Glen Cook - Angry Lead Skies

Of late we had been refining our communication skills until, using gestures, grunts, a few spoken words, some writing, and what I could pull out of thin air, she could get ideas across. She had a big something on her mind this time.

"You want to get your whole crew back together?" I tried to appear distraught, though that very notion had been worming around in my head for two days. As things stood, my having sicced Evas on Morley hadn't changed anything for me. Except that I didn't have to listen to the Goddamn Parrot anymore. "Could I count on you three to stay out of mischief?"

Absolutely.

That came through almost as clearly as one of the Dead Man's messages. I didn't swallow it whole. The ladies hadn't lost their interest in going home.

"I'll see what I can do."

Fasfir became quite excited and grateful.

Moments later an equally excited and grateful Woderact joined us.

Weirder and weirder.

I hired a coach, grumbled about the expense the whole time, put the lady Visitors inside it. I let them reclaim some of the fetishes Woderact had brought along to the house. They would appear to be human if they were seen on the street.

Casey got aggravated because he wasn't allowed to come along. Neither of the ladies believed him when he told them that he'd help them get home.

"Lookit dis," Puddle enthused as I pushed inside The Palms. "Somebody done fergot ta lock da goddamn door again." Puddle wasn't doing anything but loafing in a chair. His was the only body in sight. I'd timed my visit perfectly.

"Morley around?"

"What was dat?"

"Huh?"

"T'ought I heard somet'in'." A huge grin drove suspicion off his face. "We ain't seen much a Morley da past few days, Garrett. What wit' him spendin' so much time takin' care a dat bird."

Sarge shoved out of the kitchen, clearly having been eavesdropping. "Poor boy is gettin' kinda pale, Garrett. I'm t'inkin' he mought oughta get out in the sunshine more. What da hell was dat?"

"What was what?" I asked, as innocent as the dawn itself.

"I fought I heared da stair creak." Sarge scratched his drought-stricken, failing crop of hair. He and Puddle both eyed me suspiciously.

"What?" I inquired.

Puddle demanded, "Whatcha up to, Garrett?"

"Actually, I just wanted to drop in to see if I had any good reason to gloat."

Both men nodded and smiled. They could understand that. Sarge told me, "I don' know where ya found dat little gel, Garrett, but I sure do wish dey was one or two like her aroun' back when I was 'bout sixteen."

Puddle nodded enthusiastic agreement. "Gloat yer heart out."

"I will," I said. "Well, if the man can't come down, then things are going just wonderfully. If you do see Morley, tell him I stopped by. And that I'm thinking of him. But don't let him know I'm having a hard time keeping a straight face when I do."

A feeble groan limped, stumbling, downstairs.

Everybody snickered.

Before Sarge and Puddle discovered my latest maneuver seemed like a good time to move myself along somewhere else. "Later, guys."

Both henchmen observed my retreat with abiding suspicion.

I set course for home, making plans for indulging in some serious rest and brew tasting. I kept breaking out in giggles, which inclined the streets to clear away around me.

My opinion of the legal profession seldom soars above ankle height. I believe that most troubles would settle out faster without lawyers stirring the pot. So it irks me to have to admit that Lister Tate and Congo Greve really did turn out to be useful.

Tate was a good idea man. Greve seemed to know everybody who was anybody. Well, he did know the legal beagles that everyone who was anyone paid to put words in their mouths. And he knew how to work them when they were just hanging around.

Tate told the rest of us, "We'll create a demand for three-wheels by having them seen underneath the most important people."

I didn't get it. I protested, "You're talking about giving them away! You don't make money giving things away."

"You have to consider promotion as a part of the investment process, Mr. Garrett. It's an investment in public exposure paralleling our investments in tools and materials. We'll only comp ten units, total. And those will be prototype and pilot units we put together while we're figuring out the most efficient way to build the three-wheels."

Congo Greve said, "I've placed all ten already, too. Two with the royal household! One with the Metropolitan. Thousands of the best people will see that old goof and his two acres of beard pedaling around the Dream Quarter. Every Orthodox heretic in town will want one to ride to church. Plus I got one placed in Westenrache House, with the imperial family. How about that? Just those four units should give us exposure enough to generate thousands of orders."

I never got a protest in because I couldn't get my jaw moving. Greve knew people inside Westenrache House? The remnants of the imperial family, with hangers-on, had been forted up, or under household arrest, there, for centuries. Ever since the ineptitude of generations of ancestors let the empire crumble into kingdoms and principalities and tiny quasi states, each of which paid lip service to the imperial crown while ignoring its wishes completely.

The sole function of the empire these days, insofar as Karenta is concerned, is to furnish somebody who can crown the king whenever a new monarch ascends Karenta's throne. Which occurs with some frequency, though we haven't had a coronation recently. Our present monarch is particularly adept at sidestepping assassins. With Deal Relway covering his back he'll probably live forever.

I croaked, "I think I understand." If the King's daughters happened to be seen larking around on our three-wheels, every young woman of substance would demand she be provided one of her own. And the herd instincts of their fathers would ensure that the girls remained indistinguishable from the princesses.

"Good, Mr. Garrett," Mr. Greve said. "Once we establish a list, and the social primacy of our product to the exclusion of all imitators, we'll have written ourselves a letter of marque allowing us to plunder the aristocracy."

I gave brother Greve the fish-eye. That sounded a whole lot like the true lawyer coming through.

Greve sighed, explained, "We must ensure that our three-wheel is the only three-wheel the elite find acceptable once the fad gets started. Imitations are certain to appear as soon as someone capable of building them lays hands on one he can tear apart. We have to make sure that anybody who actually buys a competing three-wheel is considered a second-rater. Or worse." His expression suggested that he had begun to rank me with the dimmer of the dimwit Tate cousins.

Lister said, "It's possible that I can work my royal household connections to wangle a decree of patent."

If the Crown so ordered, nobody would be allowed to build three-wheels but us. Until somebody able to offer a big enough bribe got the King to change his mind. Or got the people who made up the King's mind for him to do so. Likely, the King himself would never know about the decree of patent.

"I'm glad you guys are on our side." I thought I could see how Weider beers had become the choice of beer drinkers, now. Snob appeal, backed by suggestions that any tavern brewing its own beverages on premises was an outdated second-stringer, its product likely fit only for the meanest classes.

Which is true. In many cases. The uniformity and consistent quality of Weider brews exceeds anything produced by corner taverns. And I can claim a certain expertise in judging the quality of beers.

Greve continued to pontificate. "Obviously, our ability to produce three-wheels will be limited. Demand will exceed supply for as long as the fad runs. We want to sustain and exploit that situation. First, we'll set a publicly announced fixed unit price—exorbitant, of course—then we'll place our buyers' names on a list. Then Lister and I, being cheesy lawyers, will let those who want to do so bribe us to move their names up the list."