Glen Cook - Wicked Bronze Ambition

Hauser won no points by adding, “We’re all too old to benefit, anyway.”

Lady Machtkess said, “It’s easier to get in a killer mood when it’s your children at risk. When it’s you yourself, you don’t worry so much because when you’re a kid you know you’re invincible.”

Barate stepped in. “This time we want to abort the thing before it starts and keep on till we end it forever.”

I admitted, “I have to confess to being confused. I still don’t have any idea of who, what, or why.”

Lady Tara Chayne asked, “Isn’t that what you do, though, Mr. Garrett? Find answers? I’m told that you’re the best.” She looked over at Shadowslinger, one eyebrow raised. “Constance would have us believe that you’re a genius with a matchless network of shady connections. And that you’re more discreet than the Civil Guard.”

A rabid mammoth would be more discreet than those guys.

Somebody had been telling tall tales. That it might be Shadowslinger astonished me. She seldom showed anything but contempt. “True.” Barely.

A double-hand squeeze on my left arm hinted that it might be in my interest to talk less and listen more, a skill I have honed for decades with slight success.

Barate said, “Mother believes that the tournament will play out differently this time because it will be heavily influenced by survivors from before.”

“Um?”

“This round may begin with an effort by the Operators to remove those who helped scuttle it last time.”

I pointed a finger at Lady Tara Chayne, Hauser, and Shadowslinger, swinging left to right.

“Us. Yes. Exactly,” Hauser said. “We have been remiss, letting the matter slide for so long. We thought it was over forever. Or at least we hoped next time would hold off till after we were gone. But, honestly, some of us might admit fearing that it would come back to bite us someday.”

Madam Machtkess said, “Someday has come.”

I saw no arrogance here, only confidence and irritation at an outside force that dared try to use them. A common Hill attitude, actually. These were people grown old in treacherous environments.

“So, what shall I do with my special talents and outstandingly shady connections?” Carefully keeping my tone neutral. Strafa had hold of my arm, sending messages by squeezing brutally. In a way, she was thrilled that the man she had chosen, without consulting her elders, was now being welcomed to the family’s conspiratorial heartland.

Shadowslinger watched me as if she were cataloging recipes she wanted to try.

Barate said, “First, we should identify the contestants. If we round them up before the killing starts, the whole stupid competition will fall apart. Nobody will have to die.”

Hauser agreed. “We could save them all. And if we could identify the Operators. .”

Shadowslinger summoned Barate close. She murmured into his ear. He then announced, “Mother has to leave us. She suggests that we all give Mr. Garrett whatever information we have so he can get started, especially with identifying the contestants.”

Right.

Cynical me, I wondered how much actual identifying and rounding up they really intended.

It was dark and hungry out when Strafa and I left Shadowslinger’s place, me brooding on the implausibility of a to-the-death elimination tournament involving mostly brilliant teenagers.

Twelve was the magical number of participants. Each would have a sidekick called a Mortal Companion, normally a close friend but sometimes a hired fighter. At some point, somewhere from the shadows, each contestant would attract a supernatural ally as well, called a Dread Companion. Too, there would be entities who chose participants, managed everything, refereed, and delivered coups de grace if necessary. These were the Operators. They were a mystery. Nobody knew how they got recruited or what skin they had in the game. Evidently death was mandatory for the scheme to work fully. Losers couldn’t just admit defeat, they had to die so their power could be folded into the final prize.

Identifying the Operators could give us a means to abort the whole absurd tournament.

My cynical, suspicious side already definitely wondered how the Operators would profit. My villainous side figured eliminating that crew would go a long way toward ending the game permanently, since there would be no one left to recruit a new team.

Though I had been immersed in it all day I remained both skeptical and deeply confused. It was such a ridiculous way of doing business.

I asked Strafa, “Did you understand all of that?”

“Not so much.”

“They talked a ton, and I think they were trying, but when something sounds that absurd you can’t help thinking that they’re either pulling your leg or not telling the whole story.”

“You’re right. But I don’t think they were holding back. Bonegrinder did more talking than I’ve ever seen before.”

“Bonegrinder?”

“Richt Hauser. His working name is Bonegrinder. He brought it back from his first trip to the war zone.”

“And that creepy Machtkess woman?”

“She favors Moonblight. Unless she’s feeling randy. I hear she becomes Mistress of Chains then. A play on her name.”

“I’ll skip finding out why. All righty, then. And they’re really your grandmother’s friends?”

“As much as can be with their kind. More so, probably, when they were young. Coconspirators is probably closer to the truth now. Where are we going?”

“To my house to check in with some of my matchless resources.”

“We’re going to go that far, why don’t we fly? It’s about to rain. We’ll get soaked if we take time to walk.”

“All right.” Reluctantly. “But you don’t have your broom.” I like having something a bit more solid than air beneath my feet.

“You know I don’t need a broom. You’re just chicken.”

She was right. “You got me. But hold up for a minute. I see civilians.” A girl was headed our way, nine or ten, blond, well dressed, very pretty. A living doll. She held the hand of a groll, part giant, part troll, all strength and ugliness, impervious to most weapons but, blessed be, seldom aggressive. Full-grown grolls are big. This one was bigger than most, a good fourteen feet tall. He seemed to be walking in his sleep, oblivious of his surroundings. The little girl, however, was alert and totally intense.

Strafa backed into me. “Grab on.” She was anxious suddenly.

“Always up for that.”

“You have a one-track mind, sir. But quit fooling around. We need to get out of here. Now.”

“Whose fault is that? You being you.” I paid no attention to the kid, other than to note that she was rich enough to rate a magnificent bodyguard.

My toes had just left the cobblestones. Strafa turned her head. I tried to kiss her, for the moment forgetting what we were up to. She lost her foothold on the sky. We collapsed into a wriggling pile. The little girl stopped to scowl at us, then told me, “If you aren’t more careful you will be the first to die.”

Strafa ignored her. She sat up. “Gods, I wish we’d met when I was Kevans’s age. We would’ve had so much more time.”

No. I thought not. When Strafa was Kevans’s age she already had a toddler underfoot and I was still shallow enough for that to make a difference. Too, I was about to head out for my five years in the war zone.

Chances are, I would have gone off, leaving her with another responsibility about to arrive, which I might have been low enough not to have acknowledged. I wasn’t nearly as nice when I was younger.

But I’ll never tell her we’re both better off for life’s having kept us apart as long as it did.

The little girl and her monster moved on hurriedly. I asked, “What was that? Did you get that?”