Wicked Bronze Ambition

34

Satisfied that there would be no drama, Morley returned. Jon Salvation eased his chair back, said something to Belinda about saving her a premier seat for the opening of The Faerie Queene. He started to rise, had a thought, sank back. “I ran into something weird this morning. I was at that thief Pindelfix’s shop, Flubber Ducky. I was scrapping with the tailoring crew about the fairy costumes. . Never mind. Those she-men are just going have to learn that I use real girlie girls to play my female roles and real girls have got bazooms. Anyway, I overheard a discussion that happened on the props’ side of the shop. Two old men were looking to get some ceremonial outfits made. They insisted that they had to have some bronze swords to go with them.”

“Bronze swords?” I asked. That was strange. Bronze weapons had been state-of-the-art in the once-upon-a-time, long ago, but not so much since somebody clever came up with iron, then figured out how to make steel. Bronze works better than wood or stone, but it doesn’t hold an edge very well and even “soft,” freshly smelted iron, can damage bronze weapons easily.

Interesting factoid: That sort of antique cutlery fascinates the black magic crowd. A bronze blade is ever the choice of the shady character who goes in for stinky black candles, songs in dead languages, and human sacrifices.

Salvation said, “That was what the clerk at the shop said, I think mostly because he couldn’t imagine what kind of play would call for actual bronze swords instead of painted wood. He goes, ‘You really gonna use them for props in a play?’

“‘Something like that,’ one old guy says. ‘But we do need a dozen functional swords, made of bronze. Well, no, actually, we need five. We have seven. But those will need reworking by the same smith who makes us the new pieces.’ Then the other old guy goes, ‘Maybe we should go ahead and replace those with new.’”

“Interesting,” Morley said, musingly. “The number twelve comes up.”

My first thought was of how much trouble the prop shop guy must have had keeping cool. Selling all those swords, custom-made, might guarantee a profit for the month, and why should he care how they got used, anyway?

Then I got what Morley meant. “Twelve, eh? Interesting.”

The laws about edged weapons don’t include religious relics, antiquities, or reproductions of antiquities. A fine point, of course. You go to the magistrates because the red tops took your antique reproduction blade, you’ll win your case and get it back-in about two years. And you’ll spend the rest of your life on the Guard’s list of people who get special treatment.

“Interesting indeed,” I said. “Did this old man mention any reason for wanting bronze swords?” Had to be something ugly. And we were hunting ugly.

Jon Salvation was getting exasperated. He had given me what he had and was in no mood to play interrogation games. “I thought they might be doing a revival right then.”

I pressed him whether he liked it or not. “Did you get a look at anybody?”

“Only a glimpse. I wouldn’t be able to pick anybody out of a group.”

“Well, hell. It’s something. Thanks. Tell you what, you find yourself with time on your hands, you could take that to the Dead Man. He’ll mine out the clues you caught but didn’t notice consciously.”

I didn’t have to explain. He was a veteran of the Dead Man’s operations.

“I’ll work that in later. After the show.” Besides the play in rehearsal, Salvation had two more running, one of those also at the World. The World was unique in that it could put on four plays at once, often a nightmare for everybody but the audiences.

I started to ask if he could have Alyx Weider come to the table for a minute, but then there was no need. Her father came in from the street with Heather Gilbey. Manvil’s wife managed the World, which was owned by the brewery. Morley’s people found them a table instantly, to the disgruntlement of a couple who had been waiting. Heather braved the theater crowd to ask Alyx to join her and her father.

There would be no need for me to brave the furious solidarity of all those womenfolk yonder.

Resolute, I turned my back.

Belinda snickered. “That Alyx is a piece of work.”

I raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

“She’s down on you for hurting her friend when she tried to get you to wrestle, what, maybe fifty times?”

“As I’m sure she’d tell you, that was a whole different bucket of monkey guts. Have you learned anything I might find useful?”

She didn’t challenge my presumption. We both knew she’d help with the hunt. I’d do the same for her in personal circumstances, and had. I wouldn’t help her with the kinds of problems that resulted from her business, nor would she ask.

“Nothing yet. It’s early. Anything as big as this is will cause ripples of some kind, though.”

No doubt. Before long we should be hearing lots of little things like the request for bronze swords. Most would have nothing to do with Strafa or the Tournament of Swords, but they would have to be noted, investigated, and studied by the Dead Man.

“Patience is the name of the game now, Garrett. Impatience will get you laid down beside your wife.”

Even Belinda had become a Strafa fan.

“I know that with my head. It’s my heart that’s giving me trouble.”

Morley said, “I’ll go visit that shop Jon Salvation told us about.”

Belinda shook her head. “You stay here and wrangle your eggplants, lover. Keep faking good citizenship. Let the real bad guys break the rules.”

Morley’s lips went tight and white till he grasped the fact that Belinda wanted to protect him, not to rob him of his manhood by henpecking his social routine. He relaxed, nodded, said, “Somebody has to make sure the leader of the pack here gets home with a minimal number of bits missing.”

“Which thinking I do appreciate, Morley,” I said. “But. . Bell, when are you thinking about visiting that shop?”

She raised her eyebrows. She did not have the skill set needed to do just one by itself.

“If it was soon I’d tag along. I need to work on getting my edge back.”

Belinda glanced at Morley. Something passed between them. Belinda said, “How about after you finish your lunch?”

“I’ve got nowhere else to go but home.”