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
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
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