Dean looked worried. Singe sort of collapsed in on herself.
“It ain’t a big deal. He’s taking a nap. We always get through his off-seasons.” Dean didn’t want to be reminded, though. I never do things the way he wants them done.
I said, “So, Dean, I hear tell a tribe of baby cats has infiltrated my kitchen.”
“They aren’t ordinary kittens, Mr. Garrett. They’re part of an ancient prophecy.”
“A modern prophecy has them taking a trip down the river in a gunnysack with a couple broken bricks as companions on the voyage. What’re you babbling about?”
“Penny isn’t just another street urchin. She’s a priestess.”
I poured some tea, eyed the bucket of cats. They looked like gray tabby babies. Though there was something strange about them. “A priestess. Right.” No surprise in TunFaire, the most god-plagued city that ever was.
“She’s the last priestess of A-Lat. From Ymber. She ran off to TunFaire after her mother was murdered by zealots from the cult of A-Laf. Who’re in TunFaire now, looking for the kittens.”
Somebody had gotten somebody to invest heavily in off-river wetlands. Similar scams are out there every day. People turn blind stupid if you say there’s a god involved.
Even Singe looked skeptical. She said, “They are cats, Dean.” Coolly.
“Ymber, eh?” I had only vague knowledge of that little city. It’s up the river several days’ journey. It has problems with thunder lizards. It’s supposedly a party town, ruled by a very loose goddess of love, peace, and whatnot. Ymber ships grain, fruit, sheep, cattle, and timber to TunFaire. And lately, thunder lizard hides. It’s not known for exporting religious refugees. Or zealots.
One of TunFaire’s own main products is flimflam folk. Though I did not, immediately, see how the girl could sting Dean with a bucket of cats.
The religious angle was suggestive, though.
I said, “I’m listening. I haven’t heard how the cats tie in.”
“They’re the Luck of A-Lat.”
I tried to get more than that. He clammed. Probably because that’s all he knew.
“I’ll have to bring the big guy in on it, then.” The whole front of the house shuddered. I growled like a hungry dire wolf. I’ve had it with people trying to break down my door.
5
My current front door was next best to a castle gate. I had it installed on account of the last one got busted regularly by large, usually hairy, always uncouth, violent fellows. The character I spied through the spy hole, rubbing his shoulder and looking dimly bewildered, fit all those categories. Especially hairy. Except the top of his head. Its peak glistened.
He wore clothes but looked like Bigfoot’s country cousin. With worse fashion sense. Definitely a mixed breed. Maybe including some troll, some giant, gorilla, or bear. All his ancestors must’ve enjoyed the double uglies. He hadn’t just gotten whipped with an ugly stick-a whole damned tree fell on him, then took root.
“Wow!” I said. “You guys got to see this. He’s wearing green plaid pants.”
Nobody answered. Dean was fumbling with a crossbow. Singe had disappeared. Nothing could be felt from the great blob of sagging meat who was supposed to apply ferocious mental powers at times like this.
The door took another mighty hit. Plaster dust shook loose everywhere. I used the peephole again.
Yeti man wasn’t alone. Two more just like him, also in baggy green plaid, polluted my steps. Behind them lurked a guy who might’ve been their trainer. He wore an anxious expression and a hideous pair of pants.
A crowd began to gather.
Most of the adult pixies from my colony were out.
Some buzzed around like huge, colorful bumblebees. Some perched in nooks and crannies, poised for action. And, of all people to reveal a hitherto unsuspected talent for timing, I spied my pal Saucerhead Tharpe half a block down the street. I glimpsed Penny Dreadful, too. I strolled back to my office, flirted with Eleanor, dug through the clutter, ferreted out my lead-weighted oaken knobknocker. The stick is a useful conversational ploy if I get to chatting with overly excitable gentlemen like the hair ball out front.
Said gentleman continued exercising his shoulder. My door remained stubbornly unmoved by the brute side of the force. “You ready yet, Dean? Just point the business end between his eyes when he stops rolling.”
I stepped up to the peephole. Big Hairy was rubbing his other shoulder. He looked down at the man in the street. That guy nodded. One more try.
Saucerhead stood around awaiting events.
Big Hairy charged.
I opened the door. He barked as he plunged inside, somehow tripping on my foot.
My toy made a satisfying thwock! on the back of his skull.
The other two hairy boys started to charge, too, but became distracted as their pelts started to crawl with tiny people armed with tiny weapons. Really, really sharp little weapons. All crusty brown with poison.
Singe leaned down from the porch roof, poking around with a rapier. Its tip was all crusty, too. She’d picked up Morley’s wicked habit.
Saucerhead grabbed the guy in the street, slapped him till he stopped wiggling, tucked the guy under one arm, then asked, “What’re you into now?”
“I don’t got a clue,” I said. “You didn’t break that guy, did you?”
“He’s breathing. He’ll wake up. Might wish that he didn’t, though, when he does. You want to go clubbing tonight?”
“Can’t. I’ve got a command performance. Chodo’s birthday party.”
“Yeah? Hey! Is that tonight? Damn! I forgot. I’m supposed to.work security.” Tharpe started walking away.
“Hey!”
“Oh. Yeah. What do you want me to do with this guy?”
“Put him down and head on out. Relway’s Runners are coming.”
An urban police force sounds like a good idea. And it is. If it don’t go getting in your way. Which it’s likely to do if you spend time tiptoeing around the edge of the law.
Three Watchmen materialized. Two were regular patrolmen. The third was a Relway Runner. Scithe.
He recognized me, too. “You just draw trouble, Garrett.” He eyed my house nervously. The Runners are the visible face of the secret police, known by their red flop caps and military weaponry. They have a lot of power but don’t like getting inside reading range of mind-peekers like the Dead Man.
I said, “He’s asleep.”
Nothing lies more convincingly than the truth. My reassuring Scithe assured him only that the Dead Man was pawing through every dark recess of his empty skull.
He stuck to his job, though. “What were these guys up to, Garrett?”
“Trying to kick my door in.” He had to ask. I know. I have to ask a lot of dumb stuff, too. Because you have to have the answers to build toward more significant stuff.
“Why?”
“You’ll have to ask them. I’ve never seen them before. I’d remember. Look at those pants.” While we chatted, the patrolmen bound the hairy boys’ wrists. “There’s another one of those inside, guys. My man’s got the drop on him.” I moved toward the character that Saucerhead dropped. I wanted to ask questions before they dragged him off to an Al-Khar cell.
A patrolman called from the house, “This asshole won’t cooperate, Scithe.”
“Keep hitting him. His attitude will improve.” Scithe blew his whistle.
Seconds after, whistles answered from all directions.
I stirred the unconscious man with my foot. “These guys have a foreign look.”
Scithe grunted. “I can tell right off you’re a trained detective. You realized no local tailor would ruin his reputation that way. People! Gather round. What happened here?” He was talking to onlookers who’d come out to be entertained.