George Martin - Dead Mans Hand

Mass lasted only a few more minutes, but the church took a long time to empty. Brennan caught the priest's eye as he was surrounded by members of the congregation who wished to talk to him-mainly, it seemed, about the coming of Hartmann and the expected golden age-and Father Squid called Quasiman over and whispered a few words to him.

Quasiman shuffled off and Father Squid gestured significantly to Brennan.

Brennan slipped out of the church and went around to the back, where Quasiman was unlocking the rectory.

"I hope you're all right," Brennan told the joker. He could see a series of deep scratches running down Quasiman's face.

"Sure," Quasiman said. "Do you think you'll be needing me soon?"

Brennan looked at him. Quasiman looked back with deep, intelligent eyes that held no memories at all of the events of last night. "I-no, I'll think I'll be able to handle things now. But if I do need you, I'll let you know."

"Okay," Quasiman said. "I'll be ready."

He opened the door to the rectory and Brennan went quietly inside. The shades were drawn and Jennifer was still asleep on the couch. Her face looked smooth and serene as that of a child. Her skin color was good, her chest rose and fell with easy regularity. She looked well on the road to recovery, but Brennan didn't want to jeopardize her health by waking her.

He quietly tiptoed to the hallway that led to Father Squid's little bedroom. His bag was sitting by the bedroom door. He took off his battered, bloody clothes and discovered how hard a simple thing like changing pants can be with an arm in a cast. Once he accomplished this, he closed the door behind him, and sat down on Father Squid's water bed and rested for a moment.

He took a deep breath. Dr. Finn had been right. He was worn out already. He hoped the rest of the day would be easy on him. Right now he didn't have the strength to fight half his weight in puppies.

He picked up the phone by the bedstand and dialed a number that had been given him by a cat. It rang once, then a recorded message came on that said, "We're sorry, the number you're trying to reach is no longer in service."

He hung up the phone. Fadeout worked fast. He even had the telephone company jumping. Brennan sat on the bed, thinking for a moment. Kien might know where Fadeout's headquarters were, but the thought of going to his enemy for help made Brennan gag. He would do it if he had to, but there were others he could see first. There was one other he was particularly eager to see.

He put the last weapon he had, a snub-nosed. 38, securely in the waistband of his fresh set of jeans, and went out into the living room.

He watched Jennifer sleep for a moment and resisted a powerful urge to kiss her. He walked through the living room without making a sound and closed the door silently behind him.

Quasiman was sitting in the grass, listening to whatever thoughts they were that drifted like clouds across his mind. "Tell Father Squid I'll be back," Brennan said, but Quasiman gave no sign that he'd heard. Brennan smiled to himself, well aware how lucky he'd been that Quasiman had responded when he'd needed him the night before.

As he went through the churchyard to the street beyond he wished that he could always be that lucky. He stepped to the sidewalk just as an empty cab went by. Brennan whistled shrilly and the cab stopped a little ways up the block. Maybe, he thought, my luck has shifted.

"Twisted Dragon," he said to the cabbie, who nodded, flipped the flag with his flipper, and pulled off down the street.

The talkative cabbie was festooned with Hartmann buttons, and Brennan let him jabber on about the crucial events in Atlanta while putting in only an occasional grunt to sustain his end of the conversation.

"The fur," the cabbie said, "is really gonna fly now. Hartmann versus Bush. Oh, boy. And if Hartmann don t win, Jokertown is gonna go crazy. I don't think Tachyon will be too welcome around here. Why do you think he done it?"

The cab pulled up in front of the Twisted Dragon. "Why do you think Tachyon turned his back on us?" the cabbie asked Brennan again.

Brennan would have shrugged, but the cast made that difficult. "I'm sure he had his reasons," he said, only vaguely aware of what the cabbie had said, and not at all sure of what Tachyon had done or hadn't done. The answer didn't please the cabbie, who burned away from the curb despite the twenty that Brennan handed him.

Brennan went inside the Dragon, dismissing the political maneuverings from his mind. He had more immediate problems to worry about, and so did Lazy Dragon, whom Brennan spotted drinking at the bar.

The Twisted Dragon was as crowded and noisy as it usually is, which is saying a lot on both accounts. Brennan simply walked up behind Dragon, who jerked with surprise when Brennan stuck a knuckle in his back, simulating the barrel of a gun.

"Nice to see you again, pal," Brennan said. "Shall we have a little chat?"

Dragon nodded once, and his hand started to go slowly to his jacket pocket, until Brennan jammed the knuckle a little harder into his back.

"Relax. Keep your hands in sight. I don't want you turning into a teddy bear and scaring all these people."

"All right," Dragon said quietly, his hands resting flat on the bar. "What do you want?"

"I could want your ass, chum, but you saved my life once, so we'll call it quits. If you tell me how to get in touch with Fadeout."

"All I have is a phone number," Dragon said. "The one I gave you a few days ago.".

Brennan shook his head. "It's no good anymore."

"Then I can't help you."

Brennan stared at Dragon, who returned his gaze steadily. "All right. But if you're lying, if you know how to get in touch with Fadeout and warn him that I'm coming, then it's open season on dragons. And I've got my hunting permit right here." He increased the pressure with his knuckle. Dragon shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Why should I care what you white dudes do to each other?" he asked. "Good attitude," Brennan said, and faded into the crowd. Cross Dragon off the list, Brennan thought when he hit the street. It was time to visit the Magic Kingdom again.

"Blaise," Jay said in an urgent stage whisper.

The boy's eyes were closed, but Jay could see the tension in his muscles. He was conscious, Jay was convinced of it; groggy maybe, terrified almost certainly, but conscious.

In the next room, Charm was singing. That was what the others called the Siamese quint; Jay had a sick feeling he knew what that was short for. Sascha had left twenty minutes ago, after saying something about needing to get a new boy. From the conversation, Jay gathered that he had popped away the old boy last night in the park. He wasn't quite clear what they needed a boy for, but it seemed to have something to do with the master's travel plans.

Sascha's telepathy would have made any attempt at escape futile. If they were going to make a move, they had to do it now. As near as Jay could determine, there were only five people left in the other room-six if you counted the grotesque infant nursing at its mother's breast. He figured he could discount the mother and child. Ezili and the joker who looked like a sack of blood pudding shouldn't be too dangerous either. That left only Charm and the centipede man. The centipede sat beneath a window in the other room, a whetstone in one of his left hands, a half-dozen knives in his rights, the arms on the right side of his body moving with a strange rhythmic grace as he sharpened the blades. The sound of steel against stone lent an eerie counterpoint to Charm's singing.

"Blaise," he whispered again. "C'mon, dammit. Wake up."

The boy opened his eyes. All the arrogance was gone from them now. Even in the darkness, Jay could see how scared they were. The contemptuous junior mentat had turned back into a little boy on him.