Wicked Bronze Ambition

53

Dean had not gone out of his way to provide a gourmet breakfast. He had whipped up something good for what ailed me-assuming I was clever enough and man enough to keep all that biscuitry in heavy sausage gravy down.

Moonblight said, “Good morning, Mr. Garrett,” far too cheerfully.

Nobody should be bright and cheerful that long before the crack of noon.

I tried to stifle the acid surging in my gut. “Good morning, ma’am.”

Which didn’t get so much as an eyebrow twitch. She was here on business. She was dressed for business. Sensible shoes and clothing suitable for travel by horseback or hiking in the woods, all top quality, genuinely meant for rough usage.

I tied in to breakfast with more enthusiasm than seemed reasonable considering the state of my hangover, all the while wondering what the old gal had in mind.

She told me what. “I will be joining you today, Mr. Garrett, to make sure nothing happens to you.”

Wow. Other than Strafa by circumstance, I never had a heavy-hitter Hill type for a bodyguard. Cool. Sort of. But scary.

Singe poured me more thick black Kolda tea, tapped the rim of my mug to let me know that I had no choice.

Everybody wants to be my mom. Even Dean.

There was extra spice in the sausage gravy. Another Kolda contribution, no doubt.

Penny brought a beaker of chilled water. Always smart to drink lots of water after a night spent processing proof that the gods do love us.

I grunted a response to Moonblight. If Old Bones hadn’t run her off, he must think her company wasn’t a bad idea. And my ego’s defenses were down enough that I could entertain the notion that it might be useful not to work today’s mean streets alone.

I faced Singe. “I take it Morley. .”

“As occasionally happens with your acquaintances, life got in the way of his babysitting obligation.”

Hurtful. “Babysitting” was not her exact phrase. It was what she meant, maybe hinting that my friends could be feeling a little overutilized.

Which could be a problem in need of address. My friends do have lives of their own.

It is possible that the Operators have used hidden influence to generate distractions, too.

“Those nut jobs could be that well informed and organized?”

They could be. Crazy does not mean stupid. It does not imply an absence of genius tactically, strategically, or organizationally. However, it is far from certain that they are manipulating your environment.

“I’m not sure that helps.”

We will have a more certain perspective by the end of the day.

Which I took to mean that, yet again, I’d be out drawing fire while folks like Winger and Saucerhead, John Stretch, and others would slide around in the dank and dark looking to sneak up on the truth.

I swilled a final bitter gulp. I understood. There was a plan afoot. A scheme. Childe Garrett would appear to be the main operator. Maybe Old Bones had cooked something up with Tara Chayne so she would go dancing between the raindrops, playing chicken with the lightning, with me.

She observed, “You’re moving faster and showing better color. Feeling better, then?”

I was. Some. “I can manage the random linear thought. Smiles are a ways off, though.”

“Smiles? We don’t need no stinking smiles.”

Excellent. Images flooded my noggin, beginning with my itinerary, a jagged line that started at the house and zagged mostly eastward, toward the river, before it plunged down south to the Dream Quarter. A visit to the Al-Khar is not necessary but could be useful on the off chance someone there has learned something they are willing to share.

Nothing useful had come of Helenia’s visit. The presence of the boyfriend had been stifling. Not that she had had anything useful tucked inside her vacuous head. Nothing Old Bones cared to share, anyway. I’m sure he learned something useful about the secret workings of the Guard. Meanwhile, Helenia and the boyfriend abused my hospitality by about two gallons’ worth.

His Nibs took a cavalier attitude toward the expense.

First job would be a run to Trivias Smith’s place with the tracers-and a Moonblight eager to meet him. Then we would go to the Dream Quarter to find a man with a wen. If we located him, somebody might deliver a robust midnight invitation to a conversation with my partner. Relway would disapprove, being a born-again authoritarian, but he would get over it-fast if there were laurels to be won.

Next stop would be Playmate to see how he was holding up. Too, Old Bones hoped that Playmate had done better wrangling Little Moo than he had Brownie and her crew. He wanted to meet the girl.

He had some ideas that he wasn’t ready to share. He doesn’t like putting something out there that he might later have to admit was incorrect.

If all goes well, we may have some interesting developments by this evening. He then reminded me that, given the chance, he wanted direct interviews with the people we’d see today.

“Good luck with that,” I told me under my breath. I didn’t see anybody but Playmate volunteering.

Lady Tara Chayne observed, “You appear to be stalling.” When I didn’t respond fast enough to suit, she added, “I’m getting no younger. And Shadowslinger is moving toward recovery.”

She would come back, wouldn’t she?

Moonblight made a statement of objective truth sound totally sinister. Had my partner contributed a touch of emotional harassment?

No.

She had delivered that dose of dread all by her own self.

She did come from way up high on the Hill.