Bitter Gold Hearts (31 page)

“Yeah?” I saved my nastiest tone. I’m not so stupid I’d lay that on one of Chodo Contague’s head-breakers. The next one that came around might not be somebody I recognized — and he might play a few drum rolls on my skull with pieces of lead pipe.

“Chodo wants to see you.”

Wonderful. I didn’t want to see Chodo. Not unless I got into a pinch so bad it was time to collect my favor. “Social?”

Crask smiled. “You could say that.”

I didn’t like it. I hadn’t seen Crask smile since he’d turned up in my life.

He said, “He has a gift for you.”

Oh boy. A gift from the kingpin. The ways those boys operate, that could mean anything. With my imagination it couldn’t mean anything good. But what could I do? I’d been summoned. I have enough enemies without adding the kingpin just to snub him. “Let me tell my man. So he can lock up.”

I told Dean. I glanced in on the Dead Man. The fat son was still asleep. He’d dozed off while we were out at the damned farm. He still hadn’t told me how Glory Mooncalled was working his military magic.

I had a surprise for him.

__LVII__

Chodo could put on a show. Crask took me out there in a coach as fancy as anything off the Hill. Maybe the same one we had used going into Ogre Town. The kingpin met me by his pool. He was in his wheel-chair, but they had just dragged him out of the water. The girls finished setting him up and bounced off, gig­gling. What a good life they had. Until their knockers started to sag.

One cutie stayed.

I didn’t recognize her at first. When I did, I was startled. This wasn’t the Donni Pell I’d known so briefly. Not the Donni who had been so tough on that farm. This Donni had been broken down and rebuilt. She looked as eager to please as a puppy. Chodo noticed my surprise. He looked me in the eye and smiled. His smile was like Crask’s. That was like looking Death in the face and having him grin. “A gift, Mr. Garrett. Not to be considered for the favor I owe. Just a token of my esteem. She’s quite tame now. Quite pliable. 1 have no more use for her. I thought you might. Take her.”

What could I do? He was who he was. I said thank you and told Donni Pell to get dressed. Then I let Crask take us back to my place.

What the hell was I going to do with her?

What had he done to her? She wasn’t really Donni Pell anymore.

She spoke only when spoken to.

I took her into the Dead Man’s room, sat her down, woke him up.

Garrett, you pustule on the nose of... Heavens! Not another one. You have had that redhaired trollop in and out for —

“How would you know? You’ve been snoring.”

You truly believe I can sleep through
 
—

“Can it, Chuckles. This one is the famous Donni Pell. A few weeks with the kingpin has given her a whole new attitude.”

Yes.
He seemed mildly distressed. Maybe even pitying, though the gods knew the woman didn’t deserve that.

“I think she’ll give me answers if I ask questions.”

She will. Yes. Does that mean you have not unraveled the last few for yourself?

“Sort of.” It meant I’d been trying to put the mess out of mind. With a little help from Tinnie, it had begun to recede. “You going to claim you figured out who killed Amiranda?”

Yes. And why. You never cease to amaze me, Garrett. It is quite obvious, actually.

“Illuminate me.”

Illuminate yourself. You have all the information. Or ask that tortured child.

He meant tormented. Only “tormented” really de­scribed Donni Pell.

I tried, running it right through from the beginning. I didn’t get it. Maybe I was just lazy because the answer was there for the asking. “Donni, who killed Amiranda Crest?”

“The Domina Willa Dount, Mr. Garrett.”

“What? No!” But... Wait. “Why?”

“Because Amiranda helped Karl make up the ransom notes I wrote out and sent. Because Amiranda knew we were going to ask for twenty thousand marks gold, and when she saw the notes, they said two hundred thousand. Because as soon as she met Karl she was going to find out that it wasn’t because he’d gotten greedy or I’d made a mistake.”

Right. And I had to believe the Dead Man had come to that conclusion. Because I’d given him the details of my interview with Willa Dount with the Stormwarden standing by, when I’d gotten an indication that the Domina’d had prior knowledge that Amiranda was going to run....

But I’d had my mind made up another way. Damn me. I’d had her and I’d let her get away. She’d pulled it off. She had all that gold now. I’d closed my mind and she was home free. Nothing to worry about the rest of her life — except staying a step ahead of Raver Styx. I felt like a moron. The Dead Man was greatly amused at my expense. He was even more amused because now I was stuck with Donni Pell. I had no idea what the hell to do with her. I couldn’t keep her. I couldn’t kick her out in the street in her condition. I sure as hell wasn’t going to give her back to Lettie Faren....

“All right, Old Bones. Before you doze off, you tell me how Glory Mooncalled is getting away with all these amazing triumphs because he’s worked some kind of deal with the centaur tribes.”

I can figure some things out, given a few hints. I grinned. I’d stolen his big thunder.

Both sides in the Cantard use centaur auxiliaries for almost all their scouting. They are almost entirely depen­dent upon them. If the centaurs decided not to see some­thing, the warlords would be blind. I wondered
what
the deal was, and if maybe someday it might not embarrass Karenta as much as it was embarrassing the Venageti right now. It can’t be too long before the Venageti War Council gets a handle on it. Even when you have your mind made up, you can’t stay blind to reality forever.

I left the Dead Man fuming and took Donni Pell to the kitchen so Dean could feed her. If Garrett is a sucker for a damsel in distress, Old Dean is a sucker for one who is hurting. He never did tell me where, but he got her a good position as housekeeper and companion to an older, handicapped woman. They were supposedly very good for one another. Sometimes I think about changing my line of work. Nobody emerged happy from this one except the worst villain of the piece. Maybe I should just thank the gods that I got out of it alive with a few friends — and a profit.

That’s why you do a job, isn’t it? To survive?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Glen Cook was born in 1944 in New York City. He has lived in Columbus, Indiana; Rocklin, California; and Columbia, Missouri, where he attended the state university. He attended the Clarion Writers Workshop in 1970, where he met his wife, Carol. “Unlike most writers, I have not had strange jobs like chicken plucking and swamping out health bars. Only full-time employer I’ve ever had is General Motors, where I am currently doing assembly work in a light-duty truck plant.

Hobbies include stamp collecting, and wishing my wife would let me bring home an electric guitar so my sons and I could terrorize the neighbors with our own home-grown, head-banging rock ‘n’ roll.”