Wicked Bronze Ambition

37

Something about Trivias encouraged me to talk. Plus, I saw that Brownie and friends were interested in him, too, once he focused on them.

Belinda and crew weren’t as inclined toward patience with the pups. They kept their attitudes restrained, however, she because she’d known me long enough to understand that most anything could turn out to be relevant in anything connected to me, even what just looked like “stuff happening.”

In life, though, stuff usually happens without being a cog in a carefully constructed plot.

So I was forthcoming with Trivias despite knowing nothing about him other than that he felt comfortable. Belinda’s crowd closed in to listen while Brownie’s bunch decided to become fans of the smith. He gave all their ears a scratching and demonstrated killer skills as a flea catcher. He asked, “You did some thinking about the girl?”

“Definitely. But I still don’t know who she is or why she hates me.”

He considered the dogs. They considered him back, body language apologetic because they were with me and therefore not free to commit themselves to him.

I asked, “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

“In a folklore sense, perhaps, but not in a quotidian world sense.”

Oh my. Only the Dead Man ever uses words like that. I wasn’t sure what “quotidian” meant. I grunted, mostly to prove that I was listening.

“I’ll think about it. The tournament is something of a folklore artifact, too, but I doubt there’s a connection. Your grandmother was right about the girl, though. Whatever the strain, whatever she does, be kind. That’s the only way to win through.” Having thus spoken with sybilline clarity, or the precise exactitude of a wizard, he patted Brownie and Number Two, and added, “I do wish I could be more help.”

Belinda said, “You still could be. The bronze swords. How about I leave someone to greet their buyers when they pick them up?”

“Oh. Yes.” The smith mimed thought, nodded, said, “And now for a better idea. You.” He jabbed a finger at me. “Exploit your family connections. Have your grandmother produce tracer charms I can put into the hilts of the swords.”

“That’s a damned fine idea!” Shadowslinger could then follow the weapons around. We could identify anyone who carried one.

Belinda, being Belinda, wasn’t happy with being outthought but was never so long on pride that she would burn a good idea because somebody else came up with it. She stipulated, “Good thinking.” She did give the smith a suspicious look. Craftsmen are supposed to be clever with their hands, not their heads.

Trivias obviously was more than a hammer-and-tongs kind of guy.

I said, “I’d better get on that part fast.” I had a feeling that there was little time to waste even though preparing the grips of swords would be among the last steps of the manufacturing process.

“Where you going?” Belinda snapped, the way you might interrogate a three-year-old demonstrating an inclination to wander off.

“I need to see Shadowslinger.”

“And you’re going to head on up there by yourself?”

That was the plan, yes. If plan there was. I would have Brownie and the girls for company.

“How many times has somebody tried to kill you in the last few days?”

Again? People have been trying to break me or end me for years. I’m still upright. But I have been lucky and I have had the backing of good friends. Skills and quick thinking help occasionally, too, but only some.

“Honestly, Garrett. The dogs have a better grasp on life outside the moment.”

She wasn’t far off the mark. I just didn’t have that war-zone edge.

I said, “I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t find a new line.”

“If you make it a hobby you’ll only get killed quicker.”

Too many women have said the same thing the last couple of years.

“You can’t do deadly stuff part-time, Garrett.”

Yeah, yeah. I knew it in my head.

The smith said, “I’ll start binding the grip of the first sword sometime late tomorrow.”

Little hint, there. I grunted. All right. Time to move on. Time to stop acting like a hobbyist.

Actually, time to start thinking like a professional.

Smith said, “I wouldn’t need every tracer right away. Spread them out over three or four days if you have to. But. .”

“Sure. Don’t waste time. Look. It probably won’t be me bringing the tracers.” I offered descriptions of Winger and Saucerhead Tharpe.

“Very big people, sure.” In his world most people would qualify.

“Let’s move, Garrett,” Belinda said. “I hope Elwood doesn’t waste time. These aren’t the best shoes for walking.”

Trivias the smith performed a ritual of parting with the mutts.

Belinda would be better served hoping Old Bones didn’t waste time exploring the boys from Flubber Ducky. Their heads might contain a lot of stuff he would find interesting.

Boys and girls and puppies, away we hiked.

One of Belinda’s goons spotted a red top working ever so hard to look like the last thing that might ever interest him was a mob of thugs and mutts. Then Belinda, I, and the crew all caught a whiff that said a man of unusual talent was in the neighborhood.

Belinda and I exchanged looks. No words needed saying, but she observed anyway, “I’ll have someone look out for the smith.”

Trivias would be at risk if Lurking Fehlske was reporting to the Operators.