Wicked Bronze Ambition

90

“Can anybody explain how the Day of the Dead or All-Souls Night might connect with the Tournament of Swords?”

Blank looks. Of course, hardly anybody knew much about the tournaments. A week ago only a couple of us had heard of that idiocy.

I caught Moonslight shyly, indecisively, gradually, sliding a tentative hand upward while involved in a fierce internal struggle, her connection with Magister Bezma warring with a desire to see the right thing done.

She knew perfectly well that she hadn’t been serving the cause of righteousness.

Not many of us ever do. Not deliberately, with benevolence aforethought.

I asked, “Has this thing just taken another unexpected right-angle turn?”

I hadn’t left out much that Shadowslinger had said. I wanted them thinking. These people were not stupid. One quick mind might catch something the rest of us overlooked.

Singe eased in close, whispered, “We need to check in at home. There should be reports. And he might be awake.”

“Is there a real chance that he is?”

“Probably not. But I prefer to remain optimistic.”

“Good enough for me. So. See if there are enough umbrellas for everyone who wants to go.”

The modern collapsing umbrella is another product of the genius of Kip Prose. Most of those currently in the hands of the public weren’t purchased by the people actually using them. There is nothing more frequently stolen than the umbrella on a rainy day. Many have a lengthy, adventurous provenance.

Amalgamated keeps prices up by marketing its more desirable products in quantities below demand. The policy encourages piracy, but the Tate old men do well at convincing the public that a deep and abiding social handicap comes with the purchase of anything that is not a genuine Amalgamated-manufactured, Prose-designed product.

None of which was germane. Just another parenthetical distraction. .

Barate poked me in my favorite tender spot. “The coach is on its way, Garrett. Be ready.”

“Coach? What coach?”

“Mother’s coach. To keep you from drowning on your way. I told you about it ten minutes ago.” He was worried about me.

“I’m sorry. I’m really lost, especially now that we’re up against some vague deadline. It just keeps getting more confusing.”

“I won’t argue about that. There’s more going on than we know. Keep an eye on Tara Chayne. She’ll figure it out first. She knows Mother better than anyone.”

I showed him my interrogative hoisted eyebrow.

“Better than me? Oh, hell yes! I never came close to figuring the old bitch out.”

I stepped to the kitchen door. The rain had become a soaker. A cold, steady soaker. You couldn’t tell what time of day it was, only that it was daytime. It was earlier than I thought, being only shortly after noon.

Shadowslinger wasn’t big on newfangled luxuries like collapsible umbrellas. They went bad after you used them a few times, so you had to buy another. She wasn’t going to play that game with crooked tradesmen.

Mash and Bash did own a knockoff that had to have its too-light stays rebent each time it opened.

They proved that couples will argue about the stupidest things by engaging in a bitter campaign to decide whether or not the imperfect umbrella ought to be left open all the time.

“It doesn’t matter!” I barked in frustration. “We only have one for this many people.”

Barate said, “Calm yourself, son. Being a clever old fox who’s actually had to deal with weather in the past, I told the coachman to pick you up under the porte cochere.”

Kevans chunked in a rare contribution. “We wouldn’t want all your sugar and spice to get washed away.”

That girl has issues.

Dr. Ted came back from a quick sortie into Shadowslinger territory. “Such a spoiled, selfish bunch, fussing over a damp that you’re not even out in yet. Think of the poor sodding red tops out there who have it running down the backs of their necks because their lunatic boss wants to know about every breath that one of us takes.”

That was an excellent diversion. Not that I much cared about the comfort of those fools. They ought to be holed up someplace warm and dry. I was hardly ever that dedicated to my work-unless maybe I was close up on somebody that might lead me to whoever did what happened to Strafa. .

Barate said, “Mash, I want you, thank you kindly, to go wait for the coach. The rest of us will go on making hash here.”

He wanted to talk about Strafa. Unfortunately, what we knew still boiled down to little more than we had right after the event. A canvass of the neighborhood had not produced one eyewitness, nor even anyone who had noticed an itinerant siege machine-though the forensics sorcerers had determined the site from which the fatal bolt had to have been discharged.

The murderous ballista had vanished off the face of the earth.

The missing fragment of bolt had failed to turn up despite a diligent effort by Guard searchers.

Barate was more than grim when he admitted, “I hate saying this, Garrett, but for now it looks like they’re going to get away with it.”

“No. They won’t. They may stay ahead of me for an hour, a day, a month, but not forever. We’ve already turned up plenty of threads to pull. We pull, sooner or later somebody will panic and do something stupid.” As if they had not been doing a whole lot of that already.

Only, I might not get to yank any strings right away. Gratification might be delayed.

Shadowslinger had talked about that onrushing deadline with heightening despair. I hadn’t liked it. I still didn’t like it. But some feel for it had been ripening in the shadowed reaches of my imagination. For no concrete reason I had begun building a sense of importance and urgency myself.

Mashego returned. “The coach is ready.”

At which point curiosity reared its head. “If Mash and Bash are Constance’s only staff and you’re staying here, who’s driving the coach?”

That sort of question could be troubling to a guy with a twist of mind like mine.

Barate responded, “Two of our better private patrolmen, Peder and Piet Petief, handle the stable work and drive part-time. They’re brothers. Twins, in fact. Reliable men.”

More twins. Curious. No way that could have any real meaning, but it was interesting. Still. . How reliable could guys be if they walked away from their regular job whenever they could pick up a bonus for handling an outside chore? Especially when that involved collaboration with horses?

I guess the index of reliability depends on the gauge you use as a measure.