Cold Copper Tears Read Free Page A

in the hierarchy, at about the level of a duke. Legate was an imperial appointment, supposedly plenipotentiary, in reality powerless. The imperial court persists and postures at Costain but has had no power for two hundred years. It survives as a useful political fiction. Warden is the title that matters. It means he’s the one man in the world entrusted with guardianship of the Terrell Relics.
    Agire and the Relics had disappeared.
    I don’t know what the Relics are. Maybe nobody but the Warden does anymore. He’s the only one who ever sees them. Whatever, they’re holy and precious not only to the Orthodox factions but to the Church, the Eremitics, the Scottites, the Canonics, the Cynics, the Ascetics, the Renunciates, and several Hanite creeds for whom Terrell is only a minor prophet or even an emissary of the archenemy. The bottom line is that they’re important to almost all the thousand and one cults with followings in TunFaire.
    Agire and the Relics had vanished. Everyone assumed the worst. But something was wrong. Nobody claimed responsibility. Nobody crowed over having gotten hold of the Relics. That baffled everybody. Possession of the Relics is a clear claim for the favor of the gods.
    In the meantime, the whispering war of revelation had intensified. Priests of various rites had begun whittling away at rivals by betraying their venalities, corruptions, and sins. It had begun as border-incident stuff, little priests excoriating one another for drunkenness, for selling indulgences, for letting their hands roam during the confessional.
    The fun had spread like fire in a tenement block. Now a day was incomplete without its disclosure about this or that bishop or prester or whatnot having fathered a child on his sister, having poisoned his predecessor, or having embezzled a fortune to buy his male mistress a forty-eight-room cabin in the country.
    Most of the stories were true. There was so much real dirt, fabrication wasn’t necessary — which satisfied my cynical side right down to its bunions. Reputations were getting reaped in windrows, and it couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch of guys.
    Pokey was bored by the whole business. If he had a weakness it was his narrowness. His work was his life. He could talk technique or case histories forever. Otherwise, only food held his attention.
    I wondered what he did with his money. He lived in a scruffy one-room walk-up although he worked all the time, sometimes on several projects at once. When clients didn’t find him, he went looking. He even went after things — deadly things — just to satisfy his own curiosity.
    Whatever, he didn’t feel like yakking up old news. His belly was full. I’d tantalized him with a wicked aroma. He wanted to get hunting.
    I helped him puff Dean’s ego, then walked him to the door. I sat down on the stoop to watch him out of sight.
     
     

4
     
    The descending sun played arsonist among high, distant clouds. There was a light breeze. The temperature was perfect. It was a time to just lean back and feel content. Not many of those times fell my way.
    I yelled for beer, then settled in to watch Nature redecorate the ceiling of the world. I didn’t pay attention to the street. The little man was there on the stoop, making himself at home, passing me the big copper bucket of beer he’d brought, before I noticed him.
    Up to no good? What else? But the beer was Weider’s best lager. I don’t get it that often.
    He was a teeny dink, all wrinkled and gray, with a cant to his eyes and a yellow of tooth that suggested a big dollop of nonhuman blood. I didn’t know him. That was all right. There are a lot of people I don’t know, but I wondered if he was one of the ones I wanted to keep on not knowing.
    “Thanks. Good beer.”
    “Mr. Weider said you’d appreciate it.”
    I’d done a job for Weider, rooting out an in-house theft ring without getting his guilty children too dirty. To discourage a relapse the old man kept me on