Dread Brass Shadows Page 3

  Where the morCartha disappeared during the day no one knew—nobody gave a big enough care to find out—but all night they zoomed over the rooftops settling old tribal scores or swooped down to mug citizens or to steal anything not nailed down. Most people accepted their presence as proof the thunder-lizards were migrating. In their own country morCartha lived in the treetops and slept during the day. That would make them easy snacks for the taller thunder-lizards Some of these stand more than thirty feet tall.

  Despite the morning’s excitement I tried going to bed at what Dean and the Dead Man perversely call a reasonable hour. My theory was that if I rolled out early, my neighbors wouldn’t be out to giggle and point at the spectacle of Garrett running laps. But that night the morCartha brought their flying carnival to my neighborhood. It sounded like the aerial battle of the century. Blood and broken bodies and war cries and taunts rained down. Whenever I threatened to drift off, they staged some absurd, cacophonous confrontation right outside my window.

  I decided it was time somebody on the Hill suffered a stroke of smarts and enlisted them all as mercenaries and sent them down to the Cantard to look for Glory Mooncalled. Let him lose sleep while they squabbled over his head.

  Old Glory probably wasn’t getting much sleep, anyway. The Karentine powers that be had thrown everything into the cauldron down there They were grinding his upstart republic fine, inexorably and inevitably, permitting him no chance to catch his breath and turn his genius toward their despair.

  The war between Karenta and Venageta has been going on since my grandfather’s time It’s become as much a part of life as the weather. Glory Mooncalled started out a mercenary captain in Venageti service, had a major falling out with the Venageti warlords, and came over to our side swearing mighty oaths of vengeance. Once he had smashed everybody who offended him, he suddenly declared the Cantard—possession of which is what the war is all about—an autonomous republic. All the Cantard’s native nonhuman races supported him. So, for the moment, Karenta and Venageta have a common cause, the obliteration of Glory Mooncalled. Once he’s gone, it’ll be back to war as usual.

  All of which is of more interest to the Dead Man than me. I did my five years in the Marines and survived. I don’t want to remember. The Dead Man does. Glory Mooncalled is his hobby.

  Whatever, I didn’t sleep well and I was less cheerful than usual when I got up, which is saying something. On my best mornings I’m human only by charity. Morning is the lousiest time of day. The lower the sun in the east, the lousier that time is.

  The racket in the street started about the time I got my feet on the floor.

  A woman screamed. She was frightened. Nothing galvanizes me so quickly. I was down at the door with a small arsenal before I started thinking. Somebody was pounding on that door now, yelling my name and begging to be let in. I peeped through the peephole. One ounce of brain was working. I saw a woman’s face. Terrified. I fumbled at bolts, yanked the door open.

  A naked woman stumbled inside. I gawked for half a minute before my brain started chugging. Then I checked the street. I saw nothing till a thing slightly larger than a spider monkey, built along similar lines but hairless and red, with batlike wings instead of arms and with a spadelike point at the end of its tail, crashed and flopped around, squealing. A city ratman ambled over. The moment it stopped moving, he shoveled it into his wheeled trash bin. The creature’s kin didn’t protest or claim the body. The morCartha are indifferent to their dead.

  So now they were doing it in the daytime, too. If you could call it daytime Just because it was light out. Personally, I don’t believe daytime really starts till the sun is straight overhead.

  I slammed the door, spun around. The woman had collapsed. What I saw in that bad light was enough to make my hair stand up and get split ends.

  Not a stitch on her, like I said, but she had the body to wear that kind of outfit. She clutched a raggedly wrapped package in her left hand. I couldn’t pry it loose.

  The word flabbergasted gets bandied about in this age of exaggeration, but you don’t often get into a situation where it’s appropriate. This was a time when it was appropriate. I didn’t know what to do.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got nothing against naked women. Especially nothing against naked women when they’re beautiful and running around my house. Most especially not when I’m chasing them and they have no Intention of getting away. But I’d never had one come to the door all ready to race. I’d never had one drop in and instantly transport herself to dreamland with such diligence that I couldn’t wake her again.

  I was still trying to figure out what to do when Dean showed up for work.

  Dean is my housekeeper and cook, in case you haven’t figured that out. He’s a sour-faced but sentimental guy about a thousand years old who should have been born a woman because he’d make somebody a great wife. He can cook and keep house and has a tongue to match the nastiest of them. He took one look at the woman. “I just cleaned that carpet, Mr. Garrett. Couldn’t you confine your games to the second floor?”

  “I just let her in, Dean. She came this way, right off the street. I opened the door, she stumbled in and passed out. Maybe she was hit by the morCartha. She’s gone into a fugue. I can’t wake her up.”

  “Must you stare so shamelessly?”

  “I don’t notice you studying the fly specks on the ceiling.” He wasn’t that old. Nobody ever gets that old. And the lady deserved a stare or two. She was the nicest package I’d had stumble in in a long time. “Hell, yes, I must. How often do the gods bother to send us the answer to our prayers?”

  He’s more alert at that hour than I’ll ever be. He honestly believes that getting up before sunrise is a virtue, poor misguided soul. “Attempt at levity noted, Mr. Garrett Noted and found wanting. I suggest we move her to the daybed and cover her, then get some breakfast into you. You’re less at the mercy of adolescent fantasies once you’ve gotten your blood moving.”

  “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth is the tongue of an ingrate servant.”

  He knew I couldn’t be talking about him. He wasn’t a servant. He was an in-house working partner.

  He grabbed the woman’s ankles. I took the heavy end. Maybe he was put out because the woman had gotten several of his nieces’ shares of natural goodies. “Red hair, too,” I muttered. “Isn’t that nice?” I’m a sucker for redheads. I’ve been known to favor the occasional blonde, brunette, whatever, too.

  Dean would just say I’m a sucker. He might have a point.

  We put her on the daybed in the small front room, on the right side of the house. Your left, coming in the front door. She hung on to her package. Once she was set, I moved to the kitchen. Reluctantly. I was thinking maybe I should be there for her when she woke up, just in case she needed to throw herself into somebody’s arms and be comforted.

  Dean filled me up with breakfast As I finished up Saucerhead arrived, to supervise me in my pursuit of physical excellence. Or incapacitating cramps, whichever came first. We yakked over tea for a while, me somehow forgetting to mention my nude. Would you tell a pirate where you’d found buried treasure? Then we went outside and got busy with our respective exercise regimens. I wore him down. He ran out of fingers before I ran out of laps.

  Puffing and panting and aching, I forgot my mystery guest. Puffing and wheezing is a full-time job.

  7

  Last lap. Beer ahead. Relief only a few yards away. I came off Wizard’s Reach full speed, about a walk and a half, snorting like a wounded buffalo, listing from side to side, steering like a ship without a rudder. Only my neighbors watching kept me from getting down and crawling the last hundred feet.

  I’d lost count of my laps. Saucerhead had slipped a few extra in on me. I hadn’t figured that out till a minute ago. If I lived, I’d get even with him if it was the last thing I did. If that involved running, it would be the last thing I did.

  I had my chin down. You’re not supposed to do that, but I had to keep an
eye on my feet. Otherwise they might quit. Meanwhile, I tried to figure how many laps Tharpe had shafted me. I’d lost count because there had been no landmark events to separate one lap from another. There were none to help me come up with an actual number, either. But I knew he’d done it to me.

  I reached the foot of the steps honking and snorting, grabbed the handrail, dragged myself up toward the pitcher that would help put the misery behind me.

  “This the character I’m looking for?” The voice wasn’t familiar.

  “That’s him.” Saucerhead.

  “Don’t look like much.”

  “I can’t help that. I ain’t his mother.”

  My pal. I got my chin up. Huff. Puff. Saucerhead wasn’t alone. Being brilliant, I’d worked that out, already. What I hadn’t figured out was that he was talking to a woman. Maybe.

  At first glance she looked like Tharpe’s big sister. Maybe she had a touch of giant in her. She was taller than me by an inch. She had stringy blonde hair that would’ve been nice if she’d washed and combed it. In fact, she had nice stuff in all the right places, only she was so damned big. And so uncaringly kempt. And looked so damned hard.

  “The name’s Winger, Garrett,” she said. “Hunter.” Her stance dared me to treat her like a lady. She wasn’t dressed like any lady. Lots of worn leather and stuff, that needed cleaning as much as she did. Lots of metal, stuff hanging all over her. She looked like a hunter. She looked like she could whip thunder-lizards with one hand tied behind her. Hell, she could knock them down with her breath.

  The name meant nothing to me. She had to be new in town. I would have heard of an amazon like her if she was a regular.

  “Yeah, I’m Garrett. So what?” Still gulping air by the bucket, I couldn’t get gracious.

  “I’m looking for work. New in town.”

  “No kidding?”

  “People I talked to said we might could kind of team up sometimes.” She looked at Saucerhead, jerked her head at me. “Kind of puny to have such a big rep.”

  Tharpe grinned. “Things get exaggerated.” He was loving it. The big goof. The way he was grinning I was sure there were wonders yet to come.

  “Not much call for hunters in the city,” I told her. “We can catch our dinner at the corner butcher.”

  “Not that kind of hunter, Ace. Manhunter. Bounty hunter.” Just in case I’d mistaken her meaning. “Tracker.” Her gaze was hard and steady. She worked at being tough. “Trying to make contacts. Trying to get set up. I don’t want to have to cross the line to make it.”

  She had small hands for a woman her size. Her nails were trimmed neatly. But her palms were used to hard work. Looked like she could bust boards with them. Or backs. I wanted to chuckle but decided I might be smart to keep my amusement to myself. Not more than ten thousand people ever said I wasn’t smart. “What do you want from me?”

  “Whyn’t we get in out of the sun, set a spell, down a few brews, let me tell you what I can do?”

  Saucerhead was behind her now. Grinning from ear to ear. She must have tried to sell him already. I kept a straight face. “Sure. Why not?” I hammered on the door, glared Tharpe a dagger or three. He thought he’d set me up. I was going to get him for this. Right after I got him for skewing the lap count. Right after I got him for about seven other things on my list.

  Dean opened up. He looked at Winger in awe. She snapped, “What you staring at, runt?” Still working hard at that tough.

  “Dean, we’ll be in the office. Bring us a pitcher. After you lock up.” No more free drinks for Tharpe.

  I stepped out of Winger’s way. “Straight up the hail.”

  I followed her while Dean locked up. She looked around

  like she was trying to memorize every crack in the walls.

  I guess Saucerhead was outside har-harring.

  “Take that chair,” I told Winger, indicating the client’s seat. It’s wooden, hard as a rock. It’s supposed to discourage prolonged visits. They’re supposed to sit there only long enough to tell me what they have to, not long enough to bury me in trivia. Theoretically. The real whiners enjoy being miserable.

  Winger kept looking around like she was sneaking through enemy territory. I asked, “You looked for anything in particular?”

  “You stay alert when you’re a woman in a man’s racket.” Another dose of tough.

  “I imagine. What can I do for you, anyway?”

  “Like I said, I’m new here. I need to make contacts, You could use an extra hand sometimes, probably. Finding people.”

  “Maybe.” Her alertness had me wound up now, She had something on her mind.

  Dean brought the pitcher. I poured. Winger downed a mug, stared at the painting behind me. She shivered. Eleanor can have that effect. The man who painted her was a mad genius. He filled her portrait with indefinable creepiness.

  I glanced back. And Winger moved so fast I barely had time to face her again before she had a knife at my throat. A long knife. A knife that looked like a two-handed broadsword right about then. “I’m looking for a book, Garrett. A big one You wouldn’t have it, would you?”

  Sure I wouldn’t. “I wish I did.” Rut her tone said she wasn’t going to believe that. She wasn’t going to get confused by facts.

  Her knife pricked my throat. Her hand was steady. She was a pro. Not even a little nervous Me neither. Not much. “I don’t have it. How come you think I do?”

  She didn’t tell me. “I’m going to look. I’m going to take this place apart. You want to stay healthy, stay out of my way. You want your house to stay healthy, give me the book now.”

  I gave her a look at my fluttering-eyebrow trick. I tossed in a big smile. “Have fun.”

  She smiled back. “Think you can take me? Don’t even think about trying.”

  “Little old me? Perish the thought. Hey, Chuckles. Time to do your stuff.”

  Winger glanced around. Her knife hand remained steady. She couldn’t figure out who the hell I was talking to. “Who the hell you talking to?”

  “My partner.”

  She opened her mouth. That was as far as she got. The Dead Man turned her into a living statue. In the last instant her expression turned to horror. I edged away from her knife, got out of my chair. “You got nerve,” I said. She could hear and understand. “But nerve isn’t everything.” Nobody who’d studied me would try to take me in my own house. The Dead Man doesn’t get out much, but that hasn’t kept him from acquiring a reputation.

  I patted Winger’s considerable shoulder. It was rock hard. “Live and learn, sweetheart.” I finished my mug, strolled across the hall. “What’s the story, Smiley?”

  No story, Garrett. She has told you everything. She is looking for a book. This is her first job in TunFaire. She was hired by a man named Lubbock. He paid her thirty marks to shake you down. He will give her forty more if she finds the book.

  “Interesting coincidence. What’s she know about that gang yesterday?”

  Nothing. Obviously she was selected for that reason. She can tell no one anything because she knows nothing.

  “I guess friend Lubbock did his research.”

  Perhaps.

  “She has an accent.” She was Karentine but from way out there somewhere.

  Hender. West Midlands.

  “Never heard of it.”

  Not surprising. Population less than a hundred. A farming village. A suggestion. Assuming your curiosity has been piqued, as mine has, have her watched. Her contacts might prove interesting. It seems likely that Lubbock is not her employer’s real name. She believes it to be a pseudonym herself.

  Sounded good to me. Something was going on. And I don’t like sitting around waiting for things to happen. “Right. Can’t use Saucerhead, though. She knows his face. I could dash over to Morley’s.”

  Quickly?

  Sarky old clown can put a lot into a single word. He’d recovered from his earlier consideration for my feelings, was back to letting me know what he thought of my ways.


  “I’m gone.”

  I got back faster than either of us expected. I had some luck.

  Saucerhead was still loafing on the stoop. He hadn’t finished the pitcher Dean had provided for my run. He had company again, a local blackheart called Squirrel. I don’t know Squirrel’s real name. I never heard him called anything else. He was a skinny little gink with atrocious posture, a pointy face and buckteeth, and huge ears that stuck straight out from the side of his head. He’d have trouble making any headway walking into a light breeze.

  They didn’t call him Squirrel because of his looks.

  Somebody left something out when they gave him his brains. He was a first-class goofball.

  And a second-class thug.

  He worked for Chodo Contague. He was more than a gofer but not one of the heavyweights, like Sadler and Crask. I didn’t know Squirrel well but did know he wasn’t somebody who was going to elevate the standards of the neighborhood.

  I looked at him. He gave me a grin full of teeth. Friendly as hell. That was Squirrel. Always trying to be your pal—till it came time to put a knife in your back. Squirrel desperately wanted to be liked. And wanted to make Chodo’s first team even more. “Garrett. The boss heard about your trouble.” Chodo hears everything, “Sent me over to help. Said if you need anything, just yell. Said he don’t hold with anybody hurting women.”

  Sure he didn’t. Unless they worked for him, showed a wisp of independence. But he probably doesn’t consider hookers women.

  I didn’t want to take anything from Chodo, but, on the other hand, using Squirrel was so damned convenient. So what the hell. “You showed up at the perfect time.”