26
I strolled into Macunado Street daydreaming about a pound of rare steak, a gallon of cold beer, a snuggly warm bed, and a respite from mystery. I should have remembered my luck doesn't run that way.
The pill-brain microdeity whose mission is to mess with my life was on the job.
There was a crowd in front of the house. Floating in the air around it were a half-dozen bright globules of fire. What the hell?
I was running slow in the gray matter. It took me a minute to realize what had happened.
Some fans of mine had decided to firebomb my house. The Dead Man had sensed the danger and wakened, catching the bombs on the fly and juggling them now, to the consternation of bombers and witnesses.
I pushed through. The bombers were still there, rigid as statues, faces contorted into shapes as ugly as the gargoyles on Chattaree. They were alive and aware and as frightened as men can be. I stepped in front of one. "How you doing? Not so good, eh? Don't worry. It'll turn out all right.”
The bombs began to sputter. "I have to go inside. Wait right here. We'll chat when I get back." I knew he'd be thrilled.
Dean opened the door a crack. "Mr. Garrett!" Yeah. Right. I shouldn't be playing with these guys. "See you in a couple." I trotted up the steps. Dean let me in, slammed the door, secured all the bolts. "What's going on, Mr. Garrett?" "I kind of hoped you'd tell me." He looked at me like I was off my nut. He probably wasn't far wrong. "So let's see what Chuckles has to tell us." I wouldn't need to bust my butt and theirs if I could get the Dead Man to read their minds. It would save everyone a lot of trouble—except for him.
I went into the room. Dean waited outside. He won't go in unless he has what he considers a compelling reason. "I'll keep an eye on those brigands, Mr. Garrett.”
"You do that." I faced the Dead Man. "So, Old Bones. You will wake up to save your own skin. Now I know how to get your attention. Light a fire under you.”
Garrett, you plague upon my final hours, what have you brought down upon my house this time ?
"Nothing." It was going to be one of those discussions.
Then why are those maniacs pitching bombs at me?
"Those boys outside? Hell. They don't even know about you. They're just having fun trying to burn my house.”
Garrett!
"I don't have the slightest idea. You want to know, poke around in their brains.”
I have. And I have found a fog. They did it because they were told to do it. They believe they need no other reason than the will of the Master. They were joyful because they had been entrusted with a task that would please him.
"Now we're cooking. The Master? Who is he? Where do I find him?”
I can answer neither question. It may not be possible. I do not exaggerate when I tell you it is their express and certain belief that the Master they serve has neither form nor substance and manifests himself only where and when he chooses, in any of a hundred forms.
"He's like a ghost or spirit or something?" I wasn't going to say the word god.
He is a bad dream that has been dreamed by so many so intensely that he has gained a life of his own. He exists because will and belief compel him to exist.
"Woo-oo! We're getting weird here.”
Why did you stir these madmen up, Garrett? "I didn't stir anybody, Chuckles. They stirred me. Out of the blue, for no reason, somebody has been trying to send me off. Crazy stuff has been happening all over. Especially in the Dream Quarter. Maybe I ought to catch you up on the news.”
I am supremely uninterested in your squalid little slithering's through the muck and stench of this cesspit city, Garrett. Save it to impress the tarts you drag under my nose to harass me.
So, he was crabbed about Jill. He doesn't like women much. Having one in the house will set him off every time. Tough.
"So we're going to go straight from the snooze stage to the sulks, eh? Saves us time on courtesy and catching up on the latest adventures of Glory Mooncalled. We'll just wake up and act like a cranky three-year-old.”
Don't vex me, Garrett.
"The gods forefend! Me be vexatious? With my angelic disposition?" I didn't like this.
We go at it tooth and claw but it's always a game. There was a dark undercurrent of hostility this time. This wasn't play. I wondered if he was moving into some new and darker phase of being dead. Nobody knows much about dead Loghyrs, or even much about live ones for that matter since both kinds are so damned rare.
You have had the benefit of my wisdom and instruction long enough to stand on your own legs now, Garrett. There is no justification for your incessant pestering.
"There isn't any for your freeloading, either, but you do it." My temper was shorter than I'd thought. "The Stormwarden Raver Styx wanted to buy you a while back. She made a damned good offer. Maybe I shouldn't have been so damned sentimental.”
I stepped out then, before the foolishness got out of hand. I looked for Dean. He was watching the street. The firebombs had burned out. With no entertainment to be had the crowd had dispersed. But the bombers were still there, rigid as lawn ornaments. "Help me carry one of those guys in so I can ask him what he was doing." I opened the door.
"Are you sure that's wise?" No Mr. Garrett anymore. He'd stopped being scared.
"No. I'm never sure of anything. Come on … Damn his infantile soul. Look at that.”
The Dead Man had turned loose. The bombers were running like frightened mice.
Even in my anger I didn't really think he'd let go out of spite. He's long on argument but he's also long on sense. My guess was he'd hoped I could track them to their hideout. Which meant he hadn't taken a close enough look at me.
I couldn't fault the reasoning but I couldn't carry it off, either. I didn't have any energy left. Too much activity, not enough rest.
I shrugged. "The hell with them. I'll settle up with them pretty soon, anyway." Garrett whistling in the dark. "Ask Miss Craight to come to my office. Then bring me a pitcher of beer. Then cook supper. Bring it when it's ready. She knows what's going on. It's time to squeeze a little blood out of that stone. Why the hell do you keep shaking your head?''
"Jill left shortly after you did. She said to tell you she was sorry for the trouble she'd caused you. She hoped your retainer would make up for it. Before you ask, yes, she sounded like she wouldn't be back. She left a note. I put it on your desk.”
"Beer and dinner, then, and I'll question the note." Nothing was going to stay still long enough for me to grab it.
I went to the office, planted myself, put my feet up, and waited until I had beer before I opened Jill's note.
Garrett:
I really did have a crush on you. But things happened and that little girl's heart petrified. She is only a bittersweet memory, cold copper tears. But thank you for caring.
Hester P.
I leaned back, closed my eyes, and considered the snow queen.
The little girl wasn't dead yet. She was hiding, way back somewhere, afraid of the dark, letting Jill Craight take care of the business of staying alive. The little girl wrote that note. Jill Craight wouldn't have been able. I don't think she'd have thought of it.
With a few beers inside, then a decent supper stacked in on top, Garrett turns halfway human. I asked Dean to stay late again. Over more beer I told him the whole story, not because he needed to know but because I knew the Dead Man would be listening. If he wouldn't take my news direct he'd get it this way.
I'd try to talk to him in the morning, when I was rested and feeling civil and he'd had a chance to contemplate his sins.
I set a record falling asleep.