Glen Cook - Red Iron Nights

"What do you want?" My mood wasn't what it had been.

"It's not what I want, Garrett. It's never that. It's what Chodo wants. You know that. I'm just an errand boy."

Right. And a saber-toothed tiger is just a pussycat. "I'll play. What does the kingpin want?" I tried to keep one eye on Barking Dog. Amato was into a foaming-mouth frenzy now, excoriating and denouncing everyone and everything and drawing one of the best crowds of his career. But I couldn't keep my mind on him with Crask so near.

Crask said, "Chodo wants to talk about the girl."

"The girl?"

"Don't get cute. She's his kid. It ain't right she's down to the Tenderloin, whatever she's doing there. That don't look good. That can't get out."

"You don't like it, tell her to knock it off."

"There you go again. Cute. You know it ain't that simple, Garrett."

"Sure. It isn't like she was some kid off the street, just slap her around, maybe kick in a few ribs when she don't do right."

"You got a problem with your mouth, Garrett. I been telling Chodo for a long time you got a problem with your mouth. For a while there he couldn't see that. But he's maybe seeing things clearer these days. You'll maybe want to keep a lid on the wise-guy stuff when you see him."

I always had... See him? I hadn't planned to see that old coot ever again. I told Crask that.

"We're all entitled to our opinions, and maybe even our little dreams, I reckon. But sometimes they got to change, Garrett."

I glanced around. Crask wasn't alone. Naturally. He'd brought enough help to carry off three or four uncooperative characters my size. "I suppose you have a point." I stood, indicated he should lead the way.

I considered taking a powder. Barking Dog's crowd might have made escape possible. But I had a feeling I wasn't in danger. Yet. Had I reached the head of the kingpin's list, they'd have just hit me. Killing was a businesslike business with Chodo and his main men. They didn't waste time tormenting their victims—unless there was a big public-relations dividend to be gained from killing somebody an inch at a time.

"Pity to miss the rest of this." I nodded at Barking Dog.

"Yeah. Old goof's on a roll. But business is business. Let's go."

Our immediate destination stood at the curb on the far side of the Chancery. It was a big black coach similar to the one the old butterfly man had ridden. Chodo Contague's personal coach.

"How many of these does he have?" It hadn't been that long since I'd fallen out of a similar one scant seconds before it became a lunch bucket for a thunder-lizard taller than most three-story houses.

"This is a new one."

"I figured." Since it looked and smelled new. You can't fool us trained investigators.

That other, earlier ride had sprung from a misunderstanding that had irked me at the time. So much so that I'd decided to whack Chodo before he came after me again. I'd joined forces with this very Crask to see the job done.

But Chodo was still alive, still in charge.

I couldn't figure it.

Crask is smart but he isn't much of a talker. It's a long haul from the skirts of the Hill out to Chodo's estate. You have plenty of time to consider the meaning of life. If you're traveling with a Crask and a couple other stiffs who lack even the redeeming value of having brains, you tend to drift away into philosophy. There's only so much amusement to be had from farting contests and exchanges of grotesque misinformation about female anatomy.

Try as I might, I couldn't get anything better going. All I got out of Crask was an indefinite impression that there was more going on than he cared to tell me.

Which made perfect sense if he planned to break my neck. You don't tell the pig ahead of time that it's come the day for making bacon. All I had going was the dubious comfort I could take from knowing that Crask had no cause to go to all this trouble just to ice me.

I hadn't seen Chodo's place since the night Winger and I broke in planning to hasten Chodo's journey to the promised land. Nothing appeared changed except that the damage had been repaired and a fresh herd of small thunder-lizards had been brought in to patrol the grounds and graze on intruders. "Just like old times," I muttered.

"We've added a twist or two," Crask informed me, grinning evilly, like he hoped I'd think he was bluffing and would have a go at sneaking in. That would appeal to his selective sense of humor.

Like old times. Chodo greeted his company in the pool room.

It was called that because there was a huge indoor bath in there. I've seen smaller oceans. The bath was heated. Usually—though this time was an exception—the poolside was decorated by a small herd of unclothed beauties, there just to lend that final touch of decadence.

While we waited, I asked, "Where are the honeys? I miss them."

"You would. Chodo didn't want them around while his daughter was staying here. He never got around to bringing them back."

What did that mean? That the daughter wasn't staying here anymore?

Patience, Garrett. All will come clear.

The man himself arrived, looking little changed. He was in his wheelchair with a heavy blanket wrapped around his lap and covering his legs. Hands like tallow claws lay folded upon his lap. I couldn't see his face. His head had fallen forward. It swayed back and forth.

Sadler stopped him at the far end of the pool, fiddled with his chair, tilted him back so his head stayed level. I'd never seen Chodo in anything approaching good health, but now he seemed way worse than ever before. He looked like somebody had poisoned him with arsenic, then he'd suffered severe anemia till the vampires got him. His skin was almost translucent.

He was dressed and groomed as though for dinner with the King—and that only made the sight of him more horrible.

I started forward. Crask caught my arm. "From here, Garrett."

Sadler bent to Chodo's right ear. "Mr. Garrett is here, sir." He spoke softly. I barely heard him.

Nothing shifted in Chodo's eyes. I saw no light of recognition. I saw no evidence that he could see at all. His eyes didn't move and didn't focus.

Sadler leaned forward as though to let Chodo speak into his ear. He listened, then straightened. "He wants to know about his daughter." No pretense about her now. "Whatever you know. All your speculations."

"I already told you—"

" He wants to hear it. With everything you left out."

Bullpucky. Maybe I wasn't supposed to notice. Maybe they didn't care if I did. Chodo's lips hadn't moved. He hadn't done anything but drool.

I flashed back to the night we tried to scribble the end of his story. We—Crask, Sadler, Winger, and I—had had him cornered, along with a witch he'd been chasing. The witch did get herself elevated to a higher plane before Winger and I cut out, but she'd made a final gesture before checkout. She'd given Chodo a fist in the face. She'd been wearing a poison ring filled with snake venom.

So. Rather than killing Chodo, the venom had induced a stroke.

How nice for Crask and Sadler. They must have thought themselves beloved of the gods when that happened. Their original plan had been to do Chodo and grab control of the outfit before anyone realized what was happening. That was the historically preferred solution to the problem of the transition of power in the underworld. But it meant a long shake-out period while potential challengers were eliminated.

This way there was no problem with the succession. Chodo was alive. They could pretend he was still in charge while they gathered the reins slowly.

It was grotesque.

I played along.

Not playing along would be a capital crime, I suspected.

Much of the time I function well in tight situations. I didn't betray my thoughts. I pursued a conversation with Chodo, through Sadler, as though I sensed nothing unusual.