Petty Pewter Gods (11 page)

I ducked around a corner and into a narrow breezeway, readying my magic cord as I went. Jorken didn’t like that. He shook his head violently, snapped, “Don’t!”

I popped into my sack of invisibility anyway and kept moving through the breezeway. There wasn’t much light back there, but enough for me to see the huntress and her pets race past the breezeway. I chuckled. “There, Winghead.” But Jorken had taken a fast hike, last laugh choking him.

The bundle of black appeared, hesitated, drifted into the breezeway behind me. The horsewoman returned. Her four-legged pals climbed over one another, trying to sniff out a trail that wasn’t there. But everybody trusted Nog’s nose. Or ears. Or whatever.

I kept humping that sack but never got out the other end of the breezeway. I was trying to slide into the cavity at someone’s back door, without making a racket, when Nog caught up. I heard a slithering snakes sort of sound, like reptilian scales running over scales. Something like black worms, nightcrawler size, began oozing into the sack through the little hole left by the knot when I had closed up. The voice in my head reminded me,
Nog is inescapable.

Old Nog knew his limitations.

Old Nog smelled pretty damned bad. I didn’t get a chance to offer him any man-to-man advice on personal hygiene. Paralysis overtook me. I felt like a stroke victim. I was fully aware, but I couldn’t do anything. Nog slipped back out the hole, content to leave me in the sack. I saw nothing that looked like hands or arms, but he took hold anyhow and dragged me back into the street, to the huntress. She leaned down, felt around, grabbed hold of my arm, hoisted me like I was a doll. She flipped me down across the shoulders of her mount. She let out an earsplitting shriek of triumph, hauled back on her reins. Her unicorn reared, pounded the air with huge hooves, then we were off at a gallop, hounds larking around the great white beast’s pounding hooves, Nog the Inescapable floating alongside. Owls passed overhead, still fleeing the crows but finding a moment to send down hoots of congratulations. The huntress laid a silver-tipped arrow across her dark bow — weapon and shaft both just materialized in her hands. She sped the arrow. A monster crow became an explosion of black feathers. The missile flew on through, took a big turn, came back home. Mama snatched it out of the air, on the fly.

The crows got the idea. But they didn’t back off entirely. Whither the owls flew they followed, waiting to flash in and rip a few more feathers off heavy wings. The owls were looking pretty ragged.

Not that I got a real good look, sprawled in that undignified position. But it was a long ride, out of the city completely, into the region of wealthy estates south of town. I don’t like it out there. Every time I go I get into big trouble. This time didn’t look like it would be any exception. I was in trouble before I got there.

I wondered why nobody remarked on me floating through the streets.

Along the way we accumulated the rest of the Shayir crew, some of whom had real trouble keeping up — especially that wide, stubby guy. None of his pals seemed inclined to make any allowances. Sweethearts, the gods.

21

The place was huge and well hidden by trees and a stone wall ten feet tall, a quarter mile before you got to the house itself. There were guards at the gate, in keeping with the spirit of the times, but the gate stood open and they didn’t notice our entrance. I realized that nobody saw me floating around because I was still inside that damned invisibility sack. All I had done was make their job easier for them.

It was dark when we reached the manor house. I couldn’t see much of it from my position. I wondered if I would recognize it in the daylight. I wondered if I wanted to. I wondered if the Dead Man had any idea where I was or what was happening to me. I wondered why I was doing so much wondering lately.

The huntress dismounted, tossed her reins to a lesser deity of some sort who looked like a pudgy kid with the world’s foremost collection of golden curls. She dragged me down and tossed me onto her shoulder. Into the house we went. The pudgy kid flew away on impossibly small wings, leading the unicorn.

I hit the floor on a bearskin rug in front of a merrily crackling fireplace at one end of a room they could have cleared of furniture to use as a ball field on rainy days. I lay there looking up at my captor, who was as beautiful as any woman I’d ever seen. But there wasn’t an ounce of warmth in her. Cold as ebony. No sensuality whatsoever. I was willing to bet a mark she fell into the virgin huntress subcategory.

Nog crackled. The owl girls passed near the fire, as lovely as ever but sadly tattered. Hardly a thread remained of their wispy apparel. In better times I would have applauded the view.

The dogs, the stubby guy, the giant, all stood around staring at the bearskin. I didn’t think they were trying to bring Bruno back to life.

I spied other faces great and small, humanoid and otherwise, all with a definite mythological caste. Shadows played over the walls. The faun guy began consoling the owl girls. A pleasant, avuncular sort of voice said, “Might I suggest, Mr. Garrett, that as an initial gesture you come forth from that pocket clipped out of reality?”

I wiggled and rolled and looked at a guy who was sitting in a big chair, facing the fire. He had his hands extended to the flames as though he had a circulation problem. He did look enough like Imar to be his brother. Maybe Imar’s smarter twin brother, since he could articulate a civilized sentence.

Straining and groaning
 
—
I do not recommend horses in any form as transportation — I wobbled to my feet and fumbled with my cord till I was able to step out into the room with my hosts. None of them seemed interested in the cord. I made it disappear, hoping nobody would have second thoughts.

But why should they care? They had Nog, god of litter piles.

“I apologize for the less than genteel means by which you were brought here, Mr. Garrett. You have made it difficult to contact you.”

I stared for maybe fifteen seconds. Then I said, “I guess you’re not one of them.”

“One of what?” Puzzled.

I waved an inclusive hand. “The Shayir pantheon.”

He frowned.

“I’ve never heard of a god who has manners, let alone one who treats mortals with respect.”

Shadow touched his face. It wasn’t one of the shadows that infested the place, it was a shadow from within, a shadow of anger. “Would you prefer to be treated the way you expect?”

I am, I thought. “Actually, I’d rather not be treated at all. I ignore you, you ignore me, we’re no problem to one another.”

“But you are a problem. Of the worst sort. You threaten our existence. You cannot possibly expect us to overlook that.”

I swallowed about three times. The guy in the chair projected a furious temper, restrained only with great effort. I must have some power in the situation, though I couldn’t catch a whiff. “How am I a threat?”

“You have been enlisted by the Godoroth to find the Temple Key. That simple name doesn’t tell you that the group who fails to take possession of it will perish.”

“I think you got the wrong guy. I don’t know anything about any Temple Key.”

A whispering filled the air. Ice formed on my tailbone and crawled northward.

“Curious, Mr. Garrett. Torbit says you are only partially lying. But.” He rambled through an eyewitness review of my visit with the Godoroth. Maybe he was Imar in a good mood.

I searched the crowd, trying to get a good picture of faces. The Dead Man would want every detail — if ever we met again.

I said, “You got all the details, then you know I didn’t agree to do anything. I just slid on out of there.”

“There was an implication. You did not refuse.”

“Won’t stand up in court. Duress and coercion.” Which got me a blank look. Duress and coercion? Wasn’t that what being a god was all about? You could make people do what you wanted? Weren’t mortals toys?

He took it his own way. “Granted, you did not swear allegiance to the Godoroth. That is good. But why, then, were you on the Street of the Gods asking questions? Why were you visiting temples?”

“I was pretty sure it was a con of some kind. Those Godoroth characters didn’t convince me that they were real gods. They just told me that they were. They hadn’t shown me anything a clever conjurer couldn’t manage.” If you overlooked my magic rope. “I figured somebody wanted to set me up.”

My audience stirred. Most probably didn’t understand me. The guy in the chair had to mull it over before he got it. Give him that. He could step out of his own viewpoint. Not that he credited the mortal viewpoint with much value.

That chill whisper filled the air momentarily.

“It appears that, once again, you are telling most of the truth. Very well. I believe you understand the situation. Foreign gods have come to TunFaire. They have been awarded a place on the Street of the Gods. This means great inconvenience and dislocation for many gods, but for us and the Godoroth it means one group or the other has to go. For my part, I do not care to fall into oblivion.”

“Me neither.”

“You still believe you are being hoodwinked?”

“It’s starting to look like the real thing.”

“I want that key, Mr. Garrett.”

“I’ll say a prayer for you.”

Teensy thunderbolts crackled at his temples. Maybe it was something I said. He regained control. “You fled from my friends. If you are not in the service of the Godoroth, why run?”

“Give them an eye, chief. Most of them look like nightmares come true.”

More teensy thunderbolts flickered. I wasn’t doing too good here. I looked around. Things moving in and out of the light
might
have lurked under my bed when I was a kid. This was a much bigger crowd than the Godoroth. And not real friendly. Bad cess to the infidel, I guess.

“Where will you look for the key?”

“I’m not interested in any key. I just don’t want to be between gangs of divine sociopaths who have no interest whatsoever in my welfare.”

Crackly whisper in the air. Stir in the crowd, which seemed larger every time I checked. They were not all nightmares, either. This pantheon was well supplied with attractive goddesses, not one of whom had trouble with her hair and all of whom had normal teeth and the usual complement of limbs.

I didn’t need the whispers translated. Torbit the Strayer — whatever he, she, or it was — had reported the truth of my lack of interest. No grail quest for me. Forget that Temple Key. Garrett has no desire to save any holy bacon. I said, “I have friends in the beer business who do care and who do need my help. I’d rather be solving their problems.”

“There is little time, Mr. Garrett. We need a mortal to rescue us. Our remaining worshippers are few and of little value because of their age. Belief is not a requirement. Free will is. I see no more likely candidate than yourself. You work for hire. We have resources beyond your imagining.”

Yeah. Everything but loving followers eager to bail your asses out.

22

I’m sure I didn’t say that out loud. Must have been my body language. Dumb, to be twitching and aggravating the gods like that.

The head guy growled, “Put him into the lockup room. Some time with his thoughts should help him develop a new perspective.”

I liked my old one fine, but several unpleasant fellows disagreed. I had seen them on their day jobs as gargoyles. And not only did they have heads like rocks, they had muscles of stone as well. We took a vote. The majority elected to go along with Lang’s plan for an attitude adjustment. They lugged me through the house, up various flights of stairs, past a scattering of antique humans who had no trouble seeing us and who kowtowed to anything that moved. My companions chucked me into a large closet containing one ragged stolen army blanket (I knew it was stolen; otherwise it would still be in the army), one feeble fat candle, and two quart jars, one full and one empty. I presumed I was to be the middleman between jars.

The door closed. I gathered I was supposed to ruminate and quickly conclude that signing on with the Shayir was preferable to the alternatives. At the moment it looked like that could be true. I might have gone with that option had I not become distracted.

The dust hadn’t settled when the door popped open and the owl girls invited themselves in. They hadn’t bothered finding fresh clothing. They had mischief in their golden eyes, and “Uh-oh!” was all I got to say before they piled onto me.

They weren’t great conversationalists. In fact, I didn’t get anything out of them but giggles. I did my best to remain stern and fatherly and aloof, but they just took that as a challenge. I am nothing if not determined in my pursuit of information, so I continued to ask questions while I endured the inevitable.

After a while I began to fear the interrogation would never end. Those two only looked like girls.

Then they were gone and I was collapsing into exhausted sleep while trying to figure out what that had been all about. They hadn’t tried to worm anything out of me or to get me to promise a thing. They were very direct, very focused, and very demanding.

The door opened. The woman who had gotten me into this mess stepped inside. She was in her redhead phase, and a very desirable redhead she was. She sniffed. “I see Lila and Dimna have been here.” Her observation was as neutral as a remark about the weather.

“I don’t know what they wanted...”

“What they wanted is what they got. They are direct and simple.”

“Direct, anyway.”

“Simple.” She tapped her temple. “You find this form attractive?”

“I’ll howl at the moon.” Though she made no effort, she exuded sensuality. “But that won’t get you anything.”

“You’re sated.”

“Got nothing to do with it. I’m being pushed and bullied. I don’t take to that much. I get stubborn.”

“You have to understand something. If the Shayir don’t get what they want, neither do you.”

“And the Godoroth will think the same, so I can’t win. But I can stay stubborn and take everybody with me.” Damn. I didn’t like the sound of the slop gushing out of my yap. I don’t know if I believed it. I hoped that Torbit thing wasn’t listening.