Wicked Bronze Ambition

5

It was dark and hungry out when Strafa and I left Shadowslinger’s place, me brooding on the implausibility of a to-the-death elimination tournament involving mostly brilliant teenagers.

Twelve was the magical number of participants. Each would have a sidekick called a Mortal Companion, normally a close friend but sometimes a hired fighter. At some point, somewhere from the shadows, each contestant would attract a supernatural ally as well, called a Dread Companion. Too, there would be entities who chose participants, managed everything, refereed, and delivered coups de grace if necessary. These were the Operators. They were a mystery. Nobody knew how they got recruited or what skin they had in the game. Evidently death was mandatory for the scheme to work fully. Losers couldn’t just admit defeat, they had to die so their power could be folded into the final prize.

Identifying the Operators could give us a means to abort the whole absurd tournament.

My cynical, suspicious side already definitely wondered how the Operators would profit. My villainous side figured eliminating that crew would go a long way toward ending the game permanently, since there would be no one left to recruit a new team.

Though I had been immersed in it all day I remained both skeptical and deeply confused. It was such a ridiculous way of doing business.

I asked Strafa, “Did you understand all of that?”

“Not so much.”

“They talked a ton, and I think they were trying, but when something sounds that absurd you can’t help thinking that they’re either pulling your leg or not telling the whole story.”

“You’re right. But I don’t think they were holding back. Bonegrinder did more talking than I’ve ever seen before.”

“Bonegrinder?”

“Richt Hauser. His working name is Bonegrinder. He brought it back from his first trip to the war zone.”

“And that creepy Machtkess woman?”

“She favors Moonblight. Unless she’s feeling randy. I hear she becomes Mistress of Chains then. A play on her name.”

“I’ll skip finding out why. All righty, then. And they’re really your grandmother’s friends?”

“As much as can be with their kind. More so, probably, when they were young. Coconspirators is probably closer to the truth now. Where are we going?”

“To my house to check in with some of my matchless resources.”

“We’re going to go that far, why don’t we fly? It’s about to rain. We’ll get soaked if we take time to walk.”

“All right.” Reluctantly. “But you don’t have your broom.” I like having something a bit more solid than air beneath my feet.

“You know I don’t need a broom. You’re just chicken.”

She was right. “You got me. But hold up for a minute. I see civilians.” A girl was headed our way, nine or ten, blond, well dressed, very pretty. A living doll. She held the hand of a groll, part giant, part troll, all strength and ugliness, impervious to most weapons but, blessed be, seldom aggressive. Full-grown grolls are big. This one was bigger than most, a good fourteen feet tall. He seemed to be walking in his sleep, oblivious of his surroundings. The little girl, however, was alert and totally intense.

Strafa backed into me. “Grab on.” She was anxious suddenly.

“Always up for that.”

“You have a one-track mind, sir. But quit fooling around. We need to get out of here. Now.”

“Whose fault is that? You being you.” I paid no attention to the kid, other than to note that she was rich enough to rate a magnificent bodyguard.

My toes had just left the cobblestones. Strafa turned her head. I tried to kiss her, for the moment forgetting what we were up to. She lost her foothold on the sky. We collapsed into a wriggling pile. The little girl stopped to scowl at us, then told me, “If you aren’t more careful you will be the first to die.”

Strafa ignored her. She sat up. “Gods, I wish we’d met when I was Kevans’s age. We would’ve had so much more time.”

No. I thought not. When Strafa was Kevans’s age she already had a toddler underfoot and I was still shallow enough for that to make a difference. Too, I was about to head out for my five years in the war zone.

Chances are, I would have gone off, leaving her with another responsibility about to arrive, which I might have been low enough not to have acknowledged. I wasn’t nearly as nice when I was younger.

But I’ll never tell her we’re both better off for life’s having kept us apart as long as it did.

The little girl and her monster moved on hurriedly. I asked, “What was that? Did you get that?”

“Let’s just go. It turned out all right.” Clearly shaken, puzzled, and maybe a little frightened, like she had only just survived a brush with a very dangerous unknown.

I got up, helped her get up, got around behind, and this time behaved myself while she did what Windwalkers do.

• • •

We settled to the cobblestones outside the house where I’d lived till Strafa carried me off to her mansion on the Hill. It was dark red, brick, two-story, in perfect repair because my assistant Pular Singe is a freak about detail stuff. My bedroom lay athwart the front of the place, upstairs. Strafa’s old habit had been to sneak in the window on the left, above the roof of the stoop.

This time we would go in through the front door, like normal visitors.

I observed, “Old Bones is definitely awake.”

I knew because Singe opened the door while we were still getting untangled.