Petty Pewter Gods Read Free Page A

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 chicken carcass. Palm readers