Book 08 - Petty Pewter Gods Read Free Page A

later. Tell me all about
it.”
    “I seen Winger, too.
She . . . ”
    “That’s your problem.”
    Our mutual acquaintance Winger, though female, is as big as me
and goofier than Saucerhead. And she has the moral sense of a rabid
hyena. And, despite that, she is hard not to like.
    “Hey, Garrett, come on, man.”
    I was drifting away.
    “She had a good idea. Honest, Garrett.”
    Winger is chock-full of good ideas that get me up to my crotch
in crocodiles. “Then you go in on it with her.” There
was a small thinning of the crowd uphill. I caught a glimpse of my
quarry. She seemed to be looking back, puzzled, maybe even
exasperated.
    “I would, Garrett,” Saucerhead shouted. “Only
need somebody with real brains to get into it with us.
    “That leaves me out, don’t it?” Didn’t
it? Would a guy with real brains keep following somebody when it
was evident that that somebody had decided that she wanted to be
followed and was getting impatient with my delays?
    Seemed like a good idea at the time. We have all said that.
    I considered waving so she would know I was coming, but decided
to keep up pretenses.
    Saucerhead followed for a way, babbling something about my
manners. I showed him my worst. I didn’t answer. I trotted
after my new honey. The crowds were thinning. I kept her in sight.
Her passage caused no more stir than if she were the crone I had
seen looking into Barley Close.
    We were just past where Macunado becomes the Way of the
Harlequin when she glanced back, then turned into Heartlight Lane,
where some of TunFaire’s least competent astrologers and
diviners keep shop.
----

5
    “Hey, buddy,” I called to a stout-looking old dwarf
lugging an old-timey homemade club. That tool was as long as him,
crafted from the trunk and roots of some black sapling that had
wood harder than rock. “How much you want for that
thing?”
    The price went up instantly. You know dwarves. You show interest
in a broken clothespin . . . “Not for
sale, Tall One. This is the world-renowned club Toetickler, weapon
of the chieftains of the Kuble Dwarves for ten generations. It was
given to the first High Gromach by the demiurge
Gootch . . . ”
    “Right. And it’s still got dirt on its roots,
Stubby.” The dwarf swung that club down hard enough to crack
a cobblestone.
    “Three marks,” I barked before he gave me more
details of the club’s provenance or maybe demonstrated its
efficiency by tickling my favorite toes.
    “Not one groat under ten, Lofty.” Even national
treasures are for sale if you are a dwarf. Nothing is holy except
wealth itself.
    “Thanks for talking, Lowball. It was just an idea.”
I started moving.
    “Whoa there, Highpockets. At least make me an
offer.”
    “My memory must be playing tricks again. I thought
I did make an offer, Shorty.”
    “I mean a serious offer. Not a bad joke.”
    “Three and ten, then.”
    He whined. I started moving.
    “Wait, Tall One. Four. All right? Four is outright theft
for such a storied weapon, but I
have
to get some cash
together before you people run us out of town. I tell you,
I’m not looking forward to rooting around in the old home
mines again.”
    Sounded like there might be a tad of truth in that.
    “Three ten and a parrot? Think what you could do with his
feathers.”
    The dwarf considered Mr. Big. “Four.” Nobody wanted
the Goddamn Parrot.
    “Done,” I sighed. I turned out my pockets. We made
the exchange. The dwarf walked away whistling. There would be tall
tales told at the dwarf hold tonight, of another fool taken.
    But I had me a tool. And with fate seldom able to gaze on me
favorably for long, I would not have long to wait to field-test
Toetickler’s touch.
    Heartlight Lane was not crowded, which surprised me. Given the
political climate, more folks ought to be checking into their
futures. I saw a lonely runecaster tossing the bones, trying to
forecast her next meal, and an entrail reader much more interested
in plucking his