Glen Cook - Petty Pewter Gods

Only by reputation. They have been marginal pantheons since the beginning, deities of ancient nomadic immigrants. Both religions were too cold and hard to win many converts. They are much alike.

"Oh, your head!" Dean said. He was looking straight down at the top of my conk. "No wonder you're in a black mood. Don't move. I'll clean that up." He bustled out.

Apparently your skull is as thick as I have claimed.

"Huh?"

Your head wound is worse than you realized.

"What did I say? The good news just piles up." I reflected on what he had sent. "I got a question."

Yes? I felt a mental smirk.

"Back when we dealt with that crazy Loghyr you told me Loghyr never found proof of the existence of any gods and claimed logic suggests they can't exist. I believe you said ‘They are not necessary to explain anything. Nature does not provide that which is not needed.' "

That is correct. There is no concrete proof that any of the deities worshipped in this city exist as independent entities, outside the imaginations of those with the will to believe.

"Who tried to toss me through that coach door, then? You telling me they were scamming?"

That is a possibility deserving of examination. But to your question. For the sake of argument, your interlocuters were indeed Daiged, Rhogiro, and Ringo. Magodor gave you your answer in her remarks.

Oh boy. Here came my favorite part of our relationship, the part where he tries to expand my horizons by forcing me to expand my intellect.

Dean came back with our first aid stuff. I keep a good home medicine cabinet. For a while I had a girlfriend who was a doctor. She fixed me up because I seem to get dinged up every time I turn around.

"I'm a little woozy here, Chuckles. How's about you just hand it to me this time?"

All the span is gone out of you, Garrett. The very nature of their situation should shriek the answer. If they fall off the Street of the Gods, if they are forced to leave the Dream Quarter, if they lose their last True Believer, they cease to exist.

"Ouch!" Dean was dabbing at my head with a hot, wet rag. "You mean I wouldn't have this dent in my head if somebody didn't believe in the ugly boys?"

Essentially.

Dean asked, "Who sewed this up for you, Mr. Garrett?"

"Sewed what?" And to His Nibs, "But they exist on their own. Nobody dreamed what was happening to me."

Dean told me, "You have three... six... nine stitches here. You must have bled pretty bad."

"No wonder I'm so weak. I thought it was a concussion."

"Might be that, too."

They need only be imagined and believed in fervently enough, on the right level. They assume an existence of their own, within the attributes assigned them.

"Careful!" I snapped at Dean. "That's tender. They must have given me something to make it not hurt. Ouch! Damnit!... "

"Don't be such a pansy."

"You aren't digging for gold. Old Bones, your theory is absurd."

Gods are absurd, Garrett. And it is a hypothesis, not a theory. A theory is supported by experimental proof.

"I'm just looking to see if there's any infection," Dean grumbled, doing his hurt thing.

I ignored him, told the Dead Man, "There you go splitting hairs."

"Theory" is a much-abused word, particularly by those in the divinity trades. Be careful, Dean. If those stitches break, his brain may leak out. Have you formed any plans, Garrett? To deal with your situation?

My situation. "I take it I need to worry in a big way." When the Dead Man sets aside his own self-centered interests, I know he is troubled deeply. It was obvious that he had no problem believing that I could have fallen afoul of real gods and not just sleight-of-hand con folk somehow setting me up.

I answered his question. "I don't have a clue. That's why I came home. Are you going to pay your rent?" Though he insists he is a full partner, the most work he does is aimed at getting out of doing anything constructive.

"Right now I don't see any choice but to play along."

Indeed. Wriggling out of this will require intense self-discipline and long hours of work by all concerned.

"Don't whine. I hate it when you whine. You were way overdue to kick in around here anyway. You could've saved me a ton of grief with Maggie Jenn if you would've just woke up." He had unraveled the mystery at the heart of my most recent case before I had finished telling the first half of the tale. It was a case he had slept through stubbornly.

It was great to be in the righteous right so solid I could bury my spurs in the Dead Man.

"Will you hold still?" Dean snapped. "Looks like a little pus here. Let me clean it out so we won't have to cauterize later."

I had a vision of my handsome face set off by a strip of scar tissue skewed across my scalp. I held still, but it hurt.

Dean said, "Miss Tate was here while you were away, Mr. Garrett. She... "

"She must have been watching the place." To know he was home so soon after he arrived. Tinnie probably shouldn't be the ex-girlfriend. She was waiting for me to make the first move toward reconciliation. I liked to think.

"News travels fast, Mr. Garrett."

"Did it have some help?"

"It's possible." Dean is as stubborn as I am. He is determined to get me hooked up with Tinnie Tate or Maya Stubbs, both of them beautiful, squared-away sweethearts who deserve Prince Charmings who are the real thing.

The Dead Man sent, Miss Tate was as charming, witty, and beautiful as ever and her companion, Miss Weider, cannot be encompassed by normal superlatives. Nevertheless, their petition will have to wait.

"Alyx Weider?" Those two must have buttered him up big. He has no use whatsoever for the female of my species—or any other species, as far as I have seen. I'm sure that is why he tries to sabotage most of my romances. He doesn't think most women deserve me.

Them pigs were flying formation today.

Dean tends toward the opposing opinion.

He said, "I believe Miss Tate did introduce her as Alyx." He did something to my head that sent a ribbon of pain streaking from my scalp to my toenails.

"You're on my list, Dean. Someday I'll get my chance to patch you up."

I am on retainer as chief of security at Weider's brewery. My role is to drop in unexpectedly and check employee honesty. I saved Weider from being robbed blind a long time back. The job was my reward. Old man Weider has been trying to get me on full time ever since. There are times when a regular job looks real good, even if I would have to call somebody else boss.

Alyx was the old man's baby, much younger than the rest of his sprats. I had not seen her for some time. She had been a lovely but shy girl at sixteen. I was surprised to hear that she had come to the house. Her dad wasn't the sort to let his baby girl out, especially in today's TunFaire.

Miss Tate brought her. There is something happening within the Weider family, possibly having to do with The Call and other radical fringe human rights groups. We owe them an interest but this mess must take precedent. Gods! Garrett! Garrett! At best you are an agnostic. But still you become entangled with a clutch of redundant deities.

"Like I went looking for them? I'm not agnostic, though. I'm indifferent. My philosophy is, you leave the gods alone and usually they'll leave you alone."

"Another one bites the dust," Dean said.

"Huh?" He find a nit?

"Another of your adolescent fantasies."

Dean is a religious man. I never pressed him, but I do not understand his blind devotion to his peculiar monotheistic mythology when we are plagued by a thousand other deities and, obviously, those gods occasionally really do mess around with mortals. The human capacity for selective blindness appears to be infinite.