Free Book 08 - Petty Pewter Gods by Glen Cook Page A

which has been introduced, by
way of providing additional encouragement to the customer, a pound
of lead at the business end.
    Slight Alley has a couple of jags and an offset where it crosses
another alley stretching east and west. I noticed that the light
had a golden, autumnal cast. Though diffuse, it sent shadows
crawling over the walls. Some of those seemed to assume almost
recognizable shapes.
    Then there were the whispers behind me, like the whispers of
mocking children, perhaps speaking a foreign tongue. I felt a lot
better when I reached a real street filled with real people.
    As I hurried the last mile, I tried to think of somebody I knew
in the religion racket who wouldn’t run me off on sight. Most
religious leaders are paranoid about their privacy. They feel
especially threatened if they suspect an investigation of their
finances. They have me run off just on the chance somebody might
want me to check them out.
    Playmate was the only religious character I knew. And he was
just a wannabe preacher.
    Then how about somebody who would answer my questions in order
to get rid of me? Somebody who had no use for me at all. I tried to
recall who all had been involved that time that Maya and I had
straightened out the feud between the Church and the Orthodox over
their missing Terrell Relics.
    Hell. I didn’t even have useful
enemies
down in
the Dream Quarter.
    I hit the Street of the Gods farther to the west than I had
planned, but Slight Alley had given me a case of the willies. There
was no reason not to feel safe now. The Dream Quarter is the safest
neighborhood in town.
    I hustled past Chattaree and other huge places belonging to
successful cults, recalled from past cases. Back then, though, I
was dealing with flawed holy men, not the gods themselves. What was
Maya doing now? I could ask Dean in a few days. He would know. They
stayed in touch.
    The weather must have melted the stone hearts of the older
priests because the acolytes and postulants and what-have-you were
all out fluttering like mayflies. The scenery was positively
brilliant around the female-oriented temples.
    The first four or five people I approached had not heard of
either the Godoroth or the Shayir. Farther east I got a couple of
bewildered “I ought to know what you’re talking about
but don’t” responses, like the guy seven and a half
feet tall, pale as death, wearing a black robe and lugging an ivory
staff topped by an angry cobra’s head. This character had no
more meat on him than a skeleton. He mused, “Shayir? Those
the people with the squid gods?”
    “I don’t know.” Squids? I’m not even
fond of mortal cephalopods, let alone many-armed critters with
delusions of being masters of the universe.
    “No, wait. Those are the Church of the Nameless
Unspeakable Elder Outer Darkness From Beyond the Stars folks.
I’m sorry. I should know, but I don’t. But you’re
headed in the right direction. They must be right on the bottom
end, ready to fall into the river.”
    How you going to learn anything when nobody knows anything?
    I thanked him, accepted a small card good for one admission into
one of his snake-worshipping services, said I sure would stop by, I
just plain loved snakes. The bigger the better. I had a few for
breakfast in the islands.
    He guaranteed me they had a serpent that was a genuine kick-ass
god snake big enough to snack on horses.
    “Excellent idea. Round them all up and let him get
fat.” Then feed him to the ratmen.
    A block later I met a guy who knew about both cults. He was a
free-lance guide and street sweeper. He did little odd jobs, and
the temples fed him scraps and let him sleep in warm spots out of
the way, as long as he didn’t spook the marks. He was raggedy
around the edges, so probably didn’t get a lot of work at the
high end of the street.
    “Name’s No-Neck,” he told me, proud of the
fact that once upon a time folks thought enough of him to hang a
nickname. “Had a little muscle on me when I