Wicked Bronze Ambition

57

Second time running I boarded my horse without error or mishap. Brownie yipped happily, impressed. Admittedly, though, my dressage needed polish.

As did the mare’s. She was strictly economy transportation.

Moonblight asked, “Did we learn anything useful there, professional investigator Garrett?”

“Yeah.” Like, don’t underestimate Tara Chayne Machtkess. She was more than just another dirty old woman.

I said, “It was your idea to go stir them up.”

“But isn’t that your special technique? Don’t you always do that before you show off your formidable skills as a survivor and observer?”

She was playing with me again. “There was nothing to observe. My partner already interviewed the noisy little man and one of his associates. They were exactly what they showed the world. Pretentious, sure, but only peripherally involved in the tournament absurdity and ignorant about what happened to Strafa.”

Why couldn’t it be simple? Just once. Just march straight to whoever hurt Strafa and hurt them back with usurious interest.

Tara Chayne said, “The red tops have caught up.” Proving that she could be attentive when she wanted. I had only just glimpsed a brushy-haired, bearded Preston Womble myself-though why I was sure that was Womble in the underbrush I couldn’t explain.

“The Director was blowing smoke when he yelled at Womble and Muriat. He was just irked because they got noticed.”

“Oh yes. He is a bad, bad man.”

Sarcastically said, still having fun.

We headed for the Trivias smithy. Master Trivias came out personally, maybe sensing that someone of standing had arrived.

Moonblight offered him a cloth-wrapped object the size of the box lunch you can purchase from street vendors. “There are six pieces.”

“That should do.” Trivias was more deferential than I figured he should be. He placed the box on a massive wooden workbench, untied the cloth, unfolded it, opened an actual used lunch box gently. Inside, on white cloth, lay six teak-colored cylinders three inches long and less than half an inch in diameter, like fat sticks of dark chalk. He was impressed. “Oh! And you created these overnight?”

“I did. It’s a knack.” She was pleased by his reaction.

They commenced what sounded like people in vaguely related trades talking shop. I took the opportunity to roam the smithy and try picking the brains of the staff. Most were happy to explain their trade to an old guy who wasn’t just interested when he wanted to yell at somebody for not having been born perfect. I learned from them and played with the dogs till Moonblight said something about the swords needing to be peace-bonded in their sheaths, which the law demanded, so the tracers would activate when the swords were unsheathed the second time. Trivias ought to discourage experimentation by his clients when they took delivery. If one of those old men was sensitive, he might feel the surge when a tracer went active.

So I volunteered, “Don’t deliver the damned things sheathed. Lay them out like you want them checked over. Let them sheathe them, then bond them and bum-rush them out.”

They eyed me with that numb look people get when they have missed the snakebite obvious. It was a look I knew well because it turns up on my clock most every damned day.

Tara Chayne snickered. “Now you see why I keep him around.”

Trivias nodded. “I had an intimation that it couldn’t be for his prowess in the night lists.”

Ouch!

Brownie distracted me. She remained a big fan. And she still wanted to play. I followed her out of the shop. We amused ourselves by playing “Where’s Womble?”

Tara Chayne joined us. “I’m finished here.”

“Were you actually hitting on that little man?”

“I was. I had to give up on you.”

I felt my cheeks get warm.

She laughed as she readied her gelding. “Let’s go find the priest with the knot on his head.”

So. Yes. Off we went, horses, dogs, and people, with spies behind, probably aware that they had been spotted but going through the motions anyway.