Dread Brass Shadows (3 page)

4

The Tate place will fool you. It’s supposed to. From outside it looks like a block of old warehouses nobody bothered to keep up. You can see why from the street out front. First, the Hill. Our overlords are buzzards watching for fortunes to flay through the engines of the law Second, the slums below. They produce extremely hungry and unpleasant fellows, some of whom will turn you inside out for a copper sceat.

Thus, the Tate place pretending to be poverty’s birthplace.

The Tates are shoemakers who turn out army boots and pricey stuff for the ladies of the Hill. They’re all masters. They have more wealth than they know what to do with.

I gave their gate a good rattle. A young Tate responded He was armed. Tinnie was the only Tate I knew who faced the world outside
un
armed. “Garrett. Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Tinnie and I were feuding again.”

He frowned. “She went out a couple hours ago. I thought she was headed your way.”

“She was. I came to see Uncle Willard. It’s important.” The kid’s eyes got big. Then he grinned. I guess he figured I was going to pop the question. He opened up. “Can’t guarantee he’ll see you. You know how he is.”

“Tell him it can’t wait till it’s convenient.”

He muttered, “Must have been hell being snowed in.” He locked the gate. “Rose will be devastated.”

“She’ll live.” Rose was Willard’s daughter, his only surviving offspring, hotter than three little bonfires and as twisted as a rope of braided snakes. “She always bounces back.”

The kid snickered. None of the Tates had much use for Rose. She was pure trouble. And she never learned.

“I’ll tell Uncle you’re here.”

I went into the central garden to wait. It looked forlorn. Summertimes it’s a work of art. The Tates all have apartments in the surrounding buildings, They live there, work there, are born and die there. Some never go outside.

The kid came back looking pained. Willard had scalded his tail for letting me in but apparently hadn’t told him to get hurt trying to throw me out.

The thought made me grin. The kid was as big as any Tate gets, about five two. Willard once told me there was elvish blood in the family. It made the girls exotic and gorgeous and the guys handsome but damned near short enough to walk under a horse without banging their heads.

Willard Tate was no bigger than the rest of his clan. A gnome, almost. He was bald on top, had ragged gray hair that hung to his shoulders in back and on the sides. He was bent over his workbench tapping brass nails into the heel of a shoe. He wore a pair of TenHagen cheaters with square lenses. Those don’t come cheap.

One feeble lamp battled the dark. Tate worked by touch, really. “You’ll ruin your eyes if you don’t spring for more light.” Tate is one of the wealthiest men in TunFaire and one of the tightest with a sceat.

“You have one minute, Garrett.” His lumbago was acting up. Or something. Couldn’t be me.

“Straight at it, then. Tinnie’s been stabbed.”

He looked at me for half the time he’d given me. Then he put his tools aside. “You have your faults, but you wouldn’t say that unless you meant it. Tell me.”

I told him.

He didn’t say anything for a while. He just stared, not at me but at ghosts lurking behind me. His had been a life plagued by loss. His wife, his kids, his brother, all had gone before their time.

He surprised me by not laying it off on me “You got the man who did it?”

“He’s dead. I ran through it again.

“I wish I could have had a piece of him.” He rang a bell. One of his nephews responded. Tate told him, “Send for Dr Meddin. Now. And turn out a half-dozen men to walk Mr. Garrett home.” Now I had me a “mister.”

“Yes sir.” The nephew bounced off on a recruiting tour.

“Anything else, Mr. Garrett?”

“You could tell me why anybody would want to kill Tinnie.”

“Because she was involved with you. To get at you.”

“A lot of people don’t like me.” Present company included. “But none of them work like that. They wanted to get my goat, they’d burn my house down. With me inside it.”

“Then it has to be senseless. Random violence or mistaken identity.”

“You sure she wasn’t into anything?”

“The only thing Tinnie was involved in was you.” He didn’t say it but I could hear him thinking. Maybe this will learn her a lesson. “She never left the place except to see you.”

I nodded. Undoubtedly he kept track.

I wanted to believe it was random. TunFaire is overcrowded and hagridden by poverty and hardly a day passes when somebody doesn’t whittle on somebody with a hatchet or do cosmetic surgery with a hammer. I would have bought it except for those guys who danced the waltzes with me and Saucerhead.

I said, “When we caught him, the guy said ‘the book’ just before his friends croaked him.”
If
those were his friends. “Mean anything to you?”

Tate shook his head. That straggly hair pranced around. “I didn’t figure it would. Damn. You get any ideas, let me know. And I’ll keep you posted.”

“You do that.” My minute had stretched. He wanted to get back to work.

The nephew returned and announced he had a squad assembled. I said, “I’m sorry, sir. I’d rather it had been me.”

“So would I.” Yes. He agreed a hundred percent. Man. You be nice to some people . . .

5

I plopped into my chair, reported to the Dead Man while the Tate boys collected Tinnie. They had a cart to carry her home. The best medical care would be waiting. It was out of my hands now.

Nothing gained
, the Dead Man sent when I finished.

“I think Tate hit it. They got the wrong woman. You’ve been around awhile.” Like half of forever. “You sure ‘the book’ doesn’t ring any bells?”

None. There are books and books, Garrett. Even some men would kill for, considering their rarity or content. I do not hazard uninformed guesses. We cannot, now, be sure that man even meant a book as such. He may have meant a gambling book. He may have meant a personal journal capable of indicating someone. We do not know. Try to relax. Have a meal. Accept the situation, then put it behind you.

“Nobody came around asking about the dead men?” TunFaire’s Watch aren’t exactly police. Their main mission is to keep an eye out for fires or threats to our overlords. Catching criminals is way down their list, but sometimes they do bumble around and nab a baddie. TunFaire is blessed with some pretty stupid villains.

No one came Go eat, Garrett. Attend to the needs of the flesh. Allow the spirit to relax and become refreshed. Forget it. All is well that ends well.

Good advice, even coming from him. But he’s always so damned reasonable and wise—when he isn’t trying to play games with my mind. He got my goat, being cool and sensible. I headed for the kitchen - Dean was in shock still, distraught because uncaring fate had cast a cold eye so close to home. His mind was a thousand miles away as he stirred some kind of sauce. He didn’t look at me as he handed me a plate he’d kept warm. I ate without noticing what, which is a crime itself, considering the class cook Dean is. I was drifting around a few yards away myself. I didn’t interrupt the old man’s brooding. I was pleased that he cared.

I rose to leave. Dean turned. “People shouldn’t ought to do like that, Mr. Garrett.”

“You’re right. They shouldn’t ought. You’re a religious sort. Tell the gods thanks for not making it worse than it was.”

He nodded. He’s a gentle sort generally, a hardworking old fellow trying to support an ungrateful gaggle of eligible but terminally homely nieces who give him more grief than any ten men deserve from their female kin. Generally. Right now he had him a bloodthirst bigger than a vampire who hadn’t fed for a year.

I couldn’t relax. It was over, but my nerves just wouldn’t settle. I prowled up the hail to the front door, peeked outside. Then I checked the small front room to the right like there might be a forgotten blonde cached in there. I was fresh out. I trudged back to the deluxe coffin I call an office, waved at Eleanor on the wall, then crossed the hall to the Dead Man’s room. That takes up most of the left side of the house. It contains not only himself but our library and treasury and everything we particularly value. Nothing for me there. I glanced up the stairs without going up, went into the kitchen, and got a mug of apple juice. Then I did the whole route over, taking a little longer at the door to see if my place had become a dwarfish tourist attraction. I didn’t see any watchers. Time dragged.

I got on everybody’s nerves. That’s what I do best, anyway, but now I was fraying my own. Now even I resented my mumbled wisecracks. When Dean growled and tested the heft of his favorite frying pan, I decided to take myself upstairs. For a while I looked out a window, watching for Saucerhead or somebody in a black hat watching me back. The watched pot didn’t boil.

When I got tired of that, I visited the closet where I keep the more lethal tools of my trade. It’s a nifty little arsenal, something for every occasion, something to go with every outfit. You never catch me carrying a weapon that clashes.

Everything was in tip-top shape I couldn’t work off any nervous energy sharpening and polishing. I eyeballed the ensemble. Nothing I had was worth much in a scrimmage with crossbowmen.

I did have a few little bottles left over from the time I’d done undercover work for the Grand Inquisitor. I took the case down, looked inside Three bottles, one emerald, one royal blue, one ruby, each about two ounces. You threw them. Once they broke, the stuff inside took the fight right out of guys. The contents of the red one would melt the flesh off their bones I was saving that for somebody who really got on my nerves. If I ever used it, I’d have to stand back a ways.

I put the case away, secreted knives all over me, hung the longest tool legal on my belt, then took down my most useful all-round instrument, an oaken headthumper eighteen inches long. It had a pound of lead inside the business end. It did wonders making me more convincing when I got into an argument

So what was I going to do now? Go looking for some villains, just on general principles? Sure. Right. The way my luck runs, I’d have a building fall on me before I found any bad boys to astonish and dismay.

I managed to kill time till supper came along. I spent most of it trying to figure out why I was restless and uneasy. Tinnie had been hurt, but she was going to make it. Saucerhead and I had—sort of—dissuaded her attacker from becoming a repeat offender. Everything had turned out all right. Things were going to be fine.

Sure.

6

I didn’t get much sleep that night.

It was a time of weirdness for TunFaire, maybe because of the weather. The whole world had turned cockeyed, not just me with my running and my going to bed early so I could get up before anybody sane was oriented vertically. Mammoths had been seen from the city wall. Saber-tooth tigers were at large within a day’s travel. There were rumors of werewolves. There were rumors of thunder-lizards being sighted near KirtchHeis, just sixty miles north of TunFaire, two hundred south of their normal range. To our south, centaurs and unicorns, fleeing ferocious fighting in the Cantard, had penetrated Karentine territory Every night, here in the city, the sky filled with squabbling morCartha, weird creatures who traditionally confined their brawls to rain-forested valleys on the marches of thunder-lizard country.

Where the morCartha disappeared during the day no one knew—nobody gave a big enough care to find out—but all night they zoomed over the rooftops settling old tribal scores or swooped down to mug citizens or to steal anything not nailed down. Most people accepted their presence as proof the thunder-lizards were migrating. In their own country morCartha lived in the treetops and slept during the day. That would make them easy snacks for the taller thunder-lizards Some of these stand more than thirty feet tall.

Despite the morning’s excitement I tried going to bed at what Dean and the Dead Man perversely call a reasonable hour. My theory was that if I rolled out early, my neighbors wouldn’t be out to giggle and point at the spectacle of Garrett running laps. But that night the morCartha brought their flying carnival to my neighborhood. It sounded like the aerial battle of the century. Blood and broken bodies and war cries and taunts rained down. Whenever I threatened to drift off, they staged some absurd, cacophonous confrontation right outside my window.

I decided it was time somebody on the Hill suffered a stroke of smarts and enlisted them all as mercenaries and sent them down to the Cantard to look for Glory Mooncalled. Let him lose sleep while they squabbled over his head.

Old Glory probably wasn’t getting much sleep, anyway. The Karentine powers that be had thrown everything into the cauldron down there They were grinding his upstart republic fine, inexorably and inevitably, permitting him no chance to catch his breath and turn his genius toward their despair.

The war between Karenta and Venageta has been going on since my grandfather’s time It’s become as much a part of life as the weather. Glory Mooncalled started out a mercenary captain in Venageti service, had a major falling out with the Venageti warlords, and came over to our side swearing mighty oaths of vengeance. Once he had smashed everybody who offended him, he suddenly declared the Cantard—possession of which is what the war is all about—an autonomous republic. All the Cantard’s native nonhuman races supported him. So, for the moment, Karenta and Venageta have a common cause, the obliteration of Glory Mooncalled. Once he’s gone, it’ll be back to war as usual.

All of which is of more interest to the Dead Man than me. I did my five years in the Marines and survived. I don’t want to remember. The Dead Man does. Glory Mooncalled is his hobby.

Whatever, I didn’t sleep well and I was less cheerful than usual when I got up, which is saying something. On my best mornings I’m human only by charity. Morning is the lousiest time of day. The lower the sun in the east, the lousier that time is.