Glen Cook - Dread Brass Shadows

"Hell, honey, I guess I can't help being Garrett, anyway." I headed upstairs, paused halfway to tell Dean to bring the pitcher and our first-aid stuff to my room.

It had been a full day and it wasn't yet suppertime I decided to eat light then lie down. Maybe my subconscious would produce a miracle while I napped and I'd end up turning the adventure against Chodo into a coup for the good guys. Assuming I didn't get so stiff and swollen I couldn't move at all.

That's how I figured. The rest of the world didn't share my vision.

Dean wakened me before I was completely asleep. "His Nibs wants you. He accused you of neglect."

So I hadn't taken time to report. He feels no pain. He doesn't get physically tired. He forgets that the rest of us do. Poor spirits and defeatism he understands better. His existence is entirely cerebral.

I went down to report

Carla Lindo was just slipping out. She gave me a smile that set my backbone vibrating despite my state. Old Bones was chuckling to himself. She had his ego puffed up enough to swamp small cities I wondered if she'd goaded him into disturbing me. She did seem to be getting impatient.

He took a quick riffle through my mind, saved me the trouble of talking. Any doubt that those were Chodo Contague's men?

I couldn't give the answer he wanted to hear. "None."

I hoped it would never come to this.

"You and me both. I was lucky. I got a pass. The bastard was sentimental enough to want to explain why he had to send me off. I won't get that option again." As soon as Chodo was sure things had soured he'd put the word out. Maybe even an open contract.

It is premature for that. First he will have to learn that you were not devoured with the others. Then, considering the highly public nature of his past favor, he will want to avoid a public reversal because he cannot yet answer questions sure to arise and threaten his credibility. He is proud and vain and his power in great part rests upon a widespread belief that he is an honorable man within criminal hghts. To tell the world he wants you dead would compel him to provide reasons. He cannot tell the truth. It would bury him

"That wouldn't keep the hard boys from carving me up for the bounty."

No , he admitted

"So? Suggestions?"

Survival now heads our priorities. Finding the Book of Dreams has become secondary.

And people wonder why he's considered a genius. Would I have thought of that myself? "Only way out is to take out Chodo first."

Indeed.

"I've never deliberately set out to kill somebody."

I know. He wasn't taking it lightly

"Is being able to live my life the way I want worth another man's life?" I could get out of town. Permanently. Because if I went, there'd be no one else to slow Chodo down-unless Crask and Sadler got lucky without me.

That is a decision you must make.

"You and Dean have a say."

I survived for centuries before we met. Whatever you decide, I will get by.

No doubt "You really know how to pump a guy up" But his welfare was only one consideration. My ego was going to take a whipping whatever I did. Run and I'd spend the rest of my life questioning my courage. Kill Chodo and I'd have to endure big dents in my self-image. "I can't win."

There is no question of winning or losing. Nor one of right or wrong. If you have one fatal weakness, it is your thinking too much. Your insistence upon viewing any choice as a moral decision. It is not immoral to fight for your life. Stop posing. Cease overcomplicating. Decide if you would prefer to spend your remaining days in TunFaire or elsewhere, then act to support your preference.

He can strip a thing to its bones when he wants. And he's damned good at twisting something till it looks like something else.

Dean stuck his head into the room. "There's a person to see you, Mr. Garrett

"Who?"

Hint of a smile. "A most unusual person."

I looked at the Dead Man. He didn't give me a clue. I went into the hall. "At the door?"

"I couldn't make up my mind whether or not to let her in. Personally, I don't feel she's your type."

"Huh?" My type is female, in the three primary colors, blonde, brunette, and redhead

"Ordinarily you do tend toward a certain physical type, Mr. Garrett. Mr. Dotes once observed that they could all wear the same underwear."

"Oh?" I thought of myself as an eclectic. I opened the door.

"About damned time," Winger said.

I gaped. Dean laughed. I'd forgotten events earlier.

Winger said, "I got to thinking. We ought to get an early start. We let them bozos Crask and Sadler call all the shots, then we only got ourselves to blame if we get hit by a stray bolt."

She had a point, but I didn't feel like conceding it.

"You going to leave me out in the weather or you going to invite me in for a brew?"

Joking aside, Dean was right. Winger wasn't my type. She wasn't anybody's type. I led her to my office, suggested Dean bring beer. I planted myself. Winger took the other chair, looked at Eleanor like she could read the truths of the painting. Maybe she could.

"One slick character painted that, Garrett."

"An unsung genius named Snake Bradon. A total lunatic. How come you're early?" I'd set a time figuring I could slide out earlier. She probably figured that's what I'd try. The woman wasn't stupid.

"Nice place you got."

"A couple of big cases broke right. You sneaking around before you get to something?"

"Broke right? Word on you is you're lucky, But it's dangerous to be your friend."

"Huh?"

"You got a sharp line of patter, don't you? Word's going around that somebody wants to take you down. Word is, stay away. It might rub off."

So, maybe just to keep myself awake, I told her about my adventures since we'd parted.

Carla Lindo brought the beer for Dean. That woman was turning into a spook, around sometimes, but more invisible than not. She looked at Winger like she'd stumbled into the men's loo. Winger looked back at Carla Lindo like she was trying to figure out what she was. Carla Lindo lost the staring match. She deposited the supplies and deserted. "You got something going there?" Winger asked.

"Just a client."

"Not much to her."

Debatable. Highly debatable, from where I sat. But I didn't feel like debating. I felt like finding out what Winger was up to. Even more, I felt like taking a nap. The beer didn't help.

Winger said, "Interesting. Chodo should take a poke at you right after you talked to his renegade. Think he'll be looking for company tonight?"

I shrugged. "He's no fool."

"Um. I got to thinking about them pets of his. Went out looking for some thunder-lizard hunters, figured on buying them a few drinks, pumping them for tricks of the trade. Know what? Ain't a whole lot of them around. Somebody's been hiring them up. Some shoemaker."

Shoemaker, eh? I could guess which one. That damned fool. "Shoemakers use a lot of thunder-lizard hides making army boots."

She said, "You know you got somebody watching you?"

"I've had that feeling for several days. I thought it might be you."

"Not me. Dwarves. Every time I come around here, there's dwarves. And morCartha. Somebody's hired one of the morCartha tribes to keep track of you. I couldn't find out who."

"MorCartha?" Things fell into place. No wonder I'd never been able to spot anyone following me. I hadn't looked up any more than anyone else does. If I had, I'd've accepted the morCartha the way I accept pigeons. One of the inevitable nuisances that are part of life.

MorCartha tails would explain the erratic nature of my intuitions about being watched, too. MorCartha are neither organized nor responsible. The watching would go on only when somebody actually felt like watching.