Glen Cook - Wicked Bronze Ambition

Silence stretched for several heartbeats. She pushed her face right up against the bars. Damn, she had beautiful eyes. “Garrett, you say?”

“Garrett. Yes, ma’am. That Garrett.”

“Well, you’re big enough. And you look like you might have been a Marine. A long time ago.”

She had to know who I was. Everybody at the Al-Khar knows Garrett. Garrett is a one-of-a-kind. .

“Haven’t kept in shape, have you?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. You don’t measure up to the hype.”

“What?”

“I thought you’d be better-looking, too. And less dinged-up.”

“That’s just character!” What the hell was this? “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you wanted me to be. Look, I’m not really pressed for time, but I’m not into verbal abuse, either. Or standing around in the rain. And I do think I might have somebody following me. It’s possible they could take a wild hair and try to stop me once they realize that this is where I’ve been headed.”

I made the follower part up. It might get her moving.

“I’m sorry. I’m just surprised to see that you aren’t a giant. You’ll be safe there as long as you stay behind the murder holes. I’ll be right back.”

An iron plate chunked down in front of the iron bars. I barked a protest but stopped when I heard a crossbow creak as someone spanned it behind one of the murder holes.

Nobody would listen to me and an even smaller population was likely to care what I had to say.

A pair of massive, iron-strapped wooden doors filled the passage a dozen feet back. The walls were not really that thick, though. The Al-Khar only pretends to be a fortress. The exterior walls were the back sides of inward-facing cells and offices, though the stonework at street level could withstand considerable abuse. The passage through was eight feet wide. There was a slim sally port in the left-hand door, so skinny that I would have to turn sideways to get through.

That skinny door opened and invited me in.

I have visited the Al-Khar often, usually on business, occasionally as an involuntary guest. I hadn’t used this entrance since they installed the welcoming window and skinny door. The murder holes were always there with guys inside who hoped that this would finally be the day when they got to use their crossbows. I eased through the skinny door thinking I would find a couple of red tops on the other side, waiting to pat me down before they took me to the General.

I slid into an upright coffin instead. The door clunked shut before I could change my mind.

I don’t like tight places. Not even a little. I really don’t like tight places. It was a miracle that I kept my composure. I treated myself to one lone girlish shriek, then focused on finding creative descriptions of the dams of the motherless dogs who had. .

Click! Ker-chunk! Screech!

The back side of the coffin swung away.

I backed off on the rhetoric. Some red tops are overly sensitive.

I keep getting smarter as I age. Or it could be that I have developed an allergy to nightsticks.

Four tin whistles occupied the space behind the door. Three were my size, a little over six feet, a little over two hundred pounds of rippling. . muscle, all equally scarred up. The other one was a big guy who probably ate bricks drenched in acid for breakfast. They carried chains and clubs, pole arms with hooks and thief-takers on the business end, and at least one weighted throwing net.

“Sorry, guys! I maybe got overexcited. I just came to report. .”

They showed no interest at all.

The big door without a coffin attachment creaked open. Uh-oh. I noted that the tin whistles were dressed for the weather. They were going after my imaginary pursuers.

I clenched my jaw, recalling all those times when my mother reminded me that one tends to learn a lot more a lot faster when one does not have one’s piehole open, trying to scam somebody holding a hammer.

Mom was a saint and a sage. And some other things I still get upset about whenever she gets into my head.

The woman from behind the window bars reappeared. She proved to be more interesting in portrait than when seen from head to toe. Everything from just above where the cleavage ought to start, downward, was too wide, too ample, inadequate, or just plain weirdly put together.

She was a personality kind of girl.

I got no opportunity for a more exhaustive inventory. She had not brought me Westman Block.

This fellow was short. He was ugly. Troops of nonhuman adventurers had enjoyed themselves swinging through his family tree. Most must have been ill-tempered and eternally suspicious because their descendant was in a bad mood and suspicious all the time.

But less so than usual right now.

Which did nothing to improve my temper or soften my inclination to be suspicious.

I was face-to-face with Director Relway of the Unpublished Committee for Royal Security. Most people would not recognize the runt if he was snapping around their ankles, but I had butted heads with him several times. He was smiling. That was so unusual that I made sure my pockets hadn’t been picked already.

It was too late to make sure that I had an escape route plotted.

The ugly little man commanded more genuine hurt-you power than almost anybody but the queen of the underworld. He could intimidate the King himself, and all the sane people on the Hill. Irk Deal Relway and you could fall off the stage of the world forever. Irk him badly enough and he might arrange for you never to have existed at all.

Only some crazy Hill folk and lunatic criminal bosses, like the Contague family, were not afraid of Deal Relway.

Belinda Contague, who headed the main Outfit, had all the power Relway had, and more people she could set to doing dirty deeds.

In his heart of hearts, Director Relway would like to rename his Royal outfit the Unpublished Committee for State Security. But by whatever name his people are the secret police.

He recognizes neither constraints nor limits where law enforcement is concerned. I’ve never seen him abuse his power for his own benefit, but you surely don’t want to be a crook and catch his eye. More so, you don’t want to get caught up in any corruption. Relway has a true problem grasping the finer points of baksheesh. He seems sure that a request for a bribe is actually an appeal for a set of broken fingers.

“Why are you nervous, Garrett?”

“I’m usually nervous when people step out of character.”

He understood. His grin broadened. His companion was just as nervous as I was. She edged toward her post, hoping to be out of sight and mind before the real Deal came stomping back.

He told me, “I’m just in a good mood, Garrett. Feeling fulfilled. Unless you’re on some preemptive mission to deceive us, of course.”

Ah. The real Deal was on his way. Only. .

Only not so much. He twisted the knife by slapping on another happy grin. “Helenia tells me you want to report illegal activity. That’s marvelous. It gives me hope that we’ve actually begun getting through to you.” Pause a couple of heartbeats for dramatic effect, not so I could wedge in a response. Then, “But what makes me happiest of all is that you brought me Preston Womble.” He extended his right hand to indicate the men who had gone out into the rain, now returning, bringing with them a goofy-looking little bald guy who was ready to break out in tears.

I observed, “Huh?”

“He was the one following you.”

The huge man, who had a hold on Womble that engulfed Preston’s upper right arm, reported, “He says he’s been on the job since yesterday, boss. Picked Garrett up on the Hill last night.”

Seemed like Preston Womble, whom I had made up so I could get some attention, was not inclined to keep his mouth shut. Relway would appreciate that.