Dread Brass Shadows

5

I plopped into my chair, reported to the Dead Man while the Tate boys collected Tinnie. They had a cart to carry her home. The best medical care would be waiting. It was out of my hands now.

Nothing gained, the Dead Man sent when I finished.

"I think Tate hit it. They got the wrong woman. You've been around awhile." Like half of forever. "You sure ‘the book' doesn't ring any bells?"

None. There are books and books, Garrett. Even some men would kill for, considering their rarity or content. I do not hazard uninformed guesses. We cannot, now, be sure that man even meant a book as such. He may have meant a gambling book. He may have meant a personal journal capable of indicating someone. We do not know. Try to relax. Have a meal. Accept the situation, then put it behind you.

"Nobody came around asking about the dead men?" TunFaire's Watch aren't exactly police. Their main mission is to keep an eye out for fires or threats to our overlords. Catching criminals is way down their list, but sometimes they do bumble around and nab a baddie. TunFaire is blessed with some pretty stupid villains.

No one came Go eat, Garrett. Attend to the needs of the flesh. Allow the spirit to relax and become refreshed. Forget it. All is well that ends well.

Good advice, even coming from him. But he's always so damned reasonable and wise—when he isn't trying to play games with my mind. He got my goat, being cool and sensible. I headed for the kitchen

Dean was in shock still, distraught because uncaring fate had cast a cold eye so close to home. His mind was a thousand miles away as he stirred some kind of sauce. He didn't look at me as he handed me a plate he'd kept warm. I ate without noticing what, which is a crime itself, considering the class cook Dean is. I was drifting around a few yards away myself. I didn't interrupt the old man's brooding. I was pleased that he cared.

I rose to leave. Dean turned. "People shouldn't ought to do like that, Mr. Garrett."

"You're right. They shouldn't ought. You're a religious sort. Tell the gods thanks for not making it worse than it was."

He nodded. He's a gentle sort generally, a hardworking old fellow trying to support an ungrateful gaggle of eligible but terminally homely nieces who give him more grief than any ten men deserve from their female kin. Generally. Right now he had him a bloodthirst bigger than a vampire who hadn't fed for a year.

I couldn't relax. It was over, but my nerves just wouldn't settle. I prowled up the hail to the front door, peeked outside. Then I checked the small front room to the right like there might be a forgotten blonde cached in there. I was fresh out. I trudged back to the deluxe coffin I call an office, waved at Eleanor on the wall, then crossed the hall to the Dead Man's room. That takes up most of the left side of the house. It contains not only himself but our library and treasury and everything we particularly value Nothing for me there. I glanced up the stairs without going up, went into the kitchen, and got a mug of apple juice. Then I did the whole route over, taking a little longer at the door to see if my place had become a dwarfish tourist attraction. I didn't see any watchers. Time dragged.

I got on everybody's nerves. That's what I do best, anyway, but now I was fraying my own. Now even I resented my mumbled wisecracks. When Dean growled and tested the heft of his favorite frying pan, I decided to take myself upstairs.

For a while I looked out a window, watching for

Saucerhead or somebody in a black hat watching me back. The watched pot didn't boil.

When I got tired of that, I visited the closet where I keep the more lethal tools of my trade. It's a nifty little arsenal, something for every occasion, something to go with every outfit. You never catch me carrying a weapon that clashes.

Everything was in tip-top shape I couldn't work off any nervous energy sharpening and polishing. I eyeballed the ensemble. Nothing I had was worth much in a scrimmage with crossbowmen.

I did have a few little bottles left over from the time I'd done undercover work for the Grand Inquisitor. I took the case down, looked inside Three bottles, one emerald, one royal blue, one ruby, each about two ounces. You threw them. Once they broke, the stuff inside took the fight right out of guys. The contents of the red one would melt the flesh off their bones I was saving that for somebody who really got on my nerves. If I ever used it, I'd have to stand back a ways.

I put the case away, secreted knives all over me, hung the longest tool legal on my belt, then took down my most useful all-round instrument, an oaken headthumper eighteen inches long. It had a pound of lead inside the business end. It did wonders making me more convincing when I got into an argument

So what was I going to do now? Go looking for some villains, just on general principles? Sure. Right. The way my luck runs, I'd have a building fall on me before I found any bad boys to astonish and dismay.

I managed to kill time till supper came along. I spent most of it trying to figure out why I was restless and uneasy. Tinnie had been hurt, but she was going to make

it. Saucerhead and I had—sort of—dissuaded her attacker from becoming a repeat offender. Everything had turned out all right. Things were going to be fine.

Sure.