Glen Cook - Dread Brass Shadows

I don't know why I left the house after I got rid of Winger. I guess because the Dead Man was riding me with spurs on, digging them in deep. My joke about Winger had turned on me. I didn't dare go to the kitchen without Dean ragging me, too.

Out seemed like a good idea at the time. Especially when the Dead Man said he'd like to know what Gnorst was up to now. I grabbed the out.

So I went to see the sneeze man. Actually, I just left a message at the door. Gnorst wasn't receiving. I suspect he especially wasn't receiving people with connections to old pals.

I headed for home. I got the notion I could root Carla Lindo out of her room and weep on her shoulder. She hadn't ridden me. She'd been especially understanding, in fact. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure we were going to become great friends real soon now. I started getting high on anticipation.

You may have noticed that things have a way of catching up with me whenever I feel too positive. The god who hands out the towels in the heavenly loo has a sideline. Messing with Garrett. He's such a puny, useless god they couldn't find anything better for him to do. But he's really good at messing with me. He works at it so hard I think he's bucking for a promotion.

I was a block from my place, trotting toward Macunado on Wizard's Reach. I stopped suddenly.

They came out of nowhere. They closed in carefully.

There were six of them. I didn't know them but they had to be Chodo's boys.

The street cleared magically. I struck some martial-arts poses, made me some nifty yells. That just kept them from getting overconfident.

They were good. They would be, of course. Otherwise they wouldn't be on the first team. And they'd been briefed on what to expect, which was to expect the unexpected. I've been known to yank tricks out of my sleeves.

Today I was fresh out, not counting the old-fashioned lie. I got one guy to turn his head by yelling, "Hey! Morley! Just in time for the party."

That was the only good Morley did me all week, and he wasn't even there. I laid that guy out with a flying kick and just kept going for about six feet. Then I was out of running room. A building jumped in my way.

They closed in. I hauled out my stick. We mixed it up. I dinged two pretty good. I wasn't worrying about how bad I hurt them. They apparently wanted me alive. At least a little. Nobody bothered explaining anything to anyone

The scuffle lasted longer than they planned. Our dancing and prancing brought some of the bolder neighbors back outside, especially the kids. Some were kids I knew. Did they lend a hand? Did they run to the house to tell somebody I was in trouble? They did not.

These are the little people, the ones I thought needed a champion when I outfitted myself with creaky idealistic armor. Sometimes people make it damned hard to care about people. Sometimes they do their damnedest to make it seem they deserve whatever they get.

Oh, well. I made a showing till somebody got my stick away from me and tried it out on my skull.

A black pool opened at my feet.

I didn't dive in. I sort of belly-flopped and floated there with my nose above the surface. I vaguely recall sagging between two thugs while a third summoned a waiting coach. The coach came. My buddies helped me dive inside. Somebody did a drumroll on my noggin, then they dumped their injured in on top of me.

My head stuck out of the pile. The guy with my stick tapped it every little bit, like he was trying out different patterns of lumps. I would fix him with some patterns of his own if I got the chance.

Even my skull has limits. I went off to dreamland.

The sandman isn't all bad. Before we left the city, before I wakened with an all-time headache, he got rid of the three guys piled on top of me. Hell. I had it whipped. I outnumbered them now.

The headache was a memorable effort. At least I remembered it better than any I had before. I'd been thumped hard enough to generate a small concussion. I'd puked all over the coach floor. Recently, too. The guy with the stick was still cussing me. His partner, riding with his back to the horses, observed, "You bopped him too many times. What you expect?"

"Hell, we'll probably just end up croaking him. Why'd he got to go make a mess?"

"Inconsiderate of him."

"Sure as hell was. I'm gonna gotta clean it up. I always get stuck with the shit jobs."

A philosopher and a complainer. The philosopher said, "You don't plan to go messy when your turn comes? You just going to take the hit and fold politely?"

"I ain't going." Sullenly.

The philosopher chuckled. How could a guy with his realist's outlook stay in the niche he'd chosen? He said, "Least we know he ain't dead yet. I never saw a stiff puke. I was worried Chodo'd have a litter if we delivered a deader."

"Why? He's gonna be dead anyway."

"We don't know that. He didn't say that."

"Shit."

"All right. There ain't much doubt. But Chodo wants to talk to him first. To apologize, maybe. They used to be buddies or something."

Or something. I'd never counted on Chodo's gratitude being bottomless. I wondered if there was a connection between this and my chat with Sadler.

"Shit. He's crazy," the complainer said.

"Sure. And he's the kingpin, too."

Grumble grumble. Lots of use of that favorite four-letter word. I wondered if they knew I was awake. I wondered if I was being snookered.

The philosopher began rhapsodizing on the passing scenery. A nature lover. Some city boys get that way in the country. A plain old willow is a cause for wonder. His observations suggested we were on the road to Chodo's place already. We were in some wooded hills. That meant we weren't more than a mile or two from the place I was supposed to meet Crask and Sadler later. The woods would give way to vineyards on the north slopes, though there would still be patches of trees alongside the road. If I wanted to stay healthy, I ought to do something before we reached the vineyards. There wasn't cover enough to make an escape over there.

Only my body didn't feel like doing anything. Maybe next week. Maybe after the swelling went down.

It's real hard to find much ambition after you've had your noggin used for a drum.

The way the horses were straining I guessed we were climbing Hornet Nest Hill, a long steep climb. Near the top the road makes a backward S-curve, climbing what amounts to a bluff, before it leaps the ridge and heads for the end of the woods. Perfect. I could dive out the door and over the side, roll down the hill, and disappear before these thugs could get their mouths closed. I told my body to get ready.

My body said go to hell. It wasn't moving. Moving hurt.

The carriage stopped.

The complainer opened a door, asked, "What's up?"

"I don't know," the driver told him. "The horses don't want to go any farther

Say what? Me and horses don't get along. If there's any way for them to mess me around, they will. I couldn't picture them not galloping all the way to carry me to my execution. Unless they wanted to mess with me some themselves before letting Chodo have me... Hell. I couldn't keep that game going. I felt too lousy.

The philosopher edged the complainer out of the doorway. "Hang on, Mace. Don't push them. Maybe they know something." He got out of the coach. His buddy followed him. "Could be that shoemaker's bunch. Was I to set an ambush, I'd put it right up there, just before the top. Where the cut is, with the drop on the right. Leaves you nowhere to duck."

They debated. The sullen one tossed in two sceats worth of let's get rolling, there ain't no damned ambush. The philosopher suggested, "Why don't you go up and look?"

They argued. The complainer sneered. "Candyass! I'll show you." I heard his feet crunch the road surface. He sent opinions back meant to keep the curl in the philosopher's hair.