Whispering Nickel Idols Read Free

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 exapnredssaionhideous 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 satisfying thwock! on the back of his skull.
    The other two hairy boys started to charge, too, but became distracted as their