Free Faded Steel Heat by Glen Cook

house.”
    “Sure. Something I wanted to ask you, though.”
    “Yeah? What?”
    “That bird. It’s stuffed. Right?”
    “You got a bet on? It’s alive. It’s just doped.” On idiocy-suppressing thoughts from the Dead Man. “If I don’t dope it, it cusses worse than old Matt Berry. Usually at somebody who could yank off both of my arms with one hand tied behind his back.”
    “Oh.” Sparky seemed disappointed. He must have lost the bet.
     
     

17
    I dropped off the dock, strolled toward the stables. Going through was the fastest way to the big house.
    I was halfway through, stepping carefully, when I found myself at the heart of a sudden triangle of guys who didn’t look very friendly.
    Morley’s oft-given advice was sinking in. Or maybe I was just in a bad mood. Or maybe I was just impatient. I didn’t ask what anybody wanted.
    I spun. My oak headknocker tapped the temple of the guy moving up behind me. The pound of lead inside the stick’s business end added emphasis to my argument. His eyes glazed. He went down without a word.
    I continued to turn, dropped, laid my next love tap on the side of the knee of a huge Weider teamster. He was just getting a fist wound up.
    His legs folded. I rose past him, tapped him on his bald spot, stepped aside as he sprawled, turned to the last character. “Something on your feeble mind?”
    He kept coming even though he had no tools. That didn’t seem encouraging. Why the confidence? I feinted a tap at an elbow, buried the tip of my stick in his breadbasket. He whooshed a bushel of bad breath. I whapped the side of his head, then found out why he kept on coming.
    A second wave of three materialized. These boys looked like they were accustomed to muscle work. I didn’t recognize any of them. On the plus side, none of them were behind me.
    While they decided what to do because Plan One had burned up in their fingers I rethumped everybody already down. I didn’t want any surprises.
    One of the new bunch grabbed a pitchfork. Another collected a shovel. I didn’t like the implications.
    The Goddamn Parrot, who had elevated himself to a stringer overhead when the excitement started, said, “Awk! Garrett’s in deep shit now.”
    The third man, who seemed to be in charge, hung back to direct traffic. He and his pals all looked up when the bird spoke.
    I didn’t.
    I charged.
    A pitchfork is nasty and a shovel unpleasant but neither was designed to hurt people. My stick, though, has no other reason for existing. A feint and a weave gave me a chance to reach in and crunch knuckles on a hand gripping the pitchfork. Shovel man froze momentarily when his too-slow buddy shrieked. I skipped aside and cracked his skull.
    I swear, he shimmered. I thought he was going to fade away. I wanted to whimper because I was afraid some gods were after me again.
    I whipped back to pitchfork man. He was too slow to be a threat by himself. A moment later he was sinking and I was ready to go after the last man.
    The clown shut the stall gate between us, leaned on it, and smiled. “I’m impressed.”
    “You ought to be. You’re about to be flat on your back in the horse fruit yourself. Who are you? Why the hell are you bothering me?”
    “Awk,” the Goddamn Parrot observed from above.
    “I’m nobody special. Just a messenger.”
    I rolled me eyes. “Corn by the bucketful. Spare me. I don’t mind crippling the messenger.”
    “Not scared?”
    “Just quaking in my little shoesies.” I banged a toe off the temple of the guy who had tried to fork me. For half a second he shimmered like his buddy had.
    “No skin off my nose, you listen or not.”
    “Want to bet?” I popped my stick against my palm. “Let’s see if you shimmer, too.”
    “Here’s the word. We know where you live. Stay away from the Weider brewery.”
    “A joke, right?” I indicated my collection of unconscious bodies. “I know where I live, too. You guys want, come on over.”
    For just a second his confidence was