44

The Goddamn Parrot located me, dropped onto my shoulder, grabbed hold hard, then faded out on me. He would not answer questions. Apparently the Dead Man had no minds to spare for him. But he did not revert to his naturally obnoxious birdbrain style.

Unseasonal clouds were gathering. Lightning flickered within them. The wind suddenly seemed possessed of a hard, dark edge of desperate anger. The people in the street shivered, cursed, acted more bewildered than frightened. This was something new to everyone.

This was something that was getting out of hand. The Commission had to be napping. This couldn’t do any religion any good. I wished I could stop it . . . I knew how, yes. But I had no viable excuse to pick one god gang over another.

I got my bearings and wished I had not. The Board had done me no favor. I was miles from the Dream Quarter, or any sanctuary. Unless I wanted to duck into Ogre Town. No self-respecting human god would go in there.

No human who wanted to survive the gathering night would go there, either.

I was tired and hungry and thirsty and pissed off about being used and abused. Time was the only weapon I could turn against the gods. I was, definitely, inclined to let as many as possible drift off into oblivion.

It grew dark fast. The breeze became a chill wind. No stars came out. In the distance, lights continued to flicker and flash and reflect off the churning bellies of low clouds. Fires burned and smoke rose and emergency alarms beat at the cooling evening air. Drops of moisture hit my cheek. The last one came in chunk form and really stung.

The air was getting colder fast.

I trotted southward, making good time. Boy, was I getting my exercise today. I reached a familiar neighborhood. It was dark there, and unnaturally quiet. The strangeness was spreading throughout the city. I ducked into a place where I knew I would get served a decent pint and a sausage that wouldn’t come with worries about the inclusion of rat, bat, dog, or cat.

“Yo, Beetle.”

The proprietor glanced up from his mug polishing. “Garrett! You son of a bitch, where the hell you been? You ain’t been in here in three months.”

“Been working too hard. Don’t get time to get over here the way I used to.”

“I’ve heard some stories. I never believed them.”

“The truth is worse than anything you’ve heard.”

I took a pint, sucked down a long swallow, started telling him what had happened the past day and a half.

“Hope you brought a pitchfork, Garrett.”

“Huh?”

He pretended to examine the soles of his shoes. “If you don’t have a pitchfork, I’m going to make you clean that bullshit out of here with your bare hands.”

He didn’t believe me.

“I have a hard time believing it myself, Beetle. I wish I could introduce you to those owl sisters.”

“My wife would never understand.”

“Where the hell is everybody? I haven’t seen the place this dead since Tommy Mack’s wake.”

“Weather.”

Something was bothering him. “That all?”

He leaned closer. “Big part of it is, The Call won’t put me on their approved list. Account of I let nonhumans drink here.”

Only dwarves and ratmen do much drinking. And the dwarves tend to keep it at home.

I don’t like ratmen much. I had to work to find the charity to say, “Their money is no different color than anyone else’s.”

“There’s scary stuff getting ready to happen, Garrett.”

I touched my cheek where the sleet had bitten me. “How right you are, without knowing the half. What’s ready to eat?”

He had drawn me another mug of the dark. I dropped a groat onto the counter. That would serve us both for a while.

“Specialty of the house. Sausage and kraut. Or sausage and black beans. Or, the missus made a kidney pie nobody’s touched but old Skidrow yonder.” He indicated the least respectable of his few customers.

“Where’s Blowmetal?” Skidrow was half of the only pair of identical twin winos I’d ever seen.

Beetle shrugged. When his shoulders came up like that, you could see why the nickname. Back when he was a lot heavier it had fit much better. “Heard they had a fight. Over a woman.”

“Shit. The guy is a hundred and twelve.”

“That’s in street years, Garrett. He’s only a little older than you are.”

I finished my mug, pushed it over for a refill. “Give me the sausage and kraut. And remind me not to get so far down on my luck that I’ve got to live like a ratman.”

Beetle chuckled as he started digging around in a pot. He gave me an extra sausage. Both looked a little long in the tooth. They had been in the water a long time.

“Hey, Garrett. Don’t get down on your luck. And try to turn the beer-drinking back into a hobby. Or you might get there.”

“What’s this about The Call? They trying to work the protection racket on you?”

“They don’t call it that, but that’s what it amounts to.” He plopped a couple of boiled potatos on the plate on top of the kraut.

“I know somebody who might get them off your back.” That was just the kind of thing Relway and his secret police liked to bust up, and I had no love for The Call.

“Appreciate it.” Beetle turned to hand me my plate. His gaze went over my shoulder. His face turned pale.