Magodor grabbed the middle of the cord and pulled. It kept getting longer. "Just like this, Garrett. Hands extended, level, palms up, heels of your hands together. Pull outward from the middle. It will stretch as long as you need it to."
"That's one handy piece of rope."
"Yes. It is." She stopped when she had twenty-five feet of cord. "It can be used as a garrote, too."
"I saw that right off." It looked very much like the ritual garrotes the Kef sidhe use to carry out their holy murders.
"Pay attention. To shorten it you rumple it all up in a ball, so." The cord crushed up small. She rolled the wad around on her palms, grabbed the ends that were sticking out, pulled. The cord was four feet long again.
She stretched it to ten feet. "If you need more than one piece of line, tie a slip knot in the middle, so. Pull out a loop as long as you need. Cut the loop right at the knot." She held cord and knot with two hands. Another hand clipped the cord with a thin knife. Yet another hand dealt with the second piece of cord, which she handed to me. She dropped one end of what was left, grabbed the knot and slid it right to the end.
I had seen this trick's cousin before. It was in the arsenal of most street conjurers. Only it didn't seem to be a trick this time.
She took the cord back from me, wadded, rolled, had one four-foot piece again. "I will want this back."
"Darn! I was afraid of that."
She eyed me sharply. "I'll show you one more thing. For you this is likely to be its most useful facility."
She stretched the cord to six feet, tied a small bowline at one end, ran the other end through the resulting loop, forming a large noose. She set the circle of cord on the carpet, stepped inside, lifted the cord. Everything of her below the rising cord vanished. In a moment there were just hands floating in the air. Those disappeared as she pulled the loop shut. "Pull the cord inside but leave it hanging." I could hear her fine.
"That's astounding."
"There is still one little hole up high where someone can see inside. You must be careful about making sounds. You can be heard. If you take reasonable precautions neither people nor animals should be able to scent you." A knot appeared in the air. Fingers poked through, expanded the loop outward. It dropped.
Magodor stepped out. She untied the bowline, handed me the cord. Her fingers were soft and hot, but I jerked away from the prick of a talon as sharp as a razor. She raised a finger to her lips.
I pulled that cord around my waist the way she had worn it. It stayed in place without any special tucking or tying. I couldn't see it but could feel it. I observed, "The sands are running. How do I get out of here?" See? No commitment at all. Any she heard she made up herself out of wishful thinking.
"Abyss."
The guy who had driven the coach floated out of a shadow. I had not suspected his presence. Magodor was pleased by my surprise. "Show Mr. Garrett to the street."
Abyss looked at me from eyes that were leagues away inside his hood. The air grew cold. I got the reeling he resented being forced to bother with me. I thought of a couple of cracks but doubted he had the brain or sense of humor to understand. And I still had to get out of there.
As I left that room, Magodor said, "Be careful. The Shayir are desperate and dangerous."
"Right." The Godoroth, of course, were just playful puppies.
I encountered several servants before leaving the house, startling every one. None paid Abyss any mind, though one who passed close by suffered one of those unexpected chills that sometimes fall upon you for no obvious reason.
Abyss never said a word. I felt his eyes upon me for a long time after I got my feet onto cobblestones.
11
Just playful puppies, the Godoroth.
I moved fast for a few blocks, just to get some distance. Then I stopped to get my bearings.
I had been right. The place was right up there. I didn't recognize the particular house, out it wouldn't take much effort to find out who owned it. I wondered if I should bother. Knowing might be too scary.
Before I moved on, I charted a course unlikely to lead me into trouble. I had to get to the Dead Man. I needed some serious advice. I had fallen into deep shit if I was dealing with real gods. I might be into it deep anyway.
I moved fast and tried to watch every which way at once, sure that the effort was a waste because I was dealing with shapeshifters who could walk behind me and just be something else every time I looked around.
My head still hurt, though my hangover had faded. I was past the sleepiness, but I was starved and all I really wanted was a sample of Dean's cooking.
The streets were not crowded. Up there they never are. But times have changed. I saw several enterprising pushcart operators trying to sell trinkets or services. They would not have dared in times past. Used to be privately hired security thugs would send their kind scurrying with numerous bruises.
They still did, I discovered. I came on several brunos bouncing an old scissor sharpener all over an acre of street. They eyeballed me but saw I was headed downhill. Why risk any pain encouraging me to hurry? I guess those other cartmen were around because the thugs did not have time to get them all. Or they had purchased a private license from the guards.
Not long after I crossed the boundary into the workaday real world, I realized that I had acquired a tail. She didn't give me a good look, so I could not be sure, but I suspected she might have had red hair when I was on the back end of the chase.
Sometimes you just got more balls than brains. You do stuff that don't make sense later. Especially if you blow it.
I was lucky this time but still can't figure out why I headed for Brookside Park instead of going home. If that was the redhead back there she knew where I lived.
The park was a mile out of my way, too. It is a big tract of trees and brush and reservoirs fed by springs that fill a creek running off the flank of the Hill. There are Royal fishponds and a Royal aviary and a stand of four-story granaries and silos supposedly kept full in case of siege or disaster. I wouldn't bet much on there being a stash if ever we are forced to tap those resources. Corruption in TunFaire is such that the officials in charge probably don't even go through bureaucratic motions before selling whatever the farmers bring in.
But, hell. Maybe I am too cynical.
The park police force, never numerous nor energetic nor effective at their best, had worse problems than the thugs up the Hill. Whole tribes of squatters had set up camp. Again I wondered why they found TunFaire so attractive. The Cantard is hell by anybody's reckoning, but a lot less so if you were born there. Why leave the hell you know, walk hundreds of miles, plunk yourself down in a town where not only do you have no prospects but the natives all hate you and don't need much excuse to do you grief?
On the other hand—and I don't understand why—TunFaire is a dream for this whole end of the world, the golden city. Maybe you can't see why if you are looking at it from the inside.
The woman gave me more room out there, off the street, so she would be less obvious. I didn't get a better look.
I strode briskly, hup two three four. Up and down hump and swale, round bush and copse. I darted into a small, shady stand of evergreens in a low place, careful not to disturb the old needles on the ground. Hey, I used to be Force Recon. I was the bear in the woods.
I selected a friendly shadow, did the trick with the cord that was supposed to make me invisible. I waited.