Right. And I had to believe the Dead Man had come to that conclusion. Because I'd given him the details of my interview with Willa Dount with the Stormwarden standing by, when I'd gotten an indication that the Domina'd had prior knowledge that Amiranda was going to run... .
But I'd had my mind made up another way. Damn me. I'd had her and I'd let her get away. She'd pulled it off. She had all that gold now. I'd closed my mind and she was home free. Nothing to worry about the rest of her life—except staying a step ahead of Raver Styx. I felt like a moron. The Dead Man was greatly amused at my expense. He was even more amused because now I was stuck with Donni Pell. I had no idea what the hell to do with her. I couldn't keep her. I couldn't kick her out in the street in her condition. I sure as hell wasn't going to give her back to Lettie Faren... .
"All right, Old Bones. Before you doze off, you tell me how Glory Mooncalled is getting away with all these amazing triumphs because he's worked some kind of deal with the centaur tribes."
I can figure some things out, given a few hints. I grinned. I'd stolen his big thunder.
Both sides in the Cantard use centaur auxiliaries for almost all their scouting. They are almost entirely dependent upon them. If the centaurs decided not to see something, the warlords would be blind. I wondered what the deal was, and if maybe someday it might not embarrass Karenta as much as it was embarrassing the Venageti right now. It can't be too long before the Venageti War Council gets a handle on it. Even when you have your mind made up, you can't stay blind to reality forever.
I left the Dead Man fuming and took Donni Pell to the kitchen so Dean could feed her. If Garrett is a sucker for a damsel in distress, Old Dean is a sucker for one who is hurting. He never did tell me where, but he got her a good position as housekeeper and companion to an older, handicapped woman. They were supposedly very good for one another. Sometimes I think about changing my line of work. Nobody emerged happy from this one except the worst villain of the piece. Maybe I should just thank the gods that I got out of it alive with a few friends—and a profit.
That's why you do a job, isn't it? To survive?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Glen Cook was born in 1944 in New York City. He has lived in Columbus, Indiana; Rocklin, California; and Columbia, Missouri, where he attended the state university. He attended the Clarion Writers Workshop in 1970, where he met his wife, Carol. "Unlike most writers, I have not had strange jobs like chicken plucking and swamping out health bars. Only full-time employer I've ever had is General Motors, where I am currently doing assembly work in a light-duty truck plant.
Hobbies include stamp collecting, and wishing my wife would let me bring home an electric guitar so my sons and I could terrorize the neighbors with our own home-grown, head-banging rock 'n' roll."