Dread Brass Shadows

Garrett!

We must have caught him dozing. I expected him to get peckish sooner. "News from the Cantard, Old Bones. Your boy maybe weaseled out one more time. Got the big boys butting heads..." He wasn't going to buy.

This time you have gone too far! Why have you brought that creature into my home?

Oh-oh. He was piqued. He's very precise in his word choices. If he had used my house, he'd just have wanted to squabble to kill time. My home... Well, he was not pleased. He felt violated.

"So I can keep an eye on her. Wouldn't want some unscrupulous rake making a move on her before."

Stuff that nonsense. Play that game with Dean if you like, but I know you better.

"Had you going there, didn't I?"

Do what needs doing, then get her out.

Hey! He was willing to work to get shut of her. All right. I'd finally found a way to twist his arm.

Garrett!

"Right."

Winger looked at me like I was foaming at the mouth.

The Dead Man wasn't giving her his half of the conversation. She asked, "You talking to that thing?"

"Sure. He's just dead, he isn't gone."

Report, Garrett! Get on with it.

I did. Every little detail.

I suggest you play along for the time being. He let Winger catch that. She jumped about a foot, grabbed the sides of her head. Her eyes got big as she wondered if he could look inside there as easily as he put thoughts in. I think she would've attacked him if she hadn't been so shocked.

"Play along. Right. My sharpest skill. And when the crunch comes, how do I get out of committing murder? Or at least becoming a heavyweight accessory to same?"

The Dead Man sent the mental equivalent of a shrug. You will manage. You always do. Tell me more about what has happened in the Cantard.

Back to normal. He had his bluff in again. He thought. "How about you suggest a way I can keep them from killing me once I've helped with the dirty work."

Really, Garrett. Your stubborn refusal to think for yourself is becoming a burden. He paused. Since you have developed a fondness for this Winger person, and she has the intent anyway, why not take her along? She has shown herself capable of handling one of them already. I foresee an unbeatable team here.

Did I walk into that one? I sprinted. And did all the setup work, too. I couldn't raise a fuss without Winger maybe getting upset and busting me upside the head.

A hint of mental snicker, private, for me alone. The devil.

It wasn't my day. It wasn't my week. If I went along to help ice Chodo, it might not be my lifetime.

"Sounds good to me," Winger said. It would. She'd already invited herself along once. Now she had the Dead Man's blessing.

I noted that she had caught her balance fast. The Dead Man had become old news. She watched me expectantly, like she wondered how much originality I'd show trying to weasel out.

"I should've been a clown," I grumbled. "I'm everybody's entertainment anyhow."

The Dead Man's laughter was silent but evil.

Winger's wasn't silent.

I heard a sound, glanced back. Dean was in the doorway. Gri

My get-even list was getting too long to keep in my head. I was going to have to get me a diary to keep track.

37

I don't know why I left the house after I got rid of Winger. I guess because the Dead Man was riding me with spurs on, digging them in deep. My joke about Winger had turned on me. I didn't dare go to the kitchen without Dean ragging me, too.

Out seemed like a good idea at the time. Especially when the Dead Man said he'd like to know what Gnorst was up to now. I grabbed the out.

So I went to see the sneeze man. Actually, I just left a message at the door. Gnorst wasn't receiving. I suspect he especially wasn't receiving people with co

I headed for home. I got the notion I could root Carla Lindo out of her room and weep on her shoulder. She hadn't ridden me. She'd been especially understanding, in fact. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure we were going to become great friends real soon now. I started getting high on anticipation.

You may have noticed that things have a way of catching up with me whenever I feel too positive. The god who hands out the towels in the heavenly loo has a sideline. Messing with Garrett. He's such a puny, useless god they couldn't find anything better for him to do. But he's really good at messing with me. He works at it so hard I think he's bucking for a promotion.

I was a block from my place, trotting toward Macunado on Wizard's Reach. I stopped suddenly.

They came out of nowhere. They closed in carefully.

There were six of them. I didn't know them but they had to be Chodo's boys.

The street cleared magically. I struck some martial-arts poses, made me some nifty yells. That just kept them from getting overconfident.

They were good. They would be, of course. Otherwise they wouldn't be on the first team. And they'd been briefed on what to expect, which was to expect the unexpected. I've been known to yank tricks out of my sleeves.

Today I was fresh out, not counting the old-fashioned lie. I got one guy to turn his head by yelling, "Hey! Morley! Just in time for the party."

That was the only good Morley did me all week, and he wasn't even there. I laid that guy out with a flying kick and just kept going for about six feet. Then I was out of ru

They closed in. I hauled out my stick. We mixed it up. I dinged two pretty good. I wasn't worrying about how bad I hurt them. They apparently wanted me alive. At least a little. Nobody bothered explaining anything to anyone

The scuffle lasted longer than they pla

These are the little people, the ones I thought needed a champion when I outfitted myself with creaky idealistic armor. Sometimes people make it damned hard to care about people. Sometimes they do their damnedest to make it seem they deserve whatever they get.

Oh, well. I made a showing till somebody got my stick away from me and tried it out on my skull.

A black pool opened at my feet.

I didn't dive in. I sort of belly-flopped and floated there with my nose above the surface. I vaguely recall sagging between two thugs while a third summoned a waiting coach. The coach came. My buddies helped me dive inside. Somebody did a drumroll on my noggin, then they dumped their injured in on top of me.

My head stuck out of the pile. The guy with my stick tapped it every little bit, like he was trying out different patterns of lumps. I would fix him with some patterns of his own if I got the chance.

Even my skull has limits. I went off to dreamland.

The sandman isn't all bad. Before we left the city, before I wakened with an all-time headache, he got rid of the three guys piled on top of me. Hell. I had it whipped. I outnumbered them now.

The headache was a memorable effort. At least I remembered it better than any I had before. I'd been thumped hard enough to generate a small concussion. I'd puked all over the coach floor. Recently, too. The guy with the stick was still cussing me. His partner, riding with his back to the horses, observed, "You bopped him too many times. What you expect?"

"Hell, we'll probably just end up croaking him. Why'd he got to go make a mess?"

"Inconsiderate of him."

"Sure as hell was. I'm go

A philosopher and a complainer. The philosopher said, "You don't plan to go messy when your turn comes? You just going to take the hit and fold politely?"