Wicked Bronze Ambition: A Garrett, P.I., Novel by Glen Cook Page B

Singe used, where I put on one of my ratty old sweaters. It can get cold in there with His Nibs.
    “Any thoughts?” I asked as I adjusted a chair so I could settle comfortably with my pint. “I see Penny is still learning her oils.” The girl is a talented artist. Old Bones does what he can to help her develop her skills.
    His pet stray is one of few females, of any species, that he not only tolerates but actively likes.
    You have someone worried. More likely, several someones, probably all determined to win the Tournament of Swords.
    “I have the magical skills of a large boulder. As long as all I have to do is sit there, I’m golden. I’m a powerhouse.”
    It occurs to me that Strafa may not have been attacked for the reasons that we have assumed.
    “Huh?”
    She was indeed, Furious Tide of Light and the likely Algarda Champion, but suppose she was eliminated instead in a fool’s effort to make sure that you do not enter the game. An ill-reasoned effort that has fired a raging blowback already.
    “My head is running slow tonight. Elucidate your reasoning. Pretend I’m a dim five.”
    Damn! I whipped a flashy word on him and it went completely to waste. Of course, his being able to tramp around inside my head whenever he feels like, he always sees my best stuff coming.
    Consider the response to events. Since Strafa’s demise the Civil Guard, the Syndicate, the rat people nation, the Algarda family and its allies have all mobilized to hunt the assassins. I submit that it may have been such actions that the assassination was intended to forestall.
    “Oh.” I got it. Sort of.
    Somebody might think the Tournament of Swords game would be rigged against them if I was Strafa’s Mortal Companion. My connections could give her an intelligence edge. Take her out and those resources no longer mattered.
    “I can see somebody with an upper-class attitude thinking that way. Somebody committed to the premise of the tournament and expecting a win. But it wouldn’t be somebody who knows me because I wouldn’t buy into the tournament in the first place.”
    Indeed. At the moment it appears unlikely that the tournament will occur. After the embarrassment those men suffered . . .
    “Yes?” There had been more than one embarrassment, I thought. That doll-child had toyed with me, then had gone her way with ease.
    Of course, however clever she was, she couldn’t remain unseen by all the eyes that would be watching for her now. She would be identified. She would be taken out of the game. Gently, of course. I wouldn’t put up with anybody attacking children in my name.
    We shall have to come back to this later. We are about to have company.
    Damn. I had been hoping to explore his thinking about the girl who had attacked me in the cemetery.

27
    Company proved to be Barate Algarda, Kevans, Kyoga Stornes, and one of the Machtkess girls, all of whom arrived in Shadowslinger’s coach. The wicked old witch did not come with them.
    She had an excuse. Barate explained, “She had an apoplectic breakdown.”
    It sounds like it may have been a stroke.
    We settled in Singe’s office. Dean served tea. Lady Tara Chayne and Kyoga were pale and severely stressed by the company, though they didn’t know Belinda or John Stretch. They just couldn’t be comfortable in a situation where rat people were not only present but were equals—and maybe even the smartest people in the room.
    Why hadn’t Barate warned them?
    He did.
    “Got it.” Naturally, several people wondered why I would chat with the air.
    Mr. Algarda did not know that Pound Humility would be here. He did tell them about Singe. They did not believe him.
    I sensed some serious disgruntlement on his side of the hallway. Something was not what he wanted it to be, either.
    They are all wearing those silver hair nets.
    So what? People have worn those to the house, trying to keep him out of their heads, since Kevans and Kip Prose thought them up. They don’t work. Not for long,