Free Book 08 - Petty Pewter Gods by Glen Cook

whispering to myself. I can’t
read the lettering on these spines. The gold flake is almost
gone.”
    “And that’s the project, isn’t it? Find the
volumes that need restoration? In future, restrain your expression
of frustration . . . What was that? Is someone
there?”
    Not anymore. I was gone, down the back way to the back door,
with less sound than a mouse on the run. I floated past the guard.
His sleep remained untroubled.
    What the
hell
was wrong with the Goddamn Parrot today?
He just blew the opportunity of a lifetime. He hadn’t made a
whimper.
----

15
    It was still daytime outside. I know because they took a couple
of bars of sunlight and tried to drive my eyeballs out the back of
my head. It wasn’t morning anymore, but it looked like one of
those days when the rest of the world would insist that it stay
morning all day long.
    Once the pain faded, I surveyed the immediate area. The library
stands amid an infestation of official buildings, both municipal
and royal. Traffic is different there, being made up mostly of
functionaries. I saw nothing unusual—which meant only that I
couldn’t see any watchers.
    I headed out.
    The afternoon remained so relentlessly pleasant that I began to
give in despite the state of my head. Infected by a lighter mood, I
paused at the Chancellery steps to listen to the crackpots rave.
Any wacko with a goofball grievance or a fanciful cause can use
those steps as a forum. Never kindly, the rest of us use them as
free entertainment. I know some of the less bizarre, habitual
speakers. In my line, knowing people is a major asset. I
didn’t nurture my contacts enough anymore. Today I
didn’t have time. I gave Barking Dog Amato a thumbs up and
dropped a groat into his cup, waved to a couple other howlers. I
moved on. My head throbbed. My parrot never cracked his beak. The
Dead Man must have destroyed his brain.
    Around and down and off for the south side. I wasn’t going
to like this thing because of all the walking. There are less
strenuous ways to get around, but none faster. Even the great
wizards with their big coaches and running footmen and outriders
and trumpeters can’t get around as fast as a man on foot.
Walking, you can cut through alleys and climb over fences.
    I didn’t shortcut much. I don’t climb unless I have
to, and alleys often harbor people or prospects best left
unchallenged. Still, when the choice is a hundred yards straight or
half a mile around . . . 
    I had used Slight Alley often. A lot of people do. It stays
relatively clean. Heavy traffic discourages both squatters and the
forces of free-lance socialism. It is difficult to manage what is
essentially a privacy-oriented one-on-one transaction when at any
time somebody troublesome may wander between you and
your . . . er . . . client.
    I risked Slight Alley.
    The ramshackle frame half-timber structures popular in the
neighborhood leaned in overhead, reaching out to one another like
drunks in need of mutual support. Most of the afternoon’s
intense sunshine failed to penetrate, but there was more light than
normal. The paving bricks were cleaner than usual, too. You could
see their dark red. On the other hand, there were squatters in
residence. Not only the ratmen you expected, but families of
refugees.
    The times they change.
    I wondered how we would feed all the immigrants. If racist
groups like The Call had their way, the refugees would eat the
dwarves and ogres and elves already here.
    I stopped. “What?” I had caught a strange smell.
There was no describing it. It was neither awful nor particularly
pleasant. Mostly it was startling.
    It was gone in an instant. I couldn’t catch it again.
Happens all the time. I resumed walking, ignored the sleepy-eyed
stare of a drunken ratman trying to decide if I was behaving
strangely.
    I was. At the first hint of the unusual my hand had darted to
Magodor’s cord. My habit is to face sudden threats with an
eighteen-inch oaken nightstick into