Wicked Bronze Ambition

99

No plan survives contact with the enemy. That is common wisdom, becoming a storyteller’s cliche. It is the iron law encountered by every commander headed into action. It could be called Garrett’s First Law of Investigative Dynamics, too.

Nothing goes according to plan.

We doughty adventurers, and our tails, passed the Al-Khar en route to look for Vicious Min. I had no intention of visiting. I had no intention of consulting anyone there, nor of being noticed by its denizens. Either Womble and/or Muriat rejected my script.

Maybe I should have gone a longer way.

Whatever, my crowd suddenly expanded to include Brevet Captain Deiter Scithe, Target, and a vigorously limping Helenia, who looked like there was nothing she’d love more than to take a big, steaming dump on the altar of Fortune, she was so happy to be out in the weather with me. The dogs, though, greeted her cheerfully and begged for treats she didn’t have, which softened her mood from diamond to ice.

“There you are,” I said. “But why?”

Scithe said, “Prince Rupert came to see the General and the Director. He wants the business involving your wife solved and wrapped.”

“Why? It’s none of his business.”

“It’s all his business, Garrett, and not just because she was a family friend. He’s the Royal responsible for ‘Public Safety.’ Right now that means he has to please the Hill, where people are outraged. He hopes to score political points, too.”

Which made sense of a sleazy sort. Prince Rupert would be our next king, maybe not long from now. He wasn’t keen on that, but he was realistic. Whatever skin he had pinched in the crimes and facts of the tournament, he had to bow to political considerations. Karentine princes who ignore politics always suffer brief, miserable reigns once they take the throne.

I didn’t like it, but that was the way it was. A weasel Rupert might be, but he should be the best king we had during my lifetime. He had a knack for seeing snippets of realities outside the neverlands of his palaces.

“He also wants to see you about making you his personal investigative agent. Again.”

“I have other stuff to do.” The brewery. Amalgamated. Revenge for what happened to Strafa. Avoiding the bitter insanity of Karentine politics.

“He’s willing to work with you on your concerns. He says you wouldn’t have to give up your normal life.”

“You smell that? It’s piled so high a tall troll would drown in it.”

“Garrett, you’re being willfully difficult.”

Helenia surreptitiously checked a waterlogged list, ready to prompt Scithe if he overlooked a talking point. Number Two was curious about that, probably hoping it was a treat that Helenia would give up eventually.

Scithe noted, “You spend ninety percent of your life doing nothing productive. He’s only interested in buying a fraction of that.”

Morley chuckled but eschewed going after the deeper dig.

“To start. That’s what he’d say. But how long before he claimed he owned me body and soul, day and night, till he used me up or got me killed?” I stopped. No point working up a lather. Scithe was carrying out instructions, by the numbers, with just enough enthusiasm to get by.

He concluded, “Just come by the Al-Khar and talk.”

“Some other time. Maybe after I’ve settled this business.” Strafa’s face came to me, sweetly supportive. Could I get to the cemetery today? The afternoon was getting on.

Helenia crumpled her list. The ink had run. Anything they had missed was gone. She was ready to get the hell gone herself, somewhere safe and out of this crappy weather.

Number Two was deeply disappointed.

Scithe had a point or two left but decided, screw it. “It might be a sweet gig, Garrett.”

“You could be right. Volunteer for it yourself.”

“I did. But he’s got Garrett, Furious Tide of Light, Shadowslinger, and the Algarda clan on the brain. See him. He’ll put up with you turning him down, but there’s no way he’ll take you disrespecting him by ignoring him.”

A point worth remembering. Prince Rupert would be king. New kings close out old accounts.

Morley put that into words as we watched Scithe, Helenia, and Target head for the yellow rock pile. Target hadn’t spoken the whole time.

“I know. You’re right. I don’t need Rupert laying for me for the rest of my life.”

“My little boy is starting to grow up.”

“Blame that on Strafa.” I watched the red tops till they disappeared, wondering what had become of Womble and Muriat. “Let’s get on with getting on.” Later, I asked, “What’s with you and Belinda?”

“We’re two people desperately trying to make something work with somebody crazier than we are.” Which ended the discussion.

I hoped their thing didn’t turn darkly bad. Both were my friends. And both were dangerous and disinclined, in heated moments, to demonstrate outstanding emotional restraint.