going to
do when you take over in the Cantard?”
“I’ll be back in five minutes.” He vanished
before I could argue.
----
----
18
Five minutes? It was more like twenty. The longest twenty I ever
lived, excepting maybe a few dozen times in the islands when I was
in the Corps, dancing the death dance with Venageti soldiers.
He wasn’t gone ten of those five minutes when, from my
lurking place under a crippled lime tree—where I was trying
to drown less speedily—I noted a light moving past a
downstairs window inside the Hamilton house. Probably a candle. It
had a ghostly effect, casting a huge, only vaguely humanoid shadow
on a drawn shade.
I gulped air.
Damn me if my luck didn’t hold. Somebody came outside and
headed straight for the coach house. I heard muttering, then
realized that there were two of them. The guy with the candle was
leading.
Closer. It was my old buddy with the bad stomach. He
didn’t look like much now, a sawed-off runt in clothes that
had been out of style since my dad was a pup. He wore the kind of
hat they call a deerstalker. I’d never seen one outside a
painting before. He was bent and slow and shaky and a damned near
perfect match for my notion of what a pederast ought to look
like.
Hunking along behind, having trouble navigating, was Scarface,
the guy Saucerhead had bounced around so thoroughly. He moved
slower than the old guy, like he’d aged a hundred years
overnight. Saucerhead hadn’t broken much but he’d left
both of them with plenty of pain.
Now what? Jump in and make a citizen’s arrest? Accuse
somebody of something and maybe get my own bones rearranged? Maybe
cause the geezer another attack of dyspepsia and have him belch
carnivorous butterflies all over me? Maybe just end up in court for
assault? My mind wanders at such times, examining the dark side. I
wish I had Saucerhead’s capacity for lack of doubt.
There
are
advantages to being simple.
While I tried to decide and wondered where the hell Morley was
with the light, those two dragged their bruise collections inside
the coach house. Light flowed through cracks as they lit lamps or
lanterns. Talk continued, but I could distinguish no words.
I crept to the doorway, still could make out nothing. I heard a
horse snort, jumped. Boy, was I glad I hadn’t gone in there
before. They would’ve ambushed me for sure.
It sounded like they were fixing to harness a team. The cussing
level suggested that was difficult when you were all bruised up.
Sounded like some impressive descriptive work being done in there.
I wanted to hear more. I need to expand my vocabulary.
I slipped my fingers into the gap between the door and its
frame, pulled outward slowly till I had a crack through which to
peek. So I could spy on a whole lot of horse stalls and tack racks
doing a whole lot of nothing. Pretty dull stuff. I had the wrong
angle.
Someone had the right angle to see the door move inward. I heard
one voice say something soft but startled. Heavy footsteps lumbered
my way, like a stomping troll wearing stone boots. I thought about
doing a fast fade but thought too long. I barely had time to duck
aside before the door flew open.
I couldn’t run, so I did the next best thing. I bopped
Scarface over the head with my listen stick. His conk
thunked
like a thumped watermelon. He sagged, looked at me
like I wasn’t playing fair. Well, why should I? That’s
dumb with his kind. I’d get hurt if I tried. I thumped him
again to make my point.
I bounced over Scarface, popped inside, charged the little
character with the sour stomach and antique clothes. Don’t
ask me why. Seems plenty dumb in retrospect. Just say it seemed
like a good idea at the time.
He was trying to get the street doors open. I can’t
imagine why. His team were still in their stalls. He wasn’t
going to drive away. And he wasn’t going to outrun anybody on
foot either. But there he went, heaving away and spitting green
moths.
He heard me coming and spun
do when you take over in the Cantard?”
“I’ll be back in five minutes.” He vanished
before I could argue.
----
----
18
Five minutes? It was more like twenty. The longest twenty I ever
lived, excepting maybe a few dozen times in the islands when I was
in the Corps, dancing the death dance with Venageti soldiers.
He wasn’t gone ten of those five minutes when, from my
lurking place under a crippled lime tree—where I was trying
to drown less speedily—I noted a light moving past a
downstairs window inside the Hamilton house. Probably a candle. It
had a ghostly effect, casting a huge, only vaguely humanoid shadow
on a drawn shade.
I gulped air.
Damn me if my luck didn’t hold. Somebody came outside and
headed straight for the coach house. I heard muttering, then
realized that there were two of them. The guy with the candle was
leading.
Closer. It was my old buddy with the bad stomach. He
didn’t look like much now, a sawed-off runt in clothes that
had been out of style since my dad was a pup. He wore the kind of
hat they call a deerstalker. I’d never seen one outside a
painting before. He was bent and slow and shaky and a damned near
perfect match for my notion of what a pederast ought to look
like.
Hunking along behind, having trouble navigating, was Scarface,
the guy Saucerhead had bounced around so thoroughly. He moved
slower than the old guy, like he’d aged a hundred years
overnight. Saucerhead hadn’t broken much but he’d left
both of them with plenty of pain.
Now what? Jump in and make a citizen’s arrest? Accuse
somebody of something and maybe get my own bones rearranged? Maybe
cause the geezer another attack of dyspepsia and have him belch
carnivorous butterflies all over me? Maybe just end up in court for
assault? My mind wanders at such times, examining the dark side. I
wish I had Saucerhead’s capacity for lack of doubt.
There
are
advantages to being simple.
While I tried to decide and wondered where the hell Morley was
with the light, those two dragged their bruise collections inside
the coach house. Light flowed through cracks as they lit lamps or
lanterns. Talk continued, but I could distinguish no words.
I crept to the doorway, still could make out nothing. I heard a
horse snort, jumped. Boy, was I glad I hadn’t gone in there
before. They would’ve ambushed me for sure.
It sounded like they were fixing to harness a team. The cussing
level suggested that was difficult when you were all bruised up.
Sounded like some impressive descriptive work being done in there.
I wanted to hear more. I need to expand my vocabulary.
I slipped my fingers into the gap between the door and its
frame, pulled outward slowly till I had a crack through which to
peek. So I could spy on a whole lot of horse stalls and tack racks
doing a whole lot of nothing. Pretty dull stuff. I had the wrong
angle.
Someone had the right angle to see the door move inward. I heard
one voice say something soft but startled. Heavy footsteps lumbered
my way, like a stomping troll wearing stone boots. I thought about
doing a fast fade but thought too long. I barely had time to duck
aside before the door flew open.
I couldn’t run, so I did the next best thing. I bopped
Scarface over the head with my listen stick. His conk
thunked
like a thumped watermelon. He sagged, looked at me
like I wasn’t playing fair. Well, why should I? That’s
dumb with his kind. I’d get hurt if I tried. I thumped him
again to make my point.
I bounced over Scarface, popped inside, charged the little
character with the sour stomach and antique clothes. Don’t
ask me why. Seems plenty dumb in retrospect. Just say it seemed
like a good idea at the time.
He was trying to get the street doors open. I can’t
imagine why. His team were still in their stalls. He wasn’t
going to drive away. And he wasn’t going to outrun anybody on
foot either. But there he went, heaving away and spitting green
moths.
He heard me coming and spun
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