Book 11 - Whispering Nickel Idols Read Free

gray
tabby babies. Though there was something strange about them. “A
priestess. Right.” No surprise in TunFaire, the most god-plagued city
that ever was.
    “She’s the last priestess of A-Lat. From Ymber. She ran off to
TunFaire after her mother was murdered by zealots from the cult of
A-Laf. Who’re in TunFaire now, looking for the kittens.”
    Somebody had gotten somebody to invest heavily in off-river
wetlands. Similar scams are out there every day. People turn blind
stupid if you say there’s a god involved.
    Even Singe looked skeptical. She said, “They are cats, Dean.” Coolly.
    “Ymber, eh?” I had only vague knowledge of that little city. It’s up
the river several days’ journey. It has problems with thunder lizards.
It’s supposedly a party town, ruled by a very loose goddess of love,
peace, and whatnot. Ymber ships grain, fruit, sheep, cattle, and timber
to TunFaire. And lately, thunder lizard hides. It’s not known for
exporting religious refugees. Or zealots.
    One of TunFaire’s own main products is flimflam folk. Though I did
not, immediately, see how the girl could sting Dean with a bucket of
cats.
    The religious angle was suggestive, though.
    I said, “I’m listening. I haven’t heard how the cats tie in.”
    “They’re the Luck of A-Lat.”
    I tried to get more than that. He clammed. Probably because that’s
all he knew.
    “I’ll have to bring the big guy in on it, then.” The whole front of
the house shuddered. I growled like a hungry dire wolf. I’ve had it
with people trying to break down my door.

    5
    My current front door was next best to a castle gate. I had it
installed on account of the last one got busted regularly by large,
usually hairy, always uncouth, violent fellows. The character I spied
through the spy hole, rubbing his shoulder and looking dimly
bewildered, fit all those categories. Especially hairy. Except the top
of his head. Its peak glistened.
    He wore clothes but looked like Bigfoot’s country cousin. With worse
fashion sense. Definitely a mixed breed. Maybe including some troll,
some giant, gorilla, or bear. All his ancestors must’ve enjoyed the
double uglies. He hadn’t just gotten whipped with an ugly stick—a whole
damned tree fell on him, then took root.
    “Wow!” I said. “You guys got to see this. He’s wearing green plaid
pants.”
    Nobody answered. Dean was fumbling with a crossbow. Singe had
disappeared. Nothing could be felt from the great blob of sagging meat
who was supposed to apply ferocious mental powers at times like this.
    The door took another mighty hit. Plaster dust shook loose
everywhere. I used the peephole again.
    Yeti man wasn’t alone. Two more just like him, also in baggy green
plaid, polluted my steps. Behind them lurked a guy who might’ve been
their trainer. He wore an anxious expression
and
a hideous
pair of pants.
    A crowd began to gather.
    Most of the adult pixies from my colony were out.
    Some buzzed around like huge, colorful bumblebees. Some perched in
nooks and crannies, poised for action. And, of all people to reveal a
hitherto unsuspected talent for timing, I spied my pal Saucerhead
Tharpe half a block down the street. I glimpsed Penny Dreadful, too. I
strolled back to my office, flirted with Eleanor, dug through the
clutter, ferreted out my lead-weighted oaken knobknocker. The stick is
a useful conversational ploy if I get to chatting with overly excitable
gentlemen like the hair ball out front.
    Said gentleman continued exercising his shoulder. My door remained
stubbornly unmoved by the brute side of the force. “You ready yet,
Dean? Just point the business end between his eyes when he stops
rolling.”
    I stepped up to the peephole. Big Hairy was rubbing his other
shoulder. He looked down at the man in the street. That guy nodded. One
more try.
    Saucerhead stood around awaiting events.
    Big Hairy charged.
    I opened the door. He barked as he plunged inside, somehow tripping
on my foot.
    My toy made a