Maybe I wouldn't go home after all.
There were problems. One was that somebody was waiting in the breezeway beside the ratman's; even without seeing the glow of his pipe I could smell the weed he was smoking. The other was that there was somebody waiting inside. Whoever that was had all the lamps burning, using up oil at a rate to curdle my liver.
I knew a heavy weed smoker. Another friend of Denny's. Another old soldier, name of Barbera, who smoked so much that most of the time he didn't know if he was in this world or the next. A pathetic case, he was always in trouble because folks could talk him into anything. He had been one of Denny's charities.
No doubt Denny's other pals thought it would be a giggle to hop him up and sic him on me.
I faded into a shadow down the block and took a seat against a wall that needed tuckpointing. The view of my place was as scenic as a garbage dump.
A lot of nothing happened for a long time. Unless you count the flares as my lurker lighted up, or the passing of drunks so far gone they were unafraid of the nighted streets. Only after we started getting some aromatic moonlight did anything interesting happen. And that was just a couple guys checking in with the weed man.
They passed me by without seeing me. But I got a look at them.
Vasco and Quinn, my old pals.
So they meant to do me dirty, eh?
I didn't move, though I thought about knocking some heads. I was beginning to wonder about that lamplight. Vasco and Quinn had made no effort to talk to whomever was inside. So maybe that whomever wasn't one of them.
Who, then?
My friend the ratman came home from his shift at the graveyard, drunk as usual. In my less charitable moments I've wished he would get lost in one of the graves he digs.
He shuffled up to my new window, glanced inside.
Whatever he saw, it was interesting. He watched for a minute. When he moved on he cast furtive looks around. He didn't see anyone watching. That must have given him courage. He slipped over and tried the door.
It opened.
Barbera came blazing out of the shadows. He climbed all over the ratman. When he had him pounded down to about three feet high, he took off, headed my way.
A little message for me from Denny's pals. Misdelivered.
I reckoned they needed an answer.
I stepped out of the shadows as Barbera lumbered past. He caught me from the corner of his eye. I said, "Hi, there," and smacked his ear with my sap as his eyes grew big and he tried to turn.
He did not go down. But his knees got wobbly and his eyes glazed. I kicked him low, punched him high with my left, bounced the sap off his forehead.
He wobbled a little more.
They need a lot of pounding when they're hopped.
I gave him all he needed, and then some, and when he no longer knew what planet he was on, I snagged the seat of his pants and walked him into an alley, where I gave him a few more taps with my sap. Then I took his pouch of weed. A while later I paid a half-dwarf half-goblin wino to deliver it to Vasco with the word that he had not gotten his money's worth.
That taken care of, it was time to see about my intruder.
I didn't do any seeing. When I got back to where I could see my place, a troop of Tates were going inside, stepping over the groaning ratman like he was something that fell behind the horse. In a moment they marched back out with an angry Tinnie.
So there you go. Exactly my kind of luck. If I found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I'd break my leg running toward it and have to lie there watching some other clown walk away with it while I did my groaning.
I let the street clear. Then I went and got a bucket of beer and locked myself inside. Nobody disturbed me.
14
I'd planned to surprise everybody by showing up at the Tate place at the crack of dawn, ready to travel. But I had a dream about Loghyr bones.
Maybe it was the beer. That beer was green. But I knew better than to ignore it. It could be a summons from the Dead Man.
The worst thing about going out in the morning is that the sun is there. It slaps you right in the eyes. When you go back inside you can't see squat.
Squat was what I saw when I went into the Dead Man's place. It was as dark as a crypt in there.
About time, Garrett. Did you come via Khaphé?
"That wasn't a dream, eh?"
No.
"What do you want?"
I do not have the resources to follow all your adventures from afar. If you want my help and advice, you have to report to me occasionally.
I figured that was as near as he would get to saying he owed me. I would take what I was given. "What do you need?"
Details of what you have seen and learned since your last visit.
So I gave it to him, without leaving anything out.
He pondered awhile. Buy yourself some poison rings, Garrett. Carry a boot knife.
That was not the advice I expected. "Why?"
Are you known for such things?
"No."
Do the unexpected.
"I hiked all the way over here for that?"
It is the best I can do given the information you make available.
Make it my fault. Just like him. I did him a few odd jobs, cleaned the place up some, and burned some sulfur candles to make the vermin's lungs more robust. I wondered what Morley thought about breathing air. It's kind of hard to inhale green, leafy vegetables.
Then I took the Dead Man's advice. I stocked up on lethal hardware. I even picked up a few sneaky-petes I recalled from my Marine days. Let them come after me now, I thought. I'm ready for anything.
Horses. They are one of the little unpleasantnesses to be endured during any lengthy journey. Unless you want to walk. Morley Dotes had high praise for that sort of exercise, which meant it hurt. Personally, I have very little interest in voluntarily inflicting pain or discomfort upon myself.
I went to an outfitter I knew, a black giant they called Playmate. He was human, but must have had a little mixed blood somewhere. He stood nine feet tall. The color-impregnated clan scars on his cheeks gave him a ferocious look, but he was a sweetheart, as gentle as a human being could be.
Those gruesome features brightened when he spotted me crossing the yard of his place. He came at me with arms spread wide, grinning like I was going to rig out a battalion. I ducked his hug. He could crush you in his enthusiasm. Had he possessed the killer instinct, he would have made one hell of a professional wrestler.
I had done him some good on a skip trace awhile back. My getting the guy to pay up saved Playmate from bankruptcy. So he owed some good fortune to me, but this greeting was not that much more warm than what he gave strangers who wandered in off the street.
"What can we do for you, Garrett? Name it and it's yours. On me. Long as you need it."
"I need a couple of horses and camping gear for five for three or four months."
"You got it. Going out to try your hand at trapping? Business that bad?"
"I have a job. It's taking me out of town."
"Three, four months is a far piece out and back. Where you going?" He was headed for his stable, where a whole clan of four-legged assassins awaited my advent with malice bubbling in their blood.
"The Cantard."
Horses and I do not get along. I can ride, but just barely, when I have to. I'm a city boy and never saw much need to hang around with beasts that have it in for me.
Playmate slowed down. He gave me one of those looks you save for your crazy cousin when he says something totally stupid. "The Cantard? Garrett, you're a great man, and I have complete faith in you. If any civilian could get into and out of the Cantard alive, it would be you. But I'm not so confident of my animals."