Police,″ Denson said, smiling like a shark. ″The only reason we haven′t done anything about ′em is those Cutters from Montana. They′ve been telling Tony the Bossman should be a fucking God . Provided he follows the—what do they call that funny-farm fake Bible of theirs?″
″The Dictations. And the Book of Dzur. That′s how they run things, which I′ve seen firsthand,″ Ingolf said.
Along with some other things I′m not going to mention, because you′d think I was crazy. And being a prisoner in Corwin . . . you do go crazy. I don′t think I realized how much until I began to recover, in Chenrezi Monastery.
″But I think they have their own Prophet in mind for the job, and nobody else,″ he said aloud.
″That′s about what I thought,″ Denson said. ″Besides, that everyone-is-dirt-beneath-your-feet and soulless-minions-of-the-Nephilim stuff is just far too tempting. I′m all for the Bossman′s authority, but let′s not get ridiculous.″
He produced a silver flask from his belt and took a nip. Without looking around he also lashed out with one foot, and connected with a set of fingers that were gripping the bars of the next cell at the sight of the liquor. The hairy face behind them jerked backward, swearing—quietly—and disappeared.
″Which sort of presents me with a problem,″ he said. ″They′ve also been telling the Bossman that you and your friends should all get the chop, soonest.″
″That′s the sort of advice Tony Heasleroad usually listens to,″ Ingolf said sourly.
There was a certain freedom in his position. Denson′s confiding mood confirmed it; the man was probably talking more freely to him than he could to anyone else, because he didn′t expect one Ingolf Vogeler to be around very much longer. One way or another. Though he wondered at his letting the other prisoners eavesdrop.
Ah , he thought. He wants to judge my reactions before he risks letting me out of the cage even for an instant, even at the end of a catchpole.
″I get it,″ Ingolf said, snapping his fingers with a look of sardonically exaggerated surprise. ″You′re going to sit there and tell me all your evil plans before you kill me.″
″Christ, no, I saw that movie before the Change,″ Denson said genially.
He extended the flask—cautiously, at arm′s length, so that Ingolf could just reach it but not the other man′s hand. It was peach brandy, well-aged, smooth and sweet, and went well with—at least temporary—relief.
″Ah, that′s sippin′ liquor,″ Ingolf said. To himself: Phew. He needs me for something. Needs me alive.
″Thanks.″
″You′re welcome,″ Denson said, taking it back. ″No, when I′m going to kill someone I just kill them, fast and quiet. Dead men don′t figure a way to turn the tables on you.″
Ingolf felt an unwelcome stab of emotion; it took him a moment to recognize it as hope. That made the inside of his head itch.
Careful, he told himself as his breath caught involuntarily. You can′t afford to get muddleheaded.
″So I figure I need to get that hard-ass Graber and even more that lunatic they call a High Seeker out of town, and hopefully your bunch too. You can all go off and kill each other somewhere else, and we can get on with life. Tony will be annoyed, but he′ll get over it when he finds some new toys. If I had you all chopped against his orders, he might . . . probably would . . . start thinking of me as a threat.″
″And that wouldn′t do. He might get antsy.″
″Oh, you′ve got no idea. Our boy has a well-developed sense of self-preservation.″
″The Corwinites probably have plans of their own,″ Ingolf said.
″Yeah. The other guy usually does, the dirty bastard.″ Apropos of nothing, Denson went on: ″You′re not old enough to remember the Change, are you?″
″Nope,″ Ingolf said. ″Not really. I remember the flash of light and the headache, but not much before that and not much more after, not for years. I
″The Dictations. And the Book of Dzur. That′s how they run things, which I′ve seen firsthand,″ Ingolf said.
Along with some other things I′m not going to mention, because you′d think I was crazy. And being a prisoner in Corwin . . . you do go crazy. I don′t think I realized how much until I began to recover, in Chenrezi Monastery.
″But I think they have their own Prophet in mind for the job, and nobody else,″ he said aloud.
″That′s about what I thought,″ Denson said. ″Besides, that everyone-is-dirt-beneath-your-feet and soulless-minions-of-the-Nephilim stuff is just far too tempting. I′m all for the Bossman′s authority, but let′s not get ridiculous.″
He produced a silver flask from his belt and took a nip. Without looking around he also lashed out with one foot, and connected with a set of fingers that were gripping the bars of the next cell at the sight of the liquor. The hairy face behind them jerked backward, swearing—quietly—and disappeared.
″Which sort of presents me with a problem,″ he said. ″They′ve also been telling the Bossman that you and your friends should all get the chop, soonest.″
″That′s the sort of advice Tony Heasleroad usually listens to,″ Ingolf said sourly.
There was a certain freedom in his position. Denson′s confiding mood confirmed it; the man was probably talking more freely to him than he could to anyone else, because he didn′t expect one Ingolf Vogeler to be around very much longer. One way or another. Though he wondered at his letting the other prisoners eavesdrop.
Ah , he thought. He wants to judge my reactions before he risks letting me out of the cage even for an instant, even at the end of a catchpole.
″I get it,″ Ingolf said, snapping his fingers with a look of sardonically exaggerated surprise. ″You′re going to sit there and tell me all your evil plans before you kill me.″
″Christ, no, I saw that movie before the Change,″ Denson said genially.
He extended the flask—cautiously, at arm′s length, so that Ingolf could just reach it but not the other man′s hand. It was peach brandy, well-aged, smooth and sweet, and went well with—at least temporary—relief.
″Ah, that′s sippin′ liquor,″ Ingolf said. To himself: Phew. He needs me for something. Needs me alive.
″Thanks.″
″You′re welcome,″ Denson said, taking it back. ″No, when I′m going to kill someone I just kill them, fast and quiet. Dead men don′t figure a way to turn the tables on you.″
Ingolf felt an unwelcome stab of emotion; it took him a moment to recognize it as hope. That made the inside of his head itch.
Careful, he told himself as his breath caught involuntarily. You can′t afford to get muddleheaded.
″So I figure I need to get that hard-ass Graber and even more that lunatic they call a High Seeker out of town, and hopefully your bunch too. You can all go off and kill each other somewhere else, and we can get on with life. Tony will be annoyed, but he′ll get over it when he finds some new toys. If I had you all chopped against his orders, he might . . . probably would . . . start thinking of me as a threat.″
″And that wouldn′t do. He might get antsy.″
″Oh, you′ve got no idea. Our boy has a well-developed sense of self-preservation.″
″The Corwinites probably have plans of their own,″ Ingolf said.
″Yeah. The other guy usually does, the dirty bastard.″ Apropos of nothing, Denson went on: ″You′re not old enough to remember the Change, are you?″
″Nope,″ Ingolf said. ″Not really. I remember the flash of light and the headache, but not much before that and not much more after, not for years. I
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