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
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
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