But I had me a tool. And with fate seldom able to gaze on me favorably for long, I would not have long to wait to field-test Toetickler's touch.
Heartlight Lane was not crowded, which surprised me. Given the political climate, more folks ought to be checking into their futures. I saw a lonely runecaster tossing the bones, trying to forecast her next meal, and an entrail reader much more interested in plucking his chicken carcass. Palm readers and phrenologists swapped fortunes. Aquamancers, geomancers, pyromancers, and necromancers all napped in their stalls.
Maybe customers were staying away in droves because they did not need experts to tell them that bad times were coming.
I got some interesting discount and rebate offers. The most attractive came from a dark-haired, fiery-eyed tarot reader. I promised, "I'll be right back. Save a dance for me."
"No, you won't. Not if you don't stop here. Now."
I thought she was telling me, "That's what you all say." I kept on keeping on. The Goddamn Parrot started muttering to himself. Maybe the Dead Man's compulsion was wearing off.
"I warned you, Handsome."
How did she manage to see her cards?
I had not seen the redhead since before my negotiations with the runt arms merchant. I didn't see her now, but something flashed around a turn of brick up ahead. The guy who laid out Heartlight Lane was either a snake stalker or a butterfly hunter. It zigs and zags and comes close to looping for no reason more discernible than the fact that that is the way it has got to go to get between the buildings. A few quick turns and the lane became deserted except for a big brown coach, its door just closing.
Empty streets are not a good sign. That means folks have smelled trouble and want no part of it.
Maybe somebody just wanted to talk to me. But then why not just come to the house?
Because I don't always answer the door? Especially when somebody might want me to go to work? Maybe. Then there is the fact that the Dead Man can read minds.
I took a couple of cautious steps, glanced back. That tarot girl sure was a temptation. On the other hand, red hair is marvelous against a white pillowcase. On the third hand...
I got no chance to check my other fifteen fingers. From out of the woodwork, or cracks in the walls, or under the cobblestones, or a hole in the air came the three ugliest guys I have ever seen. They had it bad. I think they wanted to look human but their mothers had messed them up with their hankering after lovers who spelled ugly with more than one G. All three made me look runty, too, and I am a solid six feet two, two hundred ten pounds of potato-hard muscle and blue eyes to die for. "Hi, guys. You think we're gonna get some rain?" I pointed upward.
None of them actually looked. Which left me with a nasty suspicion that they were smarter than me. I would have looked. And they hadn't followed some wench-o'-the-wisp up here where some humongous brunos could bushwhack them, either.
They said nothing and I didn't wait for introductions and didn't wait for a sales pitch. I feinted left, dodged right, swung my new club low and hard and took the pins right out from under one behemoth. Maybe the dwarf did me a favor after all. I went after another guy's head like I wanted to knock it all the way to the river on one hop. Big as he was, he went ass over appetite and I started to think, hey, things aren't going so bad after all.
The first guy got up. He started toward me. Meantime, the guy I hadn't hit planted himself resolutely in the way in case I decided to go back the way that I had come. My first victim came at me. He wasn't even limping. And his other buddy was back up, too, no worse for wear, either.
You could not hurt these guys? Oh my oh my.
"Argh!" said the Goddamn Parrot.
"You said a beakful, you piebald buzzard."
I wound up for a truly mighty swing, turned slowly, trying to pick a victim. I picked wrong. I could not have chosen right.
I took the guy I hadn't hit. The plan was to whack him good, then display my skill as a sprinter. The plan didn't survive first contact with the enemy. When I swung he grabbed my club in midair, took it away, and flipped it aside with such force that it cracked when it hit a nearby building.
"Oh my oh my."
"Argh!" the Goddamn Parrot observed again.
I went for the fast feet option, but a hairy hand attached to an arm that would have embarrassed a troll snagged my right forearm. I flailed and flopped and discovered ingenious ways to use the language. I got me some much needed exercise, but I did not go anywhere. And big ugly didn't work up a sweat keeping me from going.
Another one grabbed my other arm. His touch was almost gentle, but his fingers were stone. I knew he could powder my bones if he wanted. Which did not slow my effort to get away. I didn't give up till the third one grabbed my ankles and lifted.
The Goddamn Parrot walked down my back muttering to himself. Mumble and mutter was all he seemed capable of anymore.
The whole crew lockstepped to the coach. I lifted my head long enough to see a matched set of four huge horses, the same shade of brown. On the driver's seat was a coachman all in black, looking down at me but invisible within the depths of a vast black cowl. He needed a big sickle to make the look complete.
The coach was fancy enough, but no coat of arms proclaimed its owner's status. That didn't do wonders for my confidence. Here in TunFaire even the villains like to show off.
With nary a word, the ugly brothers chucked me inside. My skull tried to bust through the far door. That door didn't give an inch. My headbone didn't give much, either. Like a moth with his wings singed, I fluttered down into that old lake of darkness.
6
When you are in my racket—confidential investigations, lost stuff found, work that doesn't force me to take a real job—you expect to get knocked around sometimes. You don't get to like it, but you do catch on to the stages and etiquettes involved. Especially if you are the kind of dope who trails a girl you know wants to be followed, right into the perfect spot for an ambush. That kind of guy gets more than his share of lumps and deserves every one of them. I bet guys like Morley never get bopped on the noggin and tossed into mystery coaches.
Your first move after you start to stagger back toward the light—assuming you are clever enough not to do a lot of whimpering—is to pretend that you are not recovering. That way maybe you will learn something. Or maybe you can take them by surprise, whip up on them, and get away. Or maybe they will all be out to dinner and some genius will have forgotten to take the keys out of the door of your cell.
Or maybe you will just lie there puking your socks up because of a rocking concussion rolling your hangover.
"O what foul beasts these mortals be! Jorken! Fetch a mop!" The voice was stentorian, as though the speaker was some ham passion player who never ever stepped offstage.
A woman's voice added, "Bring an extra bucket. They leak at the other end as well."
Oh no. I already had a bath this week.
"Why me? How come, all of a sudden, I get stuck with scutwork?"
"Because you're the messenger," said a wind from the abyss, cold as a winter's grave. That had to be my buddy the faceless coachman.
I was confused. My natural state, some would say. But this was bizarre.
Maybe it was time to get up and meet the situation head-on. I gathered my corded muscles and heaved. Two fingers and a toe twitched. So I exercised my skill with colorful dialogue. "Rowrfabble! Gile stynbobly!" I was on a roll, but I didn't recognize the language I was speaking.
I cooled down fast when a load of icy water hit me.
"Freachious moumenpink!" Driven by a savage rage, I managed a full half pushup. "Snrubbing scuts!" Hey! Was that a real word?