Glen Cook - Garrett Files 05 - Dead Brass Shadows(1).pdf

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Glen Cook
Glen Cook
Dread Brass
Shadows
From the files of Garrett, P.I.
Whew! The things I get me into!
We had snow hip deep to a tall mammoth for four weeks, then it turned suddenly
hot and the whole mess melted quicker than you could say cabin fever. So I was
out running and banging into people and things and falling on my face because
the girls were out stretching their gorgeous gams and I hadn’t seen one leg, let
alone two, since the snow started falling.
Running? Garrett? Yeah. All six feet two and two hundred pounds, poetry in
motion. All right. Maybe it was bad poetry, doggerel, but I was getting the hang
of it. In a few weeks I’d be back to the old lean and mean I’d been when I was
twenty and a crack Marine. And pigs would be zooming around my ears like
falcons.
Thirty isn’t old to somebody who’s fifty, but when you’ve spent a few years
making a career of being lazy and the belly gets a little less than washboard
and the knees start creaking and you start puffing and wheezing halfway up a
flight of stairs, you feel like maybe you’ve skipped the twenty in between, or
maybe just started spinning The digits over on the left-hand side. I had a bad
case of got-to-do-something-about-this.
So I was out running. And admiring the scenery. And huffing and puffing and
wondering if maybe I ougbt to forget it and sign myself into the Bledsoe cackle
factory. It wasn’t a lot of fun.
Saucerhe.ad bad the right idea. He sat on my front stoop with a pitcher Dean
kept topped. Each time I lumbered past he got his exercise by throwing up
fingers showing the number of laps I’d survived without a stroke.
People shoved me and cussed me, Macunado Street was belly button to elbow
with dwarves and gnomes, ogres and imps, elves and whatever have you else, not
to mention every human in the neighborhood There wasn’t room for pigeons to fly
because the pixies and fairies were zipping and swooping overhead. Nobody in
TunFaire was staying inside but the Dead Man. And he was awake for the first
time in weeks, sharing the euphoria vicariously.
The whole damned city was on a peak high. Everybody was up. Even the ratmen
were smiling
I churned around the corner at Wizard’s Reach, knees pumping and elbows
flailing, gawking ahead in hopes that Saucerhead would be struck as dumb as he
looks and would lose count, maybe a couple laps in my favor. No such luck. Well,
some luck He showed me nine fingers and I figured he wasn’t lying much. Then he
waved and pointed. Something he wanted me to see. I cut to the side, apologized
to a couple of young lovers who didn’t even see me, bounced up the steps with
all the spring of a wet sponge. I looked out over the crowd,
“Well.”
“Tinnie.”
“Yeah.” Well, indeed. My gal Tinnie Tate, professional redhead, She was still
a block away but she was in her summer taunting gear, and wherever she walked,
guys stopped and bounced their chins off their chests. She was hotter than a
house afire and ten times as interesting. “There ought to be a law.”
“Probably is but who can keep his mind on legalities?” I gave Saucerhead a
raised eyebrow. That wasn’t his style.
Tinnie was in her early twenties, a little bit of a thing but with hips that
were amply ample and mounted on
gimbels. She had breasts that would make a dead bishop jump up and howl at the
moon. She had lots of long red
hair. The breeze threw it around wilder than I suddenly hoped I might in about
five minutes if I could run off Saucerhead and Dean and get the Dead Man to take
a nap.
She saw me gaping and panting and threw up a hand hello and every guy in
Macunado Street hated me instantly. I sneered at them for their trouble.
“I don’t know how you do it, Garrett,” Saucerhead said. “Ugly dink like you,
manners like a water buffalo. I just don’t know.” My pal. He got up. Sensitive
guy, Saucerhead Tharpe. He could tell right away when a guy wanted to be alone
with his girl. Or maybe he was just going to head her off and warn her she was
wasting her time on an ugly dink like me.
Ugly? A vile slander. My face has gotten pushed around some over the years,
but it has all the right parts in approximately all the right places. I can
stand to look at it in a mirror, except maybe on the morning after. It’s got
character.
As I grabbed my mug and took a long drink, just to replace fluids, a dark-
skinned, weaselly little guy with black hair and a pencil-stroke mustache
grabbed Tinnie’s chin with his left hand. His other hand was behind her, out of
sight, but I never doubted what he was doing.
Neither did Saucerhead. He let out a bellow like a wounded bison and flew off
the stoop. His boots never touched the steps. I was right behind him yowling
like a saber-tooth with his tail on fire, eyes teared up so I couldn’t see who I
was trampling.
I didn’t run into anybody, though. Saucerhead broke trail. Bodies flew out of
his way. It didn’t matter if they were two feet tall or ten. Nothing stops
Saucerhead when he’s mad. Stone walls barely slow him down.
Tinnie was down when we got there. People were clearing out. Nobody wanted to
be near the girl with the knife in her back, especially not with two madmen
roaring around.
Saucerhead never slowed down. I did. I dropped to one knee beside Tinnie. She
looked up. She didn’t look like she was hurting, just kind of sad. There were
tears in her eyes. She reached up with one hand. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t
ask anything. My throat wouldn’t let me.
Maybe it was our bellowing. He squatted down. “I’ll take her inside, Mr.
Garrett. Maybe His Nibs can help. You do what you have to do.”
I grunted something that was more of a moan than anything, lifted Tinnie into
his frail old arms He was no muscleman, but he managed I took off after
Saucerhead.
Tharpe had a block lead but I gained ground fast. I wasn’t thinking. He was. He
was pacing himself, matching the assassin’s stride, maybe following to see where
he led. I didn’t care about that. I didn’t care about anything. I didn’t look
around to see what else was happening on the street. I wanted that blademan so
bad I could taste blood.
I came churning up beside Saucerhead. He grabbed my shoulder, siowed me down,
kept squeezing till the pain took the red out of my eyes. When he had my
attention he made a couple of gestures, pointed.
I got it. First time, too. Must be getting smarter as I age.
The skinny guy didn’t know his way around. He was just trying to get away.
There aren’t many straight streets in old TunFaire. They wander like they were
laid out by drunken goblins blinded by the sun. This character was sticking to
Macunado Street even though we had passed the point where it changes its name to
Way of the Harlequin and then again to Dadville Lane after it narrows down.
“I’m gone.” I cut out to the right, into an alley, through, darted down a
narrow lane, ducked into a breezeway, skipped over some ratmen wasted on weed
and a couple of blitzed human winos, then blasted out into Dadville Lane again,
where it finishes the big, lazy loop around the Memorial Quarters. I chugged
across the street and leaned against a hitching rail, waiting, puffing, and
wheezing and grinning because boy, was I in shape for this.
I was ready to dump my guts.
And here they came The gink with the mustache was going all out, scared to
death, trying so hard he wasn’t seeing anything. All he knew was the pounding
feet were catching up.
I let him come, stepped out, tripped him. He flew headlong, rolled like he
had some tumbling experience, came up going full speed—wham! Right into the end
of a watering trough. His momentum kept his top half going. He made a fine big
splash.
Saucerhead got on one side of the trough I got on the other. Tharpe slapped
my hand away. Probably that was best. I was too upset.
He grabbed that gink by his greasy black hair, pushed him under, pulled him
up, said, “Winded as you are, you ain’t gonna hold your breath long.” He shoved
the mustache under again, pulled him up. “That water’s going to get cold going
down. You’re going to feel it going and know there ain’t one damned thing you
can do to stop it.” The big louse was barely puffing. The guy in the trough was
wheezing and snorting worse than me.
Saucerhead shoved him under, brought him up a half second before he sucked in
a gallon. “So tell us about it, little man. How come you stuck the girl?”
He would have answered if he could. He wanted to answer. But he was too busy
trying to breathe. Saucerhead shoved him under again.
He came up, swallowed an acre of air, gasped, “The book!” He gobbled some
more air—and that was the last breath he drew.
“What book?” I snapped.
A crossbow bolt hit the guy in the throat. Another thunked into the trough,
and a third put a hole through Saucerhead’s sleeve. Tharpe came over the trough
in one bound and landed smack on top of me. A couple, three more bolts whizzed
past.
Tharpe didn’t bother making me comfortable. He did stick his head up for a
second. “When I roll off, you go for that door.” We were about eight feet from
the doorway to a tavern. Right then, that looked like a mile. I groaned, the
only sound I could make with all that meat on top.
Saucerhead roiled off. I scrambled. I never really got myself upright. I just
sort of got my hands and feet under me and made that door in one long dive, dog-
paddling. Saucerhead was right behind me. Crossbows twanged. Bolts thunked into
the door. “Boy!” I said. “Those guys are in big trouble.” Crossbows are illegal
inside the city wall.
“What the hell?” I gasped as we shoved the door shut. “What in the hell?” I
dived over to a window, peeked through a crack in a shutter still closed against
winier.
The street had cleared as though a god had swept a broom along it, excepting a
mixed bag of six nasties with crossbows. They spread out, weapons aimed our way.
Two came forward.
Saucerhead took a peek. Behind us the barkeep went into a “Here, now! I won’t
have trouble in my place! You boys clear out!” routine.
Saucerhead said, “Three dwarfs, an ogre, a ratman, and a human. Unusual mix.”
“Odd, yes.” I turned. “You got trouble already, Pop. You want it out of here,
lend a hand. What you got under the bar to keep the peace?” I wasn’t carrying
anything. Who needs an arsenal to lumber around the block? Tharpe didn’t carry,
usually. He counted on his strength and wit. Which maybe made him an unarmed man
twice over.
“You don’t get going you’re going to find out.”
“Trouble’s the farthest thing from my mind, Pop. I don’t need any. But tell
that to those guys outside. They already killed somebody in your watering
trough.”
I peeked again. The two had pulled the mustache Out of the water. They looked
him over. They finally figured it out, dropped him, eyeballed the tavern like
they were thinking about coming inside.
Saucerhead borrowed a table from a couple of old boys puffing pipes and
nursing mugs that would last them till nightfall. He just politely asked them to
raise their mugs, picked the table up, and ripped a leg off. He tossed me that,
got himself another, turned what was left into a shield. When those two arrived,
he bashed the dwarf’s head in, then mashed the ogre against the door-frame with
the table while I tickled his noggin with a rim shot.
One of their crossbows didn’t get broken. I grabbed it, put the bolt back in.
popped out the door, and ripped off a one-handed shot at the nearest target I
missed and pinked a dwarf ninety feet away. He yelped. His pals headed for the
high country.
Saucerhead grumbled, “You couldn’t hit a bull in the butt with a ten-foot pole
if you was inside the barn.” While I tried to figure that out, he grabbed the
ogre, who was as big as he was, and tried to shake him awake. It didn’t work.
Not much of a necromancer, my buddy Saucerhead.
He didn’t try the dwarf That guy had gotten pounded down a foot shorter than
he started out. So Tharpe just stood there shaking his head and looking baffled.
I thought that was such a good idea I did it, too. And all the while, that old
bartender was howling about damages while his clientele tried to dig holes in
the floor to hide in
“Now WHAT ?" Saucerhead asked.
“I don’t know.” I peeked outside.
“They gone?”
“Looks like. People are starting to come out.” A sure sign the excitement was
over They would come count the bodies and lie to each other about how they saw
the whole thing, and by the time any authority arrived—if it ever did—the
story’s only resemblance to fact would be that somebody got dead
“Let’s go ask Tinnie.”
Sounded like a stroke of genius to me.
Tinnie Tate wasn’t some mousy little homemaker for whom the height of adventure
was the day’s trip to market. But she Wasn’t the kind of gal who got messed up
with guys who stick knives in people and run in packs shooting crossbow volleys
at citizens, either. She lived with her uncle Willard. Willard Tate was a
shoemaker. Shoemakers don’t make the kinds of enemies who poop people. A shoe
doesn’t fit, they bitch and moan and ask for their money back, they don’t call
out the hard boys.
I thought about it as I trotted. It didn’t make sense. The Dead Man says when
it doesn’t make sense, you don’t have all the pieces or you’re trying to put
them together wrong. I kept telling me, Wait till we see what Tinnie has to say.
I refused to face the chance that Tinnie might not be able.
We had a curious and rocky relationship, Tinnie and me. Sort of can’t live
with and can’t live without. We fought a lot. Though it hadn’t been going
anywhere, the relationship was important to me. I guess what kept it going was
the making up. It was making up that was two hundred proof and hotter than
boiling steel.
Before I got to the house, I knew it wouldn’t matter what Tinnie had done,
wouldn’t matter what she’d been into, whoever hurt her would pay with interest
that would make a loan shark blush.
Old Dean had the house forted up. He wouldn’t have answered the door if the
Dead Man hadn’t been awake. He was, for sure. I felt his touch while I was
pounding on the door and hollering like a Charismatic priest on a holy roll.
Dean opened the door. He looked ten years older and all worn out. I was down
the hall pushing into the Dead Man’s room before he finished bolting the door
behind Saucerhead.
Garrett!
The Dead Man’s mind touch was a blow. It was an icewater shower, It stopped
me in my tracks. I wanted to scream. That could only mean.
She was there on the floor. I didn’t look. I couldn’t. I looked at the Dead
Man, all four hundred fifty pounds of him, sitting in the chair where he’d been
since somebody stuck a knife in him four hundred years ago. Except for a ten-
inch, elephantlike schnoz he could have passed for the world’s fattest human,
but he was Loghyr, one of a race so rare nobody has seen a live one in my
lifetime. And that’s fine by me. The dead, immobile ones are aggravation enough.
See, if you kill a Loghyr, he doesn’t just go away. You don’t get him out of
your hair that easy. He just stops breathing and gives up dancing. His spirit
stays at home and gets crankier and crankier. He doesn’t decay. At least mine
hasn’t in the few years I’ve known him, though he’s a little ragged around the
edges where the moths and mice and whatnot nibble on him while he naps and
there’s no one around to shoo them away.
Do not act the fool, Garrett. For once in our acquaintance astound me by
pausing to reflect before you leap.
That’s the way he is. Usually more so. My tenant and sometime partner,
sometime mentor. Despite his control I croaked, “Talk to me, Chuckles. Tell me
what it’s all about.”
Calm yourself Passion enslaves reason. The wise man. .
Yeah. He does go on like that, hokey philosopher that he is. Only not in the
really grim times . . . I began to suspect something.
Once you get used to a particular Loghyr, you can read more than words when
he thinks into your head. He was angry about what had happened but not nearly so
outraged and vengeance hungry as he should have been. I began to control myself.
“I did it again, eh?”
You get more exercise jumping to conclusions than you do running.
“She’s going to be all right?”
Her chances seem good. She will need the attention of a skilled surgeon,
though. I have put her into a deep sleep till such time as one becomes
available.
“Thanks. So tell me what you got from her.”
She had no idea what it was about. She was involved in nothing. She did not
know the man who wielded the knife. He left out his usual stock of sarcastic
comments when he added, She was just coming to see you. She went to sleep
completely bewildered.
He loosened his hold on me, let me settle into the big chair that’s there for
me when I visit.
Till you lumbered in with your recollections, I assumed it was random
violence. Meaning he had sorted through my memories of the chase.
Saucerhead joined us. He leaned on the back of my chair, stared at Tinnie. He
jumped to the same conclusion I had. I admired his self-control. He liked Tinnie
and had a special place in his heart for guys who wasted women. He’d lost one
once, that he’d been hired to protect. No fault of his own. He’d wiped out half
a platoon of assassins and had gotten ninety percent killed himself trying to
save her. He hadn’t been the same since.
I told him, “Smiley over there put her to sleep. She’ll be all right, he
thinks.”
“Sons of bitches must pay anyway,” he growled, hanging on to the tough, but he
looked relieved all over. I pretended I didn’t see his show of “weakness.”
The book? the Dead Man asked. That is all you got before the sniping started?
Like it was my fault. Some sniping was about to get started here. He knew damned
well that was all we’d gotten. He’d sifted our minds.

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