Glen Cook - Red Iron Nights

"These come from a new wave of immigrants, Mr. Garrett." Dean handed me a cup of tea. "Or so they say. I suspect the hired tribes are returning, hoping they can get paid to leave again."

"Likely. Why couldn't we have lived in imperial times? It's one damned thing after another. Look at all this shit. MorCartha on the rooftops. Thunder-lizards everywhere. One of those five-horned things swam the river and went crazy on the Landing last month."

"I felt sorry for him."

"Huh?" I cracked an eyelid, looked to my left, discovered that I was sharing the table with my houseguest. And me in nothing but my pants.

"I felt sorry for the big stupid thing. It didn't know what was happening. It was terrified, all those little creatures screaming and throwing pointy things at it."

"You hear that, Dean? Ain't that a woman for you? Here's a monster going berserk, stomping people to death, ripping up property, and she feels sorry for it."

"Actually, I rather felt that way myself."

Yeah. And so had I. And probably everyone else who hadn't suffered directly from the poor beast's fear and confusion. When you went and looked at the thing, now caught in a big pen on a vacant lot, it just seemed a big lovable puppy that looked like it had moss and lichen growing on it. I don't see how you can call something that weighs in at fifteen tons cute, but it was cute.

"I guess it was good practice in case one of the big carnivores tries the same trick."

"He always have to play hardass, Dean?"

Come on. On a first-name basis already? The old boy drives me crazy doing that.

"Always, Miss Belinda. Pay him no mind. He means well."

"Dean, you checked how you feel lately?"

"Sir?"

"You said something nice about me."

"This is a nice young lady, Mr. Garrett. I approve thoroughly. I'd like you two to get to know one another."

Holy shit.

"Ah. Yes, sir. I know who her father is. We cannot be held accountable for our choice of ancestors. I know who your father was." That was news to me, if he meant that he'd known the old man personally, back in those olden days before Pop went to the Cantard to get himself killed. "As I understand the situation, this isn't a problem. Mr. Contague, begging your pardon, Miss Belinda, is as good as dead, and the real say lies with Mr. Crask and Mr. Sadler."

"Two fun-loving boys who haven't stopped being dangerous because they've started running things by forging Chodo's signature. What're you trying to do, Dean?"

"I'm doing what I always do, Mr. Garrett. I'm matchmaking."

His easy admission struck me dumb. Belinda found nothing to say either. We exchanged helpless looks. I added an apologetic shrug.

Dean said, "I've spoken with Miss Belinda extensively and find her quite your type behind her antagonistic public face."

Belinda snarled, "Is this some kind of teamwork seduction effort, Garrett?"

I protested, "You have to excuse him. He's got this thing about getting me involved."

Dean didn't listen. He hummed and did kitchen work while we traded excuses and accusations, then declared, "The Dead Man is napping. Why don't you two go upstairs, make love two or three times, then finish arguing over lunch?"

I couldn't believe Dean would say something like that. This just wasn't the Dean I knew.

Not that I found the idea repulsive. Something about Belinda got to me.

Belinda just sat there staring while Dean smiled, then winked. I suffered the faintly hopeful suspicion that she didn't find Dean's suggestion entirely repulsive either.

However, this had become one of those situations where you couldn't carry forward if both of you were randier than a cat in heat.

I said, "You're pushing your luck, Dean. I'm going back to bed. I'm sorry, Miss Contague. Please don't think ill of me because of Dean's presumptions."

I thought Dean was going to break out laughing. Was this some scheme to sabotage all hanky before it turned into panky?

Belinda didn't say anything. As I fled I thought I detected the faintest look of disappointment.

You know how it goes. As soon as I was alone and the risk of her reaction was no longer part of the equation, I stared at the ceiling and entertained regrets while Belinda Contague grew more attractive by the moment, any warts magically fading.

An incurable romantic. That's me.

I was about to head out and see what Block had accomplished. Or had not, as was more probable—though the fact that he hadn't been back did seem promising. Belinda came bounding upstairs. "Can I go?"

"No."

"Hey!"

"There're people out there looking for you. I don't think your continued good health is uppermost in their minds. And the way you look, we'd be in trouble before we got two blocks."

"What's wrong with the way I look?"

"Not a damned thing. And that's the problem. Was I to walk out of here with you right now, my neighbors would hate me for life. Also, anybody Crask and Sadler might have watching the place would be sure to recognize you. It isn't like they trust me to dig my own grave unsupervised."

"Oh, hell!" She stamped a foot, a neat move you don't see that often. It felt rehearsed.

"If you were a redhead, nobody would pay any attention. I mean, the uglies wouldn't. My neighbors would hate me even more. And I don't know if I could stand it if you were everything you are now and a redhead besides."

Dean leaned out of the kitchen, behind Belinda, gave me a look that said he thought I was laying it on with a trowel.

Belinda said, "You're laying it on with a trowel, Garrett. But I love it. I hate being cooped up. I'll see about becoming a redhead. Or maybe a blond. Would you like that?" Breakfast was forgotten.

"Sure. Anything. I'm easy. Just don't put on a hundred pounds and grow a mustache."

She winked. My spine turned to water. But I wasn't a complete dummy. I wondered why she was getting so nice. I suggested, "You might change your look while you're at it. Especially if the black is like a trademark."

"Good idea." She blew me a kiss.

I looked at Dean, who looked back and shrugged, shook his head. I couldn't tell if he meant he didn't know or didn't want to be blamed.

I started toward the door again.

Garrett.

The story of my life. I can't go anywhere or do anything without everybody in range nibbling at my time.

I stalked into the Dead Man's room. "Yes?"

Tell Captain Block that, on consideration, I feel last night's abduction to have been that only. The Candy woman will not be murdered until tonight, at the necessary hour. If the captain has, as seems likely with him, given up searching and is waiting for a body to surface, then he is —

"I'm on my way."

I hit the street. I made the tail within a block. I took him for one of the outfit's boys, not chosen for his skill at remaining unobtrusive. Crask and Sadler wanted me to know they were watching. The really good tails would stay away till they thought I'd had time to do some serious searching.

I'd fool them. I wouldn't look at all.

Block wasn't hard to find.

I went to his headquarters hoping to get word where to look and, behold! There he was, right there in the shop. "What the hell you doing hanging out here?" I demanded.

"We didn't get anywhere last night. I had five hundred men on the street. They found squat. I called it off after midnight. Didn't seem there was much chance we'd do any good then. All the killings took place before midnight, near as we know."

"You're waiting for somebody to find the body for you. The Dead Man said you would be."

Block shrugged. "I'm open to suggestions. Unless you think you need another thousand marks just to open your mouth."

"On the house this time. The Dead Man said tell you the girl is alive. They won't do her till tonight. The killer never breaks his schedule. He just grabbed her last night because he knew we'd be watching later."