thing that looks like a pipe
rack.”
“Huh?” I wouldn’t have recognized them
otherwise. They looked more like miniature, deformed
juggler’s clubs. Two had padded ends. Again I refrained from
telling Playmate what I thought.
I believe I understood what Morley feels each time I shy off
what I consider gratuitous throat-cutting. Playmate’s
boundary of acceptable violence was as much gentler than mine as
mine was gentler than friend Morley’s.
I loaded one of the quarrels, looked around for a target,
shrugged when Playmate grumbled, “Not inside, Garrett,”
exactly as he no doubt had at Kip a few hundred times.
“All right,” I said. “Kip. You never did tell
me why these elves want to catch your friends with the strange
names.”
“I don’t know.” He didn’t look at me. He
was a lousy liar. It was obvious that he had some idea.
I looked at Playmate. He gave me a little shrug and a little
headshake. He wasn’t ready to push it.
I asked, “So where do we go from here?”
Playmate shrugged again. “I was looking at doing the
trapdoor spider thing.”
“That’ll work.”
The trapdoor spider hunkers down in a hole, under a door she
makes, and waits for somebody edible to come prancing by. Then she
jumps out and has lunch. Playmate’s reference, though, was to
an ambush tactic used by both sides in the recent war in the
Cantard, employing the same principle. He meant he was going to sit
down and wait for something to happen.
----
----
10
Without going headlong I kept after Kip about his strange
friends. He frustrated me with his determined loyalty. He could not
fully grasp the notion that I was there to help.
I needed more time with the Dead Man. I needed to figure out
what Old Bones knew as well as how to insert myself into the
fantasy worlds where Cypres Prose lived. Apparently his fantasy
life was so rich that it influenced his whole attitude toward real
life.
After a half hour of mostly polite tea conversation during which
my main discovery was that Cypres Prose could avoid a subject
almost as slickly as my partner, I was getting frustrated. I was
prowling like a cat, poking at half-finished engines and mysterious
mechanisms again.
“Garrett!” Playmate exploded. He pointed. His eyes
had grown huge.
A small hole had appeared in the stable wall. It glowed scarlet.
A harsh beam of red light pushed through. It swung left and right,
slicing through the heavy wooden planks. Hardwood smoke flooded the
stable, overcoming the sweet rotted-grass odor of fresh horse
manure. It made me think both of smokehouses and of campfires in
the wild.
Campfires do not have a place in any happy memories of mine.
Campfires in my past all had a very nasty war going on somewhere
nearby. They always attracted horrible, bloodsucking bugs and
starving vertebrates with teeth as long as my fingers. Hardwood
smoke gets my battle juices going lots more often than it makes my
mouth water.
I picked up the overweight crossbow and inserted the quarrel
that had no padding.
The wall cutout collapsed inward. Sunlight blazed through. An
oddly shaped being stood silhouetted against the bright.
I shot my bolt.
I used to be pretty good with a crossbow. Somebody found out
that I still was. I got him right in the breadbasket. With plenty
of
oomph!,
because the recoil was enough to throw me back
a step and spin me halfway around.
The villain folded up around the blunt quarrel, out of action.
Unfortunately, he was not alone. His friends did not give me time
to crank the crossbow back up to full tension. A shortcoming of the
instrument that I would have to mention to Playmate, Its cycle time
was much too long.
I snatched up a smith’s hammer. It seemed the most
convincing tool I was likely to lay hands on. The things I had
hidden about my person wouldn’t have nearly as much
impact.
Two shimmering forms came through the hole in the wall,
unremarkable street people who flashed silver each few seconds. The
one I had shot
rack.”
“Huh?” I wouldn’t have recognized them
otherwise. They looked more like miniature, deformed
juggler’s clubs. Two had padded ends. Again I refrained from
telling Playmate what I thought.
I believe I understood what Morley feels each time I shy off
what I consider gratuitous throat-cutting. Playmate’s
boundary of acceptable violence was as much gentler than mine as
mine was gentler than friend Morley’s.
I loaded one of the quarrels, looked around for a target,
shrugged when Playmate grumbled, “Not inside, Garrett,”
exactly as he no doubt had at Kip a few hundred times.
“All right,” I said. “Kip. You never did tell
me why these elves want to catch your friends with the strange
names.”
“I don’t know.” He didn’t look at me. He
was a lousy liar. It was obvious that he had some idea.
I looked at Playmate. He gave me a little shrug and a little
headshake. He wasn’t ready to push it.
I asked, “So where do we go from here?”
Playmate shrugged again. “I was looking at doing the
trapdoor spider thing.”
“That’ll work.”
The trapdoor spider hunkers down in a hole, under a door she
makes, and waits for somebody edible to come prancing by. Then she
jumps out and has lunch. Playmate’s reference, though, was to
an ambush tactic used by both sides in the recent war in the
Cantard, employing the same principle. He meant he was going to sit
down and wait for something to happen.
----
----
10
Without going headlong I kept after Kip about his strange
friends. He frustrated me with his determined loyalty. He could not
fully grasp the notion that I was there to help.
I needed more time with the Dead Man. I needed to figure out
what Old Bones knew as well as how to insert myself into the
fantasy worlds where Cypres Prose lived. Apparently his fantasy
life was so rich that it influenced his whole attitude toward real
life.
After a half hour of mostly polite tea conversation during which
my main discovery was that Cypres Prose could avoid a subject
almost as slickly as my partner, I was getting frustrated. I was
prowling like a cat, poking at half-finished engines and mysterious
mechanisms again.
“Garrett!” Playmate exploded. He pointed. His eyes
had grown huge.
A small hole had appeared in the stable wall. It glowed scarlet.
A harsh beam of red light pushed through. It swung left and right,
slicing through the heavy wooden planks. Hardwood smoke flooded the
stable, overcoming the sweet rotted-grass odor of fresh horse
manure. It made me think both of smokehouses and of campfires in
the wild.
Campfires do not have a place in any happy memories of mine.
Campfires in my past all had a very nasty war going on somewhere
nearby. They always attracted horrible, bloodsucking bugs and
starving vertebrates with teeth as long as my fingers. Hardwood
smoke gets my battle juices going lots more often than it makes my
mouth water.
I picked up the overweight crossbow and inserted the quarrel
that had no padding.
The wall cutout collapsed inward. Sunlight blazed through. An
oddly shaped being stood silhouetted against the bright.
I shot my bolt.
I used to be pretty good with a crossbow. Somebody found out
that I still was. I got him right in the breadbasket. With plenty
of
oomph!,
because the recoil was enough to throw me back
a step and spin me halfway around.
The villain folded up around the blunt quarrel, out of action.
Unfortunately, he was not alone. His friends did not give me time
to crank the crossbow back up to full tension. A shortcoming of the
instrument that I would have to mention to Playmate, Its cycle time
was much too long.
I snatched up a smith’s hammer. It seemed the most
convincing tool I was likely to lay hands on. The things I had
hidden about my person wouldn’t have nearly as much
impact.
Two shimmering forms came through the hole in the wall,
unremarkable street people who flashed silver each few seconds. The
one I had shot
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