal superlatives. Nevertheless, their petition will have to wait.

“Alyx Weider?” Those two must have buttered him up big. He has no use whatsoever for the female of my species—or any other species, as far as I have seen. I’m sure that is why he tries to sabotage most of my romances. He doesn’t think most women deserve me.

Them pigs were flying formation today.

Dean tends toward the opposing opinion.

He said, “I believe Miss Tate did introduce her as Alyx.” He did something to my head that sent a ribbon of pain streaking from my scalp to my toenails.

“You’re on my list, Dean. Someday I’ll get my chance to patch you up.”

I am on retainer as chief of security at Weider’s brewery. My role is to drop in unexpectedly and check employee honesty. I saved Weider from being robbed blind a long time back. The job was my reward. Old man Weider has been trying to get me on full time ever since. There are times when a regular job looks real good, even if I would have to call somebody else boss.

Alyx was the old man’s baby, much younger than the rest of his sprats. I had not seen her for some time. She had been a lovely but shy girl at sixteen. I was surprised to hear that she had come to the house. Her dad wasn’t the sort to let his baby girl out, especially in today’s TunFaire.

Miss Tate brought her. There is something happening within the Weider family, possibly having to do with The Call and other radical fringe human rights groups. We owe them an interest but this mess must take precedent. Gods! Garrett! Garrett! At best you are an agnostic. But still you become entangled with a clutch of redundant deities.

“Like I went looking for them? I’m not agnostic, though. I’m indifferent. My philosophy is, you leave the gods alone and usually they’ll leave you alone.”

“Another one bites the dust,” Dean said.

“Huh?” He find a nit?

“Another of your adolescent fantasies.”

Dean is a religious man. I never pressed him, but I do not understand his blind devotion to his peculiar monotheistic mythology when we are plagued by a thousand other deities and, obviously, those gods occasionally really do mess around with mortals. The human capacity for selective blindness appears to be infinite.

For me the religion business becomes problematic when the gods outnumber their worshippers.

Well, in some cases. One of which I seem to have stumbled into. I told the Dead Man, “You sound like you’re actually interested. Maybe I ought to be suspicious. But I don’t think there’s time.”

Exactly. Long hours and rigorous self-discipline lie ahead. Your first chore will be to visit the Royal library and sweet-talk your friend into loaning us whatever books they have devoted to these religions.

“Uh . . . that might not be so easy.”

Make peace.

“It’s not that. Linda Lee and I get along fine. I found some rare books she let get away.”

Find me some books. Dean! Put aside your prejudice for a moment. Go to Mr. Dotes’ establishment . . .

“That may not be any good either. Morley has gone upscale. He might be trying to put his whole past behind him.”

Must you interrupt? He rooted around inside my head. He never does that unless he is seriously provoked or concerned. He reviewed my experiences during his nap. Usually he is overly careful to respect my privacy.

His behavior was troubling. I had to suspect that he knew something that had not occurred to me.

Who do we know who has the ability to read? Other than yourself?

“Playmate,” I replied, puzzled. “But not real good. Winger, a little. Morley. Barking Dog . . . ”

Winger? Astonishment.

“She’s been learning. The better to con you with, my dear. Always a surprise, Winger is.”

Not good enough. Try to get your librarian friend to come in.

“Why?” Talk about astonishment. The Dead Man asking for a woman to be brought into the house?

Any books you do obtain will have to be read to me. It is too difficult for me to do it by myself.

Turning the pages is a bitch when you’re dead. Though he could manage it if he had to.

“I got you.”

An even bigger problem is that he has a hard time seeing if he can’t use somebody’s else’s eyes.

Once you have dealt with Linda Lee I want you to go to the Dream Quarter. Examine the temples involved in this business. Move carefully. Waste no time but take all the time you need to study the places right while maintaining your personal safety.

“What? Shouldn’t I look for this key?”

That is of no concern now. Information is. If you collect the available information I will sift the clues. I am not as powerful as these gods, but I am far smarter.

“No self-image problem over there,” I told Dean, who had made no effort to leave.

Much the same can be said of you, Garrett. I do not recall the Godoroth well, but do believe Magodor may be the only one smarter than a four-year-old.

Wonderful.

Time is wasting, Garrett. To the library. Then to the Dream Quarter.

“What about the Shayir?”

What about them?

“Apparently they were on to me even before the Godoroth. What do I do if they close in on me?”

Use your wits, guided by experience. You have your weapons and your physical skills. In any event, you will achieve nothing standing there. Dean. After you have spoken to Mr. Dotes, locate Mr. Tharpe. If Mr. Tharpe is unavailable, find Mr. Playmate. As a last resort, call upon Miss Winger. Then return here quickly. I will have more for you to do. Garrett.

I paused at the door. I will say this about the Dead Man. It is blue-haired hell getting him started, but once he is into something he is a take-charge kind of guy. “What?”

Take the parrot.

“What? Are you crazy? I got lucky a while ago, but you know my luck ran out. He’ll get me killed before I walk a block. He’ll tell some giant his mother does trolls, and they’ll find parts of me all over town.”

Take the parrot. Put a lanyard on his leg if you feel the need. I believe he will be more cooperative than usual.

“Dead would be more cooperative than usual.”

Garrett.

He was impatient. He had no time to play. When he is in a mood like that it is best to humor him.

The Goddamn Parrot offered me a black look but only nibbled my fingers once when I moved him from his perch to my shoulder. Hell if I would tie him down. Anytime he wanted to escape I would stand there grinning and waving bye-bye. But I knew how my luck would run already. Just like before, he would beat me home.

“I need an eye patch and an earring,” I muttered. “Yo ho ho.”

14

I stood on the stoop wishing for a beard to go with the earring and eye patch. I growled, “Argh! Prepare to repel boarders.”

T. G. Parrot squawked, “Awk! Shiver me timbers!”

I tried to give him my best jaundiced look, but he couldn’t get the full benefit perched as he was on my shoulder.

Neighborhood kids materialized out of the crowd. “Can we feed your parrot, Mr. Garrett?”

“Yeah. To one of those flying thunder lizards.” A pair were circling high above, shopping for plump pigeons.

The kids didn’t get it. Short attention spans, I guess. It had been a while since their elders had worried about trouble with thunder lizards. Now we had centaur infestations and whatnot.

As my old Aunt Boo used to say, “It’s always something.”

I looked up the street. Mrs. Cardonlos was out watching. I waved. Always a neighborly smile, that Mr. Garrett. It drove her crazy. Made her sure I was up to no good.

I’d barely entered the crowd when Dean left the house. He was pale. He didn’t look at me. He headed downhill, toward Morley’s Joy House, which now masquerades as The Palms.

I went the other way, amidst the fastest traffic. I didn’t make much effort to see if I was followed. If I had gods on my case they would have resources better than mine. I headed where I had to go, wondering why the Dead Man was taking this so seriously.

I think I was followed by the same woman, only now she seemed taller and had a fall of white on the right side of otherwise raven hair that hung quite long. I didn’t get a good look at her clothing, but it had a foreign air.

The Royal Library has a side entrance that isn’t well known to those without friends inside. You do have to slip past an ancient guard who uses his job to catch up on naps he lost while he was off to war. Once he is behind you, all you have to do is avoid notice by the senior librarian. That isn’t hard, either. She is ancient and slow and stumbles into things when she is moving around. Once you are inside, you have to decide whether to see your friend or load up with rare books to sell.

Turned out that was the way it used to be. Changes had been made. All my fault for returning the stolen books I had happened upon the other day.

The old man had been replaced. A hard young veteran manned his desk. He was snoring. A liquor bottle dangled from his hand. Sneaky was wasted on him. I was tempted to leave the parrot on his shoulder. Let him wake up and find himself infested. He wouldn’t take another drink for hours.

I resisted. We must not dishonor our public servants.

I found Linda Lee in the stacks, peering intently at worn and flaky leather spines. She had a stylus in her mouth, bitten crosswise. She carried a wax note tablet and a small lantern. Her sleek brown hair was pulled back in an old maid’s bun and, damn me, a few gray hairs showed on her temple. She might have a few years she hadn’t mentioned.

Even so, she was the cutest bookworm I’d ever seen.

I asked, “What do you do when you have to make a note?”

She jumped. She whirled. Sparks danced in her eyes. I never knew how she was going to greet me. “What the hell are you doing here?” She had no trouble talking around the stylus.

“Looking for you.”

“Can’t get a date?”

“It’s professional this time . . . ” There you go shoving one of those big old dirty hooves of yours right down your throat, Garrett. You slick talker. “My mouth just won’t say what me head tells it to today.”

“Surprise, surprise. What the hell is that on your shoulder? You trying a new look?”

“You remember Mr. Big.”

“Unfortunately. That’s why I asked. Why haven’t you drowned it? What’s wrong with it?”

“Huh?” She wasn’t herself. I wondered who she was. That might clue me in about who she wanted me to be so all four of us could get along.

“It hasn’t said anything. Usually it’s criminally obnoxious.”

“The Dead Man did something to him.”

Linda Lee shuddered. The Dead Man gave her the creeps. That might be a problem.

“So ignore the fact that I haven’t seen you since I was a girl.”

“Three days?”

“What do you want?” For all she apparently wanted to fight, she kept her voice down. Her superiors and coworkers didn’t like me wandering in and out. It shook their confidence in their safety and the security of the Royal collection. If I kept it up, someday they would have to do something. Maybe even put out money for a real guard.

“Three days isn’t long enough for you to turn into your own grandmother . . . Damn! Now I’m doing it.”

“It hasn’t been a good day. Time is flying, Garrett.”

No need to cause more difficulties. I told the story, quick and straight, giving the most detail in the least time. I left out a few details she didn’t really need, like how exciting some of those goddess types were.

She grew thoughtful before I finished. “Really? Gods? I never? . . . You don’t think about them actually getting in your way, do you?”

“No. They’re like another remove beyond the firelords and stormwardens. They may shape your life, but you don’t figure on banging into one going around a corner. Given my druthers, I’d never run into either one.”

“Too much potential for disaster.”

“Absodamnlutely. You know anything about these gods?”

“Only their names. There are a lot of old mythologies. They aren’t my area. I could get Mad.”

“I thought you were. I just couldn’t figure out why.”

“Mad is Madelaine. She handles our scriptures.”

I recalled a harridan of satanic disposition old enough to have written the first drafts of most of her charges. “That’s not necessary. I just need whatever I can get on the Godoroth and Shayir over to the house so somebody can read them to the Dead Man.”

“You can’t take books out of here.”

“I thought I explained. I’ve only got a few days and I don’t have a clue where to start.” I touched the high points again.

She understood, all right. She was negotiating. If she was going to take risks she wanted something more than a kiss and a thank you. Maybe some yellow roses.

“All right. All right,” she whispered, throwing a troubled glance over her left shoulder. She placed a finger against her lips. I nodded. Her ears were better than mine. First thing they check when you apply at the library is your ears.

She gestured “Go away!” with finger still to lips. I went. She would do me the favor. She might even read for the Dead Man. He could charm them when he wanted. But she was going to make me pay.

I eased into shadow at the nether end of the stacks as the mother of all librarians materialized at Linda Lee’s end. The way she moved, she could have run the hundred-yard dash in slightly under a decade. She leaned on a gnarly, ugly cane notched once for every time she had caught someone talking. Her hair was white and thin and wild, and she was bent way over. She wore cheaters, which suggested she had wealthy relatives. Spectacles cost a fortune. But she still could not see her hand more than a foot from her face. I could have danced naked where I was and she would not have had a clue.

She croaked, “What’s all the racket down here, child?”

On the other hand . . .

“Mistress Krine?”

“The noise, child. The noise. I heard it all the way upstairs. Do you have one of your men down here again?”

One of? Well. You devil.

“Mistress! I was only whispering to myself. I can’t read the lettering on these spines. The gold flake is almost gone.”

“And that’s the project, isn’t it? Find the volumes that need restoration? In future, restrain your expression of frustration . . . What was that? Is someone there?”

Not anymore. I was gone, down the back way to the back door, with less sound than a mouse on the run. I floated past the guard. His sleep remained untroubled.

What the hell was wrong with the Goddamn Parrot today? He just blew the opportunity of a lifetime. He hadn’t made a whimper.

15

It was still daytime outside. I know because they took a couple of bars of sunlight and tried to drive my eyeballs out the back of my head. It wasn’t morning anymore, but it looked like one of those days when the rest of the world would insist that it stay morning all day long.

Once the pain faded, I surveyed the immediate area. The library stands amid an infestation of official buildings, both municipal and royal. Traffic is different there, being made up mostly of functionaries. I saw nothing unusual—which meant only that I couldn’t see any watchers.

I headed out.

The afternoon remained so relentlessly pleasant that I began to give in despite the state of my head. Infected by a lighter mood, I paused at the Chancellery steps to listen to the crackpots rave. Any wacko with a goofball grievance or a fanciful cause can use those steps as a forum. Never kindly, the rest of us use them as free entertainment. I know some of the less bizarre, habitual speakers. In my line, knowing people is a major asset. I didn’t nurture my contacts enough anymore. Today I didn’t have time. I gave Barking Dog Amato a thumbs up and dropped a groat into his cup, waved to a couple other howlers. I moved on. My head throbbed. My parrot never cracked his beak. The Dead Man must have destroyed his brain.

Around and down and off for the south side. I wasn’t going to like this thing because of all the walking. There are less strenuous ways to get around, but none faster. Even the great wizards with their big coaches and running footmen and outriders and trumpeters can’t get around as fast as a man on foot. Walking, you can cut through alleys and climb over fences.

I didn’t shortcut much. I don’t climb unless I have to, and alleys often harbor people or prospects best left unchallenged. Still, when the choice is a hundred yards straight or half a mile around . . .

I had used Slight Alley often. A lot of people do. It stays relatively clean. Heavy traffic discourages both squatters and the forces of free-lance socialism. It is difficult to manage what is essentially a privacy-oriented one-on-one transaction when at any time somebody troublesome may wander between you and your . . . er . . . client.

I risked Slight Alley.

The ramshackle frame half-timber structures popular in the neighborhood leaned in overhead, reaching out to one another like drunks in need of mutual support. Most of the afternoon’s intense sunshine failed to penetrate, but there was more light than normal. The paving bricks were cleaner than usual, too. You could see their dark red. On the other hand, there were squatters in residence. Not only the ratmen you expected, but families of refugees.

The times they change.

I wondered how we would feed all the immigrants. If racist groups like The Call had their way, the refugees would eat the dwarves and ogres and elves already here.

I stopped. “What?” I had caught a strange smell. There was no describing it. It was neither awful nor particularly pleasant. Mostly it was startling.

It was gone in an instant. I couldn’t catch it again. Happens all the time. I resumed walking, ignored the sleepy-eyed stare of a drunken ratman trying to decide if I was behaving strangely.

I was. At the first hint of the unusual my hand had darted to Magodor’s cord. My habit is to face sudden threats with an eighteen-inch oaken nightstick into which has been introduced, by way of providing additional encouragement to the customer, a pound of lead at the business end.

Slight Alley has a couple of jags and an offset where it crosses another alley stretching east and west. I noticed that the light had a golden, autumnal cast. Though diffuse, it sent shadows crawling over the walls. Some of those seemed to assume almost recognizable shapes.

Then there were the whispers behind me, like the whispers of mocking children, perhaps speaking a foreign tongue. I felt a lot better when I reached a real street filled with real people.

As I hurried the last mile, I tried to think of somebody I knew in the religion racket who wouldn’t run me off on sight. Most religious leaders are paranoid about their privacy. They feel especially threatened if they suspect an investigation of their finances. They have me run off just on the chance somebody might want me to check them out.

Playmate was the only religious character I knew. And he was just a wannabe preacher.

Then how about somebody who would answer my questions in order to get rid of me? Somebody who had no use for me at all. I tried to recall who all had been involved that time that Maya and I had straightened out the feud between the Church and the Orthodox over their missing Terrell Relics.

Hell. I didn’t even have useful enemies down in the Dream Quarter.

I hit the Street of the Gods farther to the west than I had planned, but Slight Alley had given me a case of the willies. There was no reason not to feel safe now. The Dream Quarter is the safest neighborhood in town.

I hustled past Chattaree and other huge places belonging to successful cults, recalled from past cases. Back then, though, I was dealing with flawed holy men, not the gods themselves. What was Maya doing now? I could ask Dean in a few days. He would know. They stayed in touch.

The weather must have melted the stone hearts of the older priests because the acolytes and postulants and what-have-you were all out fluttering like mayflies. The scenery was positively brilliant around the female-oriented temples.

The first four or five people I approached had not heard of either the Godoroth or the Shayir. Farther east I got a couple of bewildered “I ought to know what you’re talking about but don’t” responses, like the guy seven and a half feet tall, pale as death, wearing a black robe and lugging an ivory staff topped by an angry cobra’s head. This character had no more meat on him than a skeleton. He mused, “Shayir? Those the people with the squid gods?”

“I don’t know.” Squids? I’m not even fond of mortal cephalopods, let alone many-armed critters with delusions of being masters of the universe.

“No, wait. Those are the Church of the Nameless Unspeakable Elder Outer Darkness From Beyond the Stars folks. I’m sorry. I should know, but I don’t. But you’re headed in the right direction. They must be right on the bottom end, ready to fall into the river.”

How you going to learn anything when nobody knows anything?

I thanked him, accepted a small card good for one admission into one of his snake-worshipping services, said I sure would stop by, I just plain loved snakes. The bigger the better. I had a few for breakfast in the islands.

He guaranteed me they had a serpent that was a genuine kick-ass god snake big enough to snack on horses.

“Excellent idea. Round them all up and let him get fat.” Then feed him to the ratmen.

A block later I met a guy who knew about both cults. He was a free-lance guide and street sweeper. He did little odd jobs, and the temples fed him scraps and let him sleep in warm spots out of the way, as long as he didn’t spook the marks. He was raggedy around the edges, so probably didn’t get a lot of work at the high end of the street.

“Name’s No-Neck,” he told me, proud of the fact that once upon a time folks thought enough of him to hang a nickname. “Had a little muscle on me when I was young.”

“I figured. Marine?”

“Hey! Fugginay! How’d you know?”

It might have been the tattoos. “You can always tell a Marine. Got that special attitude.”

“Yeah. Ain’t dat da troot? You too, eh?”

“First Force.” I added the years, so he would know there was no chance we had acquaintances in common. I hate it when people play that game. They find out you are from a particular neighborhood, whatever, they spend an hour asking do you know this one or that like all you ever did with your life was keep track in case somebody asked.

“Good. Dat’s good. You come wit’ me. I show you where dey hang. What you say you want to know for?”

“I didn’t, No-Neck. But I’m supposed to check up on some changes going on down here.” I told him about the Antitibet cult coming in.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I’m gonna help wit’ da moving. Dese here Dellbo priests from da Cantard, you ask me, dey got no business taking over from honest TunFairen gods, but rules is rules and the gods made dem demselfs. You can only have so many temples and stuff or pretty soon you lose control and have dem loony churches wit’ only tree members where nutsos worship killer radishes and stuff.”

I am no heartbreaker, so I didn’t let him know there were some off-Street storefront temples where minuscule congregations really did worship holy rutabagas and snails and whatnot. If the mind of man can come up with a screwball god, however bizarre, a god will arise to answer that lunatic appeal. At least in the imagination of man.

Many of the nonhuman species have their religions, too, but they do not go for diversity and cuckoo. Only us humans need gods crazier than we are.

And we are the future of the world. The other races are the fading past.

Makes you wonder if there isn’t a god of gods with a really nasty sense of humor.

Book 8 of The Garrett Files

Table of Contents

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