Wicked Bronze Ambition

62

Tara Chayne said, “It occurs to me that it wouldn’t be bright of me to challenge anyone as powerful as this one might be, here in the seat of his power.”

“And he would recognize you, wouldn’t he?”

“He would. And that greeter called him Magister.”

“He did, didn’t he? That isn’t good.”

The title indicated that, in addition to the job with the long-winded title, our man had been accredited as a magic user inside a denomination that doesn’t like wizards or sorcerers much.

Moonblight said, “I’d better go check on the horses.”

“Good idea. Brownie might not be able to hold off a determined band of rustlers. I’ll stay here. It’s been a while since I’ve confessed.”

The confessionals remained unused. Only the end two showed signs admitting that a priest was available.

“Excellent thinking.” She took hold of my right ear, tugged. I tried to yank away, not knowing what game she was playing. She held on. “Hold still. You want to be able to hear.” She muttered something harshly melodic, tugged again, then slipped a little finger in. I am nothing if not the consummate professional. I endured.

“This will be good for about a quarter hour.”

The hearing in my right ear became ten times as acute, difficult to believe and hardly comfortable since it now seemed I could hear the tiniest scratch or creak within a dozen miles, including Brownie’s fleas farting. I’d have to get used to it fast or not be able to take advantage.

I started to ask for advice.

Advice was not available. Tara Chayne was gone.

She’d been on my left. I hadn’t heard her go.

Intriguing.

Murmuring voices approached from the direction Greeter Man had gone. Feet scuffed limestone. I wondered why the builders hadn’t used a more durable stone where there would be heavy foot traffic. And I got myself into the priestly side of a confessional booth several doors from either one that was supposed to be in use. Seeing in would be tough. Seeing out was almost as feeble. The booth reeked of cheap wine and urine.

Every priest might not be at ease with the filth that he had to hear, so ugly, yet, ultimately, banal.

Few sins are unique.

Not a time to philosophize, Garrett. Time to act. To eavesdrop.

The greeter said, “And they’re gone.”

“It is quite impossible to deceive your sharp eye, Niea.”

“There is no need to mock me, sir.”

“No need, but. . Apologies. You are correct. You were doing your job. It seems that these people offered no cause for more suspicion than is normal with street people. Street people are, after all, why we’re here.”

I thought it sounded like somebody was being sarcastic.

I found an angle where the seeing out was better. I saw enough of the newcomer to understand that he wasn’t the man we’d hoped to find. He was younger, browner, and had no huge blemish growing out of wild, curly black locks just starting to go salt-and-pepper. He turned slowly, all the way round, frowning. His gaze did not linger on the confessionals.

“Curious, Niea. Very curious. I wonder who they were.” Not what we might have wanted.

The greeter offered descriptions that Old Bones would have applauded, and a surprising analysis. “The woman was older than she pretended and thought she was important but wanted to hide that.”

“Nobility?”

“Not quite that feel, but there was that level of self-assurance.”

“The Hill, then?”

“Probably. It wasn’t as obvious as usual, though.”

“And the man?”

“A cipher. Not what she was. A hard case. Not a bodyguard, though. He dressed badly and was poorly groomed.”

“So. That would make him single. Was he her Jodie?”

“No. He was the senior partner despite pretending that he was dim and darkish. He paid closer attention than he let on.”

“Civil Guard snoop? A Special, maybe?”

“Maybe. But why would they be interested in Magister Bezma?”

“Why indeed?”

I tried to get a better look. The guy expressed himself by tone quite well. He had made that sound like the query was rhetorical to him but a real question to the gatekeeper.

I tried to recall the description of the man who had traveled with the old boy who owned the wen-Magister Bezma-to Flubber Ducky’s and Trivias Smith’s. No one had done well delivering one. The wen had been a huge distraction to people not much interested in the first place.

I reached back for images passed on by the Dead Man. Even people not paying attention might have noted something useful.

Yes. They had. But not enough. Just enough to make me suspect that this character hadn’t been with Bezma.

He told Niea, “Go out and see if you can’t find some trace of them.” His tone said he thought there was a good chance we wouldn’t be making a run for it. “Wear your cap. I want Almaz able to spot you.”

“You think they were spies?”

“We should find out if we can.”

“Of course. The more I think about that guy, the creepier he feels. His eyes were like a wolf’s. Like back behind the dull and friendly was somebody really looking forward to hurting somebody.”

“You’re known for your discerning eye, Niea. It’s why we have you working here. You’re probably right. So I have to wonder why this man and his beard would be interested in Magister Bezma.”

Niea wanted to speculate. The other guy wasn’t interested. “Put your hat on and get out there, Niea.”

“Uh, yes, sir. On my way, sir.”

He never named a name. I’d been hoping to hear one.

He shuffled to where he greeted visitors, produced a yellow flop hat so bright that it ought to glow in the dark. You had to admire the genius who came up with the dye. For several seconds I lost interest in anything but curiosity about that. Whence had it come? How had it been applied?

Niea left the cathedral.

I didn’t doubt that he would spot Tara Chayne quickly. She had no reason to try for anonymity. She’d probably returned to that bench. There was no good reason not to have.

Niea’s boss paced. He held a brisk conversation with himself but too softly for me to catch a word in five even using my enhanced hearing.

He wasn’t fussing in vernacular Karentine, anyway. He was using either the liturgical tongue or something foreign. Probably the former. It sounded vaguely familiar.

When you’re a kid you know damned well you’ll never use any dead languages, or any of that dull religious stuff, once you’re dealing with the real world.

Now I grew impatient. I wanted out. I wanted to make sure Moonblight didn’t get caught in some unexpected deep doo-doo.