Wicked Bronze Ambition

31

The brewery visit went the way it usually did. Everyone but top management acted like I was a typhoid carrier, though everyone did sympathize with my loss. The disease they really dreaded was a mild cousin of the one Deal Relway and General Block were splashing wildly across the canvas of the city. My own artwork was limited to the brewery floor and storage caverns.

There wasn’t much pilferage anymore. Max Weider paid his people well and didn’t mind a little personal consumption, so it wasn’t often that his security team-me-had much to do. So little, in fact, that I hardly ever showed up, so people worry that there might be a stink in the wind when I do come out of the woodwork. I might get my nose into somebody’s business. I made folks uncomfortable.

That was my principal function.

I did drop by Kolda’s shop before moving on to the brewery. I never got to the subject of him lending me a hand. His wife scared me off.

She really did want us to stay away from each other. She considered me trouble on the hoof.

Max and Manvil Gilbey were at the brew house together. I made my case. They asked a few questions. Manvil suggested, “We can write the lost time off against your retainer.”

Which Max followed by remarking, “Which compensation package we may have to renegotiate. This is the first time you’ve been here this month, and that’s only because you want a favor.”

He was correct. I had slacked off shamefully lately, at Amalgamated Manufacturing and at the brewery.

I got all apologetic.

Max told me, “Remain calm. I understand your situation. It wasn’t that long ago that I was there myself.” Most of his family had been murdered. That was back when I met Singe. “You helped me get through that.”

Gilbey said, “Whatever we think of your feeble work ethic and ambition deficit, Garrett, we do owe you. You have been a true friend, to your own cost. We can’t be anything less ourselves.”

I knew that intellectually. I really did. But I didn’t want to weaken myself further by depending on others even more.

I have seen too many people turn passive under stress, then never, ever get up and rely on themselves again.

“So, what do you want done?” Max asked

I explained that I needed Preston Womble lured into the Dead Man’s clutches.

“Easy-peasy,” Gilbey declared. “I’ll handle it. How urgent is it?”

It struck me that if we took the Tournament of Swords seriously-and what could bring the seriousness home more forcefully than the murder of your wife-then I had to take a more holistic approach. I had to view the contest as a societal affliction, not just a familial imposition.

The genesis for the notion was my recollection that Max Weider had a surviving daughter. Alyx was a walking compendium of character flaws common to rich kids. She was also bright and energetic and a good person when the inclination took her. And her daddy was richer than God. She might be the kind of outsider the Operators would conscript into an open Champion slot. She could be an attractive choice if they were feeling vindictive toward me.

I took the attack on Strafa as a personal assault, mostly because it made more sense that way.

Alyx’s best friend was the woman who had been my squeeze before Strafa entered my life. Wouldn’t Tinnie make an amusing Mortal Companion? Though she was no fighter and couldn’t last in a lethal environment.

Nor could Alyx.

“Garrett!”

Both of my companions repeated my name. Gilbey finally got my attention by pinching my right arm just above the elbow.

Max said, “You went all gray. I was afraid you’d need a doctor.”

“I’m all right. But I did have a sort of mental heart attack. Hear me out. This is unbelievable. If Strafa hadn’t been murdered, I’d have trouble buying it myself. But it’s all true and I want you to hear it for Alyx’s sake.” Then I told them the whole thing, with every detail that I had collected.

Once I started, it seemed entirely rational to pull another of TunFaire’s modern power loci in to keep the tournament from happening.

They listened skeptically, as you might expect. They asked questions, as you might expect. They did not refuse to believe.

Strafa Algarda was dead. The Tournament of Swords was why, real or fantastic.

Manvil said, “You should have told us this before.”

Max agreed, but admitted, “I don’t know if I would have listened, though, before you realized that Alyx could get dragged in.”

Gilbey said, “I don’t see that happening.”

I said, “It doesn’t sound to me like the Operators quite have their heads in the present century.”

Max said, “Consider us part of the cure, Garrett. Manvil. Let’s convene emergency sessions of our boards of directors.”

“Because?”

“Because, between us, the Tates, and Garrett’s various friends, we can conjure up ten thousand sets of eyes. Nobody can stay hidden with that many people watching.”

Not strictly true, but you couldn’t stay hidden if you wanted to do something like interact with people. And you really couldn’t stay invisible if you wanted to kick off some big, flashy, loud, and bloody elimination game.

Somebody would see you slipping around.

Time was on the side of the good guys. Somebody would spot somebody doing tournament work. I just hoped a finder like Morley, Belinda, or Relway would send for me before they got all ferocious.

Manvil Gilbey can be frustratingly practical sometimes. Like Singe, he asks difficult, emotionally unsatisfying questions. “We appreciate the heads-up, Garrett. This is really disturbing stuff. We’ll protect Alyx however much she howls. But a question has occurred to me.”

“Yes?” His tone said he was going to ask something that would make me very uncomfortable.

“Your wife was murdered. People have followed you around. They were able to find you when you were on the move, or were able to anticipate your movements. You have been attacked unsuccessfully. So far. Do you have some reason to think that last night’s failure was the end of any interest in doing you harm?”

Not quite what I’d been girding my loins to handle. “Not really. Why?”

“Why? Why the hell are you roaming around by yourself, then? Are you deliberately trying to get yourself killed?”

Max’s contemplative expression made it plain that he was wondering, too.

“Morley couldn’t come with me. He had stuff at work that he couldn’t let slide.”

Feeble, I know. Even I saw that once I thought about it.

The truth is, there was enough teen left in me that I could still hit the mean streets without thinking ahead.

Practical Manvil said, “Either stay here till we round up a few men willing to walk you home, or sprint from here straight to the Grapevine.” That being Morley’s hot new restaurant across from the World Theater. “Then plant yourself till he can take you home. Either home. You’ll have potent cover at either place.”

My brain churned up ego-driven arguments for refusing his invitation to be coddled. But as I sorted through, trying to find one that, at least superficially, sounded plausible, it occurred to me that the Operators, while no geniuses, could be possessed of enough low cunning to see the dragon’s teeth leaping up all round and realize that I was the guy doing the sowing. The longer they waited to take me out, the more teeth would hatch.

Max said, “I think he gets it, Manvil.”

“Excellent. Thinking outside the moment. It’s an art, Garrett. And you’ve made a start. So. What will it be now? Shall I send for a pitcher of dark for while you wait?”

“Thanks. But no, thanks. I’ll take my chances getting to Morley’s place. It isn’t that far.”

“As you wish.” Clearly disapproving.