Bitter Gold Hearts

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The dead man remained engrossed in his war games. He was feeble company at the best of times. When he was like this, with his genius totally committed, he was no company at all. I consoled myself with the suspicion that he was on to something overlooked by the commanders of the many armies in the Cantard. I was spared his irascibility, too.

Old Dean was worse company. Each meal came with its pitch for some deprived and homely female relative who, he hinted, had just the touch the house really needed. Amiranda did not come to visit as I'd hoped. After a few days of that I got to feeling wretchedly sorry for myself and decided to go spend my recent gains buying a few barrels of beer retail, for on-site consumption.

I couldn't get my heart into it. They ran me out of the first two places for doing nothing but taking up space while I nursed a single brew.

The kidnapping kept nagging me. I should have been happy to have my hundred-ten marks for doing nothing. But I wasn't. There was a wrongness about the thing, the ring of bad crystal. Look at it as I might, though, I couldn't root out the source of the bad odor.

There wasn't much I could do about it. I didn't have a client. Nobody goes digging around on the Hill just to satisfy a personal curiosity. There was too much potential for pain and none at all for profit.

In the third bar, nearer home, they let me sit and brood. I'd done well by them in the past and would again. When the man sat down opposite me, I presumed they were trying to make the best use of table space. I didn't look at him till he growled, "Your name Garrett?"

I looked. He was a big one, broad, thirtyish, with the air of a tough and clothes you don't find anywhere but on the Hill. But no livery. A hired hand who did his work in the shadows. Nothing gave away who owned him. "Who wants to know?"

"I do."

"I got a feeling you and me aren't going to get along. I don't recall inviting you to sit."

"I don't need an invite from a crumb like you."

He was off the Hill for sure. Their heads swell when they get connected up there. "I know we're not going to be pals."

"Break my heart, smart boy."

"I was thinking more along the line of an arm or leg. What do you want, Bruno?"

Bruno is a derisive generic for a dumb pug. A quick glance around told me he had a couple of buddies along but they were too far away to give him a hand quickly. They were at the bar trying to blend in.

"Word is going around that you been hanging around Raver Styx's place. You got a rep for mixing in where you're not wanted. We want to know what you're up to."

"Who is we?" He was so rude he didn't answer, so I suggested, "Why don't you ask the Stormwarden?"

"I'm asking you, Garrett."

"You're wasting your time. Go away, Bruno. You're interfering with my drinking."

He jabbed a hand out and got hold of my left wrist, started to squeeze. He had a good grip but my right hand fell on his. I buried my thumb in the flesh just behind the root joints of his middle and forefingers. I pressed hard. His eyes got big and his face turned white. I smiled a friendly smile.

"All right, Bruno. You were just going to tell me who you work for and why you're down here trying to convince people that you're somebody scary."

"You go to hell, you cheap—unh!"

"You've got to learn to think before you speak. With a mouth like yours it's a miracle you've lived this long."

"Garrett, you're going to be sorry you were ever—unh!"

"They say pain is the fastest educator. In your case it looks like even that won't help. Yes?"

Someone had come to the table, approach unnoticed because I was watching Bruno's pals slowly develop the suspicion that all was not well with their buddy.

"Mr. Garrett?"

The daPenas were a polite bunch. "Junior. Have a seat. Bruno was just leaving." I let go his hand. He flexed it as he rose, trying to leave me with his best deadly look. He wanted to pop me one, just to remember him by, but when he went to cock it, I let a foot fly under the table and got him in the shin. His eyes got big again, he made one little whimper of a sound, and decided to go away while he was still fit to limp.

"I see Domina Dount pulled it off and got you back in one piece."

"Yes."

"Congratulations on your good fortune. So how come you're down here slumming?"

The son was the image of the father without the marks of age and dissipation. How had the question of paternity risen? Maybe when he was a baby he hadn't looked so much like his immediate male ancestor. Those notions hang on forever.

"I wanted to thank you personally."

"Thank me? For what? I didn't do a damned thing." The kid had one of those apologetic, whiny voices that made you suspect he wanted to be excused for being alive.

"But you did. At least you appeared to. The kidnappers ... I overheard them talking. They had somebody watching our place. When they saw you, they talked it over and decided they had to play the whole thing as straight as they could. Because of your reputation. So you see, I owe you a debt of thanks. I might not be here if you hadn't ..."

In addition to his other charms Junior was a rocker. Whenever he spoke, he jerked back and forth, staring into space. It must have been a joy growing up in the Stormwarden's household.

I got a strong feeling that he had much more on his mind, that gratitude was just an excuse for seeking me out. But you don't have much luck pressing guys like him when you don't have a hold on them. They tend to break for cover. So I leaned back and tried to look pleased with his praise and interested in anything else he might want to tell me. In a moment it was obvious he was working himself up to something. He started stammering. But he never got the chance to open up.

"Here you are, my lord." And here he was, the Domina's florid flunky, Slauce, wearing an ingratiating smile belied by eyes in which the humor had been extinct for years. "I've been looking everywhere."

I doubted that. He had to have been following Junior to pop up so quickly and inconveniently.

"Courter. I was just telling Mr. Garrett how grateful I am for his help." He rocked. His eyes gave him away. He was terrified of this character Courter, who had used the name Slauce when he had visited me.

"The Domina needs you right away, my lord." A command cautiously couched for my benefit. Junior flinched.

Across the room Bruno and the boys had been huddled together for a while. Apparently they decided the presence of Junior and his keeper meant there was no more percentage for them there. They went away, though Bruno left me a final dirty look. Junior got up and Courter took hold of his arm, not heavy-handed but definitely like he thought his man might try to run. He passed close enough to trip. I thought about giving it a shot to see what would happen, but I left it as a thought.

"See you later, Karl."

His look of despair brightened as he took the notion seriously. Courter looked at me for the only time during his visit. He had visions of bloodshed echoing through his eyes. I smiled and gave him a big friendly wink. It did nothing for his ulcer. I gave it the old try but I couldn't gel involved in my drinking. I held a caucus with myself, took a vole, and decided to go home and purge my soul by either subjecting it to the torment of old Dean's recitation of the encyclopedia of his eligible relatives, or simply dosing it with a generous helping of the Dead Man's poisonous humors.

They disappointed me. Both of them. I think they had discussed it while I was gone. Dean was whistling when I walked in. "What happened? Your females ambush a troop of hussars and take them prisoners for life?"

He was in too good a mood to take offense. I couldn't get a pout from him. I demanded, "What's going on around here? Why are you grinning like a fox with goose feathers in his whiskers?"

"It's his nibs. He's ebullient. Exultant. Positively ecstatic."

"All that, huh? This I've got to see."

"It is one for the books, Mr. Garrett."

"What's that you're working on there?"

"A lamb roast."

"Lamb is mutton. I don't like mutton." I had more mutton than I ever wanted while I was in the Marines. We ate it every meal except when we had to make do with rocklike chunks of salt pork or circumstances forced us to eat our horses or, worse, we had to subsist on roots and berries.

"You'll like this. You'll see." He talked cooking technique.

I walked, grumbling, "Mutton is mutton is mutton," figuring I would have to eat the stuff with a big show of appreciation because whenever I get critical of Dean's cooking and he takes umbrage, the next meal is sure to include green peppers. There is no foodstuff in this or any other world quite so hideously nauseating as the green bell pepper. A pig—even a hungry pig—has better sense than to eat green peppers. But not people. It positively astounds me what people will eat.

In such a humor I shoved into the Dead Man's room.

Ah. Garrett. Good afternoon. Good of you to stop in. How is that kidnapping business going?

"The kid came home in one piece." I stepped out of the room, looked around, stepped back inside.

Congratulations. A job well done. You will have to tell me all about it. What was that little dance step?

"Just making sure I was in the right house with the right Dead Man. No congrats due. I didn't have anything to do with it." I went ahead and brought him up to date, leaving out none of the details but Amiranda's overnight vacation from the household of the Stormwarden.

An interesting situation, infested with anomalies. Almost a pity you have no concern in it. A challenge to crack its shell and lay open the meat within.

"Feeling our genius today, are we?"

Indeed. Yes indeed. The mystery of the magic of Glory Mooncalled is a mystery no more. Subject to observational confirmation, of course.

"You figured out how he does it? When the Venageti War Council can't do better than stumble over their own feet?"

Indeed.

"How?"

Ratiocination, my boy.

My boy? He was in a mood to crow.

Cogitation. Induction. Deduction. Repeated experiment manipulating the possible course of events within the known parameters. And from this came a hypothesis bearing the weight of near certainty. I know how Glory Mooncalled did what he did, and with just a bit more information I could predict with some degree of certainty what he will do next.

"So how does he do it? Does he turn invisible? Does he run through secret tunnels to sneak up and sneak away?"

I have to reserve the how for now, Garrett. The hypothesis is insufficiently tested, based as it is on one assumption not yet validated. A bit more observation should confirm it, though, and you will be the first to know.

"No doubt." He would crow like a herd of roosters watching three suns rising. If he was not already. "Why don't you—"

"Mr. Garrett?" Dean had his head in the doorway. "Excuse me. There's a young woman here to see you."

His nose was up and his choice of the word "woman" over "lady" told me he thought her a floozy and probably some playmate of mine not nearly as worthy of me as any one of a dozen of his nieces.

"Who is she?"

"She wouldn't say. She seemed perfectly familiar with you, though." Again with the nose up.

I excused myself and headed for the door expecting Amiranda. They just can't stay away from you, Garrett. It was Amber. She gave me her big teasing smile as I let her in. Dean had instructions to let no one in without consulting me or the Dead Man first. I scanned the street as Amber brushed past. I didn't see Courter Slauce but assumed he was out there watching.

Amber did some posing, showing off her best features, of which she had several. "Aren't you dressed for the kill today? What's the occasion?" I gave the street another scan. Nothing. But women from the Hill don't wander my end of town unchaperoned. Not unless they're so severely unaware of personal danger that the bad guys shy off as if they were holy madmen.

"A hunt. Of sorts." She did have a promising smile.

"I see. How old are you, Amber?"

"Twenty." She lied. My immediate guess was eighteen going on thirty.

"Uhn. This way." I stalled for time while I led her to my office. There is a side of me that is very fond of women. There is also a side that's wary of those who bring gifts without being asked. When they stand near a center of power and are as changeable and spoiled as this one probably was, I want to play it very carefully. I thought I saw a way.

"I'm a charming scamp, I know. Hurt me to the quick though it does, I'm old enough, plain enough, and poor enough to suspect that maybe my profession has more to do with you being here."

"Maybe." She went on trying to flirt. I had a bad feeling she might be one of those who couldn't deal with a man until she proved to herself she could lead him around by his hopes and fantasies. That kind regards consummation as something to avoid at all costs. She was young but she knew her men well enough to know actually giving in would dilute her power. I assumed she was playing that game, so I did my best to let her think she might get what she wanted without stretching her virtue.

She did appeal. A whole damned lot. But I'll have to know a Stormwarden's daughter a lot better before I take the risks inherent in such a situation.

"There is one thing you could do," she admitted. "But that can wait. Don't you feel crowded in here? Isn't there somewhere else? That old man could walk in anytime."

At which point I made the mistake of sitting down. My sitter was barely in place when a hundred pounds of potential parked her sitter on my lap. So much for Garrett's infallible estimates of members of the female species. She had me going for a minute—until she giggled. I don't like my women to giggle. It makes me doubt their maturity. Still, when the culprit is sitting on your lap, wagging her tail ...

"Mr. Garrett." It was that old man. "Mr. Dotes is here. He says it's important."

Saved!

Damn it.