Wicked Bronze Ambition

104

Ancient sextons cursed with interacting with the ever-troublesome living strained to conceal their displeasure at having to do something once black-hearted me forced them to put aside their tea and chessboard. Not a word of protest was spoken, though. One remembered me from the funeral. I was an Algarda. He was old enough to walk, meaning he knew that regular folks don’t mess with Shadowslinger’s kids.

The other one was more interested in the dogs than me.

Morley noticed. “Do you know these ladies?”

Obviously, the man thought that he did-though they were cleaner and fatter than he remembered.

Morley said, “There isn’t much keeping our friends busy right now, Garrett.” He gestured at the man from the funeral. “You and him go see your wife. This gentleman and I will enjoy a game of chess, a glass of tea, and some conversation about dog breeding.” The old edge was in his voice.

“You’re all back.” It hadn’t been so long since I’d sat a death watch beside his bed.

He had a way to go physically. I still saw the winces and slackenings that betrayed deep pain.

“Forget the wise guy stuff. Do what you have to do.”

He was feeling the pain right now. No doubt pain lay behind the resurgent steel. He wanted to get done and get back. It would be a while yet before he could enjoy my adventures completely. If ever that had been the case, or could be.

“I’ll keep it as short as I can.” Though I had been considering taking several hours just to sit with Strafa, to talk to her, maybe to bleed off the grief and anger I’d been keeping contained.

My companion donned his rain hat and waterproof coat, impatient to move along, be done, and get cozy with his tea and his game again. A fruity odor suggested that he and his associate laced their tea with brandy.

I gestured, go. He went, cooperative because I was an Algarda. I considered letting him know he was too old and stringy for Shadowslinger’s palate. Didn’t seem like he would be amused, though.

The dogs spread out ahead, concerned about something. They dashed back and forth, continuously consulting. The sexton wasn’t sure about them. They kept him muttering in a foreign language. His cursing increased exponentially when a dozen more dogs showed up, growling and greeting and socializing with my girls. The stay-at-homes were pleased by what they heard from Brownie and Number Two but had things to say themselves that were not so replete with positivity.

Some noise audible only to canine ears suddenly had every head and ear up, the latter twitching. The entire pack began to growl.

My companion became alarmed, too. He charged ahead, as much as an old man’s body would permit. I followed, not in haste.

I had some serious aches and pains.

Cresting a slight rise, we found four unhappy men surrounded by twenty feral dogs. One dog was down, having taken a serious blow from a tool. The men all carried tools.

The dogs were not best pleased. They were reverting to pack-in-the-wild mode. Those men would be more unhappy if I couldn’t get the critters calmed down.