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“Not quite.” I told it like it happened, every detail, forgetting only the cherrywood box, Singe’s artillery, and John Stretch, who was probably devouring everything in my larder while he waited.
Scithe squatted beside the thing with the bolt in its forehead. “Still breathing, here.” He tapped the nock of the quarrel. “I could use a better light.”
The tin whistle who had come in with him said, “The wagon just rolled up, boss. I’ll get a lantern.”
A big brown box had pulled in behind the doctor’s rig. It had crowns, keys, nooses, and whatnots painted on to proclaim it a property of the Civil Guard supported by a royal subsidy.
Scithe asked, “Any theories, Garrett?”
“Only what’s obvious. He probably wanted to see the Dead Man. Somebody didn’t think he should.”
“They got their wish. What does the Dead Man think?”
The Dead Man is frustrated. He could not penetrate the minds of any of the attackers. Not even that one who is wounded and unconscious. Yet. That is a him, is it not?
I replied, “More or less.” Mostly a whole lot more.
Scithe said, “I see ogre and troll and bits of other races.”
“Trolls and ogres don’t mix.”
Scithe shrugged. “I see what I see. Which is that somebody with a huge ugly stick whaled on all his ancestors for five generations back. Then he fell in a barrel of ugly and drank his way back to the top.”
Trolls will cross with pygmy giants on occasion. However, a more likely explanation would involve rogue researchers and illegal experiments.
The three strains of rat people exist because of old-time experimental sorcery.
That stuff is worse than murder. You can get away with murder if you make a good case for the son of a bitch needing killing.
Scithe’s man came back. His lantern flung out a blinding blue-white light. Scithe got busy. He used chopsticks to poke, prod, probe, and dig into pockets. Nothing useful surfaced. He moved on to the stench pile. “Check this out.”
He held up what looked like a two-inch lead slug three-eighths of an inch in diameter, pointed at one end. It had four lengthwise channels beginning just behind the ogive. The channels contained traces of brown.
“A missile?”
“Maybe. Definitely poisonous. But delivered how?” By whom, and why, were out there floating, too.
Dean’s delivery has arrived.
I stepped outside.
Jerry the beer guy had pulled up in front of the doctor’s rig. He was making conversation with the delectable Mrs. Harmer. He noticed me, said something to a couple red tops hating him for knowing the beautiful lady well enough to gossip with, and got them to volunteer to show off by helping carry kegs.
They brought in three ponies of froufrou girlie beers. Jerry indicated the crowd outside and the mess in the hallway. “You’re back.”
“What does that mean? Never mind. Just drop those by the kitchen door.” I didn’t want anyone to see John Stretch.
“They keep better if they stay cool.”
“Put them in with the Dead Man, then.”
Jerry and his helpers tiptoed around the mess and entered the demesne of the Dead Man.
I said, “Anywhere out of the way.” I glanced at the cherrywood box, on a shelf with mementos from old cases. “What’re they for, anyway?”
“Dean wanted to test some varietals for your reception.”
“Well. That sneaky old fart.”
