Angry Lead Skies

52

I was so agitated. All my paranoia went to waste.

When I reached home, after an epic death march that brought the survivors and me into town through the west gate, I learned that the Dead Man hadn't received my message at all. Neither had Morley, because Morley would've contacted His Nibs if he had.

What that meant was, there was still a gang of elves out there, tied up and maybe dying of thirst and exposure.

I headed for the al-Khar immediately. There wasn't much of me left when I got there. I need to work on my strength and endurance.

I had no trouble getting in to see Colonel Block. He really was interested in what I was doing.

I related a comprehensive version of my story. It ran light on the sorcery side and came up short on names but was solid enough to let the colonel know that here was a matter genuinely in need of his attention.

Block asked, "Did you happen to catch the name of this weirdly dressed fellow who was supposed to bring me your message?"

"Yeah. Earp. Eritytie Earp."

"Was he Michorite? That sounds Michorite."

"Possibly. Maybe one of those cults, now that you mention it. He dressed the part."

"And I'll bet all the other hands yucked it up when he volunteered to take the job. Am I right?"

"There was some amusement. But nobody else volunteered."

"You know what? Your boy is going to wake up in the Tenderloin stone-cold broke, without even his farmboy brogans, undoubtedly so wrecked that he can't remember his own name, let alone those of people he was supposed to give messages. Those ascetic cultists don't deal with temptation well when they come up against it without all their sour fart buddies watching over their shoulders, holding them back."

"Hell, that could be me. But at least I've been there enough times that I know what I'm missing."

Block gave me a concerned look. "You may end up with some legal problems if any of those elves die. Can you produce trustworthy witnesses to back you up when you say they kidnapped this kid?"

"Hell, Wes, you had a guy there when it happened."

"Not exactly. Oh, I do believe you. More or less."

"So why don't I just stipulate that you've got me over a barrel? Get somebody out there. Those creatures can't do you any good dead. If you really need me, you know where I live."

"I thought you'd go along. Be right there handy when questions start popping up."

"You thought wrong. I'm going home. I'm going to eat and sleep and not do anything else for about nine days. I'm allergic to the country. It takes me a long time to get over it. I'm just trying to do my civic duty here, anyway."

"You always were a bullshitter, Garrett. I'll let you know how it comes out."

I'd heard that before. He'd forget about me the second I left. The only reason he'd mentioned taking me along was to make me more eager to get out of there. He wanted to grab the benefits of this for Westman Block.

Damn, that was smart of me, being stupid enough to hire a messenger who'd get lost in the red-light district before he thought of doing anything else.

From the little I've heard about the Michorites and related cults, that's a rite of passage. They—the men—get one chance to sneak away and wallow in sin and depravity. Then they spend the rest of their lives keeping an eye on each other, every miserable man making sure nobody else has any fun ever again.

"In your hands," I said. "I hope you get more out of it than I did."

"Go on. Before I change my mind." He might, just to show me that he could, so I got.

The house was crowded, what with Singe, Kip, and the captive silver elves staying over. Singe offered to ease the crowding by moving into my room with me.

I begged off again. Kip and the elves ended up sleeping on the floor in the Dead Man's room, where he'd have the least trouble keeping them under control.

I'd really hoped that Singe's encounter with Rhafi unclothed would scare her off. It seemed to have whetted her curiosity instead.

The situation amused His Nibs immensely. He wasn't going to help me get out of it, either. I fell asleep in a household drenched in the miasma of his amusement.