63

"Getting predictable in your old age," I told Dotes, settling beside him on the exact set of steps where I'd guessed he would be waiting.

"Me? I'm here because I knew this is where you would come looking. I didn't want you wasting time stumbling around looking for me."

Invisible sign. Absolutely. "Can we take him?"

"He's caught. Nobody is so lucky he gets out of what I have set." He glanced left, at smoke rising in the distance. "Quiet out." The street should have been busier.

All streets should have been busier. Slither was right. They were killing each other out here—though it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Block's heavies were fast on their feet. And they had the army garrison to help discourage disorder.

Trouble never got a chance to grow up.

Too, word was out that Marengo North English didn't approve. He said this wasn't the time. The captains of many sister nut groups agreed. They asked for restraint now, promising license later.

"Interesting times," I told Morley.

"It's always something." Like he hadn't the least concern. "Well, here's our guest."

The clumsy guy smelled a rat. He was moving carefully. Trouble was, his sniffer wasn't sensitive enough. It was too late by the time he got a good whiff.

Morley waved. "Come on over."

The guy looked around. Just the way he moved you could tell he thought his luck was with him still. He was in it up to his chin but knew he always got out. So maybe this time he would fall up and blow away on the breeze. A regular dandelion seed.

Morley's friends and relatives and employees closed a ring. Luck failed its compact with our man. Gravity didn't reverse itself.

I thumbed a wood chip while Morley watched the man get a grip on his disappointment.

"Pull up a step, Ace," I told him.

He did, but he had the fidgets. He kept looking for his lucky exit.

I told him, "I didn't really want you. But I can't get ahold of Winger." Not that I'd tried.

"What? Who?"

"Your girlfriend. Big blond goof with no common sense, always has an angle, never tells the truth if a lie will do. Her."

"Part of that fits everybody in this thing," Morley said. "Even up on the Hill, they turned the truth to quicksilver."

"Untruths, too."

"Quicksilver lies. I like that."

"Deadly quicksilver lies." I spotted friend C.J. Carlyle. "Look who missed the slaughter at Maggie Jenn's place."

Our guest eyed us as though he was sure we were loony. Winger must have mentioned my stint in the Bledsoe. He never noticed C.J. I said, "No telling what story you got from Winger. She comes up with some tall ones. I've known her since she came to town. I don't remember her ever telling the truth if there wasn't a profit in it."

Our man didn't reply, but his skill at hiding his thoughts did not exceed his skill at tailing.

He was inept but loyal. He stayed clammed. I told him, "I want to get ahold of her mainly as a friend." That hadn't been the case the night before. A few hours had altered my perspective. "I no longer think she could tell me anything I don't know. I am sure I know a few things she doesn't. Things that could get her killed. Maybe right after they get you killed."

Not only did I get him thinking, I got his attention.

He didn't plan to die for love. Guys just aren't romantic anymore. He had something going with Winger—and he had a real good idea just what that was worth.

He didn't speak up, though.

"She isn't going to get those books," I told him. "Not a chance. All the guts and luck you can muster won't get that done."

The man stayed clammed. So did Morley, though he looked like he wanted to hear more. I told him, "When you get past all the blown smoke, Winger and Cleaver are after a set of first editions of When No Ravens Went Hungry. Winger has the notion she can get them away from the Rainmaker." She had an even sillier notion that she could decipher the clues in them once she had them.

"The woman doesn't suffer from any lack of self-confidence."

"Trouble is, she's digging through the wrong haystack. The Rainmaker doesn't have the firsts. He could have grabbed them all, but he didn't pay attention so the one he did come up with got away."

Morley gave me a big evil dark-elf grin. "Why do I get the feeling you're going to explain everything again? How come I have the notion I ought to bet the deed to the Joy House against you?"

I snarled at our captive, "Tell Winger she's wasting her dreams. Cleaver can't lay hands on more than two books. Go on. Get out of here."

Baffled, the man went, maybe thinking he had found another angle to his luck.

Morley asked, "What was that? I set up a major operation, then you mutter some cryptic stuff at the guy and let him go."

"You fooling somebody? You know this mess has got to do with Eagle's treasure."

"Maybe. Sort of. I had a passing interest when I thought you'd stumbled onto something there in the West End."

"What you told me then was the key to the whole thing," I exaggerated. That wasn't a lie. Not really. Not exactly.

The truth was I was guessing again, playing with the known information. I had it figured out, but as Dotes hinted, I'd been wrong before. I yelled after Winger's friend, "Tell Winger what I said." To Morley, "She'll ignore me and do something dumb, but this way my conscience will be satisfied."

64

I expected more grief about letting Winger's guy go. But after the one snip, Morley leaned back and, apparently, never gave it a second thought.

I started to nag him... .

"Can it, Garrett. Once upon a time I had a notion. But I changed my mind."

I awarded him the grandfather of all raised eyebrows.

"Last night Julie wasn't there to distract me. I got to thinking about Eagle's saga. And guess what I realized? Nowhere does it say that the jerk was really rich—by our standards."

I indulged in a self-satisfied smirk. My good buddy was telling me I'd figured the angles right. "You ever wonder how Eagle murdered those slaves? If he was so blind and feeble he needed them to haul and bury his treasure, how could he get the angle on them slick enough to off them all?"

Obviously, Morley hadn't wondered. "Sometimes I do like the way your mind works, Garrett."

"Let me tell you something you maybe don't know." I hadn't known till I got it from Linda Lee, back when I was reading sagas. "Most of the sagas were composed at the instigation of the guys they're about. The No Ravens thing was done by Eagle's sister's grandson, partly in collaboration with the old man himself. And they started long before the business of the mocking women, the treasure, and the murdered slaves."

"I'm sure you'll get to the point eventually."

"You see it. Unless you're slower than you pretend. Say a guy is paying to have puff stories written about him. Not only will he decide what he wants put in and built up, he'll decide what gets played down or left out."

"You mean like maybe Eagle wasn't a big success just because he was treacherous and quick with a blade? Maybe he had a small natural talent as a wizard?"

"Bingo! He was accused by others, but obviously it wasn't anything major, nothing backed by formal training. He wouldn't have stayed quiet about it if he'd had a sheepskin declaring him a heavyweight ass-kicker. But he had something that helped him slide through the tight places."

"There'll be curses on the treasure, then."

"That's the way these things are done."

"There'll be ill-tempered ghosts in the neighborhood."

"What are murders for?"

The Eagle sort isn't uncommon. Usually he tries to parlay his lucky genetic draw into a big, fast score. Manipulating the fall of dice is a favorite pastime. Hobbling around on crutches after getting found out is another.