Deadly Quicksilver Lies (29 page)

Our man didn’t reply, but his skill at hiding his thoughts did not exceed his skill at tailing.

He was inept but loyal. He stayed clammed. I told him, “I want to get ahold of her mainly as a friend.” That hadn’t been the case the night before. A few hours had altered my perspective. “I no longer think she could tell me anything I don’t know. I am sure I know a few things she doesn’t. Things that could get her killed. Maybe right after they get
you
killed.”

Not only did I get him thinking, I got his attention.

He didn’t plan to die for love. Guys just aren’t romantic anymore. He had something going with Winger — and he had a real good idea just what that was worth.

He didn’t speak up, though.

“She isn’t going to get those books,” I told him. “Not a chance. All the guts and luck you can muster won’t get that done.”

The man stayed clammed. So did Morley, though he looked like he wanted to hear more. I told him, “When you get past all the blown smoke, Winger and Cleaver are after a set of first editions of
When No Ravens Went Hungry
. Winger has the notion she can get them away from the Rainmaker.” She had an even sillier notion that she could decipher the clues in them once she had them.

“The woman doesn’t suffer from any lack of self-confidence.”

“Trouble is, she’s digging through the wrong haystack. The Rainmaker doesn’t have the firsts. He could have grabbed them all, but he didn’t pay attention so the one he did come up with got away.”

Morley gave me a big evil dark-elf grin. “Why do I get the feeling you’re going to explain everything again? How come I have the notion I ought to bet the deed to the Joy House against you?”

I snarled at our captive, “Tell Winger she’s wasting her dreams. Cleaver can’t lay hands on more than two books. Go on. Get out of here.”

Baffled, the man went, maybe thinking he had found another angle to his luck.

Morley asked, “What was that? I set up a major operation, then you mutter some cryptic stuff at the guy and let him go.”

“You fooling somebody? You know this mess has got to do with Eagle’s treasure.”

“Maybe. Sort of. I had a passing interest when I thought you’d stumbled onto something there in the West End.”

“What you told me then was the key to the whole thing,” I exaggerated. That wasn’t a lie. Not really. Not exactly.

The truth was I was guessing again, playing with the known information. I had it figured out, but as Dotes hinted, I’d been wrong before. I yelled after Winger’s friend, “Tell Winger what I said.” To Morley, “She’ll ignore me and do something dumb, but this way my conscience will be satisfied.”

64

I expected more grief about letting Winger’s guy go. But after the one snip, Morley leaned back and, apparently, never gave it a second thought.

I started to nag him....

“Can it, Garrett. Once upon a time I had a notion. But I changed my mind.”

I awarded him the grandfather of all raised eyebrows.

“Last night Julie wasn’t there to distract me. I got to thinking about Eagle’s saga. And guess what I realized? Nowhere does it say that the jerk was really rich — by our standards.”

I indulged in a self-satisfied smirk. My good buddy was telling me I’d figured the angles right. “You ever wonder how Eagle murdered those slaves? If he was so blind and feeble he needed them to haul and bury his treasure, how could he get the angle on them slick enough to off them all?”

Obviously, Morley hadn’t wondered. “Sometimes I do like the way your mind works, Garrett.”

“Let me tell you something you maybe don’t know.” I hadn’t known till I got it from Linda Lee, back when I was reading sagas. “Most of the sagas were composed at the instigation of the guys they’re about. The
No Ravens
thing was done by Eagle’s sister’s grandson, partly in collaboration with the old man himself. And they started long before the business of the mocking women, the treasure, and the murdered slaves.”

“I’m sure you’ll get to the point eventually.”

“You see it. Unless you’re slower than you pretend. Say a guy is paying to have puff stories written about him. Not only will he decide what he wants put in and built up, he’ll decide what gets played down or left out.”

“You mean like maybe Eagle wasn’t a big success just because he was treacherous and quick with a blade? Maybe he had a small natural talent as a wizard?”

“Bingo! He was accused by others, but obviously it wasn’t anything major, nothing backed by formal training. He wouldn’t have stayed quiet about it if he’d had a sheepskin declaring him a heavyweight ass-kicker. But he had something that helped him slide through the tight places.”

“There’ll be curses on the treasure, then.”

“That’s the way these things are done.”

“There’ll be ill-tempered ghosts in the neighborhood.”

“What are murders for?”

The Eagle sort isn’t uncommon. Usually he tries to parlay his lucky genetic draw into a big, fast score. Manipulating the fall of dice is a favorite pastime. Hobbling around on crutches after getting found out is another.

“Also, if you ask me, it couldn’t be much of a treasure, even if it hasn’t been found. They figured wealth different back then.”

“Indeed. And here’s a thought.” Which he didn’t bother to relate.

“Well?” I snapped.

“Just checking to see if you’ve taken up your partner’s evil habit of reading minds. Or have started reasoning from the available evidence.”

“Not me.”

“Silver, Garrett. Silver. You said it. They figured wealth differently in primitive times. Silver wasn’t worth much.”

It was now, though. Even with the war seemingly settled and the mines solidly in Karentine hands, the silver shortage was severe. The disappearance of silver coinage threatened to strangle business.

Silver fuels most heavyweight sorcery. Lately its value has been on a par with gold. The Royal Mint has been valiant in its efforts to produce alternate means of exchange, some of which are pretty unwieldy.

Silver. An apparent opportunity to unearth an old cache would excite all sorts of greed.

“By the Devil Harry,” I swore, rolling out one of my granny’s favorites. “Maybe you just tripped over the real core of the thing.” That might even explain why a nose-hoister like Marengo North English would take an interest in the daughter of the notorious Maggie Jenn. It might explain why all this insanity had come to a head at this point in time.

The silver shortage wasn’t likely to ease soon. Maybe never if the wrong people grabbed control of mine production.

“But what do I do about it?” I muttered.

Morley frowned my way. “Excuse me?”

“I think you’re right. We have all sorts interested in Eagle’s treasure because of the distorted metals market. People who wouldn’t have given it a thought in normal times. Probably including my honey’s daddy.”

“Here comes that explanation.” He stunned me by hoisting an eyebrow.

I got my breath back. “You been practicing.”

“Almost forever. What about Chaz’s father?”

“Call it intuition, but I’d bet your deed to the Joy House that what he really hated losing to the Rainmaker and Maggie back when was a first edition of the middle volume of
When No Ravens Went Hungry
. Which Emerald took when she ran away from home. Which she gave to Wixon and White for safekeeping, or they got it away somehow. That book is why I was hired. It’s why Emerald was framed up with the black magic stuff. Cleaver knew where she was. He couldn’t get to her. He thought he’d toss me in there to butt heads with the human rights guys and maybe break her loose.”

I rolled right along till I took note of Morley’s smug smile. He stared into infinity, listening with half an ear. “What?”

“I was right. It’s another explanation. You realize your theories clash?”

“We’re not talking mutually exclusive, though. We have a lot of secret motives driving people. You aren’t helping me for the same reason I’m helping Chaz’s pop.”

“I won’t argue that, though I wish I was. You made up your mind yet?”

“Huh?”

“About what to do now.”

“I’m going to stroll out to this estate. See what Emerald says.”

“Flashing more nerve than brains, Garrett. You’re jumping into deep doodoo.”

I laughed. The professional lifetaker couldn’t say one word that flowed easily from naughty six-year-olds. “With my eyes open.”

“You’re doing a Winger on me, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You’ve got an angle.”

“I’m just not as paranoid as you. And I know how to talk to those people. You stroke their egos and let them think you love the cracks in their pots and they’ll act like you’re visiting royalty.”

Dotes didn’t agree but didn’t argue. He suggested, “Maybe you’ll take Saucerhead along?”

65

I didn’t take Saucerhead. I didn’t need any help. I was just going to chat with a teenage girl.

I didn’t take anybody but me because I sold myself the notion that Marengo North English was committed to an old-fashioned, rigidly fair way of doing things.

So I fooled myself. Eagerness to meet Emerald Jenn didn’t take me anywhere near Marengo North English. The estate belonged to the character who had sent his pals to roust me, a fact I could have determined had I bothered to do a little homework before hitting the trail. One Elias Davenport owned The Tops. Elias Davenport thought Marengo North English was a candyass who was just pussyfooting around the human rights thing. Elias was ready to
act
.

I didn’t
listen
when Slither told me who brought Emerald’s invitation.

Getting onto the grounds of The Tops wasn’t a problem. Managing a sit-down with Emerald was a little more trouble.

Silly me. I thought they’d let me see her, get me out of their hair, forget the whole thing. I had no idea they were out of control.

I figured it out, though.

The guys who smiled me through the manor gate shed their senses of humor when the gate chunked shut. Their eyes got mean. They kept on grinning, but the only part of the joke they wanted to share was the punchline. Kidney high.

The guys who’d visited my place ambled out of the shrubbery. Didn’t look like their manners had improved.

They made me so nervous I hit them back first, shielded by the spell that put me out of focus to anybody trying to concentrate on me. Damn, that was a neat one! They hopped and flailed and swung and cussed and missed me like a bunch of drunks. Meanwhile, I was hard at work with my mystical head-knocker, scattering unconscious bodies. Davenport’s gardeners were going to be busy picking up fertilizer for a while.

I amazed myself. But we’re all capable of amazing behavior once we’re adequately motivated.

The Davenport mansion couldn’t be seen from the gate. I undertook an odyssey across vast expanses of manicured lawn, maneuvering between sculpted shrubs and trees. Almost got lost in a maze created from hedges. Gawked my way through an incredible formal flower garden, thinking half the people of the Bustee slum (every one a human) could’ve supported themselves farming that ground.

The Davenport place was enough to kindle revolutionary fervor in a stone. Something about it shrieked contempt for every race.

I didn’t march up to the door and hazard the mercies of another Ichabod. Once I spied the main house I resorted to my old recon training. I sneaked and hustled and lurked and tiptoed till I got to the rear of the house. There were plenty of people around and plenty saw me, but they were cringing characters wearing tattered Venageti military apparel. They were employed at such socially useful tasks as trimming grass with scissors. They pretended blindness. I returned the favor, didn’t see their humiliation.

Never had I thought prisoners of war might be reduced to this. Not that I had any love for the Venageti. You got people chasing you through the swamps, trying to kill you, making you eat snakes and bugs to stay alive, you won’t develop much sympathy if they stumble later. Still, there was an essential wrongness about their situation. And the core of it, I suspected, was that Elias Davenport wouldn’t distinguish between vanquished foes and the “lower orders” of Karentines.

Elias must have had him a cushy desk mission far from the fighting back when he was serving his kingdom. Most ruling-class types get out to the killing grounds and discover that when they’re cut they bleed the same as any farmboy or kid from the Bustee. “Sharp steel don’t got no respect,” one of my sergeants used to say, wearing a big-ass grin.

I found a back door that wasn’t locked or guarded. Why bother? Who was going to do a break-in in this loony nest? Who would dare discomfit Elias Davenport?

(The name was a cipher to me at that point.)

I don’t mind folks being stinking rich. I’d like to get there someday myself, have me a little hundred-room shack on a thousand acres well stocked with hot and cold running redheads and maybe a pipeline direct from Weider’s brewery. But I expect everybody to get there the same way I would: by busting their butts, not by burying some ancestor, then raising their noses.

I know. It’s a simpleminded outlook. I’m a simple guy. Work as hard as I need to, look out for my friends, do a little good here and there. Try not to hurt anybody needlessly.

That house was a house of pain. You couldn’t help feeling that as soon as you stepped inside. Sorrow and hurt were in its bones. The house now shaped its inhabitants as much as they shaped it.

You find houses like that, old places possessed of their own souls, good or evil, happy or sad.

This was a house possessed by disturbing silence.

It should have had its own heartbeat, like a living thing, echoing comings and goings, creaking and rattling and thumping with the slamming of distant doors. But there were no sounds. The house seemed as empty as a discarded shoe — or Maggie Jenn’s place up on the Hill.

Spooky!

I started thinking trap. I mean, those guys had been ready at the gate. A minute stalling around while somebody ran to the house, supposedly for permission, then they were all over me.