Book 08 - Petty Pewter Gods Read Online Free

feet option, but a hairy hand attached to an
arm that would have embarrassed a troll snagged my right forearm. I
flailed and flopped and discovered ingenious ways to use the
language. I got me some much needed exercise, but I did not go
anywhere. And big ugly didn’t work up a sweat keeping me from
going.
    Another one grabbed my other arm. His touch was almost gentle,
but his fingers were stone. I knew he could powder my bones if he
wanted. Which did not slow my effort to get away. I didn’t
give up till the third one grabbed my ankles and lifted.
    The Goddamn Parrot walked down my back muttering to himself.
Mumble and mutter was all he seemed capable of anymore.
    The whole crew lockstepped to the coach. I lifted my head long
enough to see a matched set of four huge horses, the same shade of
brown. On the driver’s seat was a coachman all in black,
looking down at me but invisible within the depths of a vast black
cowl. He needed a big sickle to make the look complete.
    The coach was fancy enough, but no coat of arms proclaimed its
owner’s status. That didn’t do wonders for my
confidence. Here in TunFaire even the villains like to show
off.
    With nary a word, the ugly brothers chucked me inside. My skull
tried to bust through the far door. That door didn’t give an
inch. My headbone didn’t give much, either. Like a moth with
his wings singed, I fluttered down into that old lake of
darkness.
----

6
    When you are in my racket—confidential investigations,
lost stuff found, work that doesn’t force me to take a real
job—you expect to get knocked around sometimes. You
don’t get to like it, but you do catch on to the stages and
etiquettes involved. Especially if you are the kind of dope who
trails a girl you know wants to be followed, right into the perfect
spot for an ambush. That kind of guy gets more than his share of
lumps and deserves every one of them. I bet guys like Morley never
get bopped on the noggin and tossed into mystery coaches.
    Your first move after you start to stagger back toward the
light—assuming you are clever enough not to do a lot of
whimpering—is to pretend that you are not recovering. That
way maybe you will learn something. Or maybe you can take them by
surprise, whip up on them, and get away. Or maybe they will all be
out to dinner and some genius will have forgotten to take the keys
out of the door of your cell.
    Or maybe you will just lie there puking your socks up because of
a rocking concussion rolling your hangover.
    “O what foul beasts these mortals be! Jorken! Fetch a
mop!” The voice was stentorian, as though the speaker was
some ham passion player who never ever stepped offstage.
    A woman’s voice added, “Bring an extra bucket. They
leak at the other end as well.”
    Oh no. I already had a bath this week.
    “Why me? How come, all of a sudden, I get stuck with
scutwork?”
    “Because you’re the messenger,” said a wind
from the abyss, cold as a winter’s grave. That had to be my
buddy the faceless coachman.
    I was confused. My natural state, some would say. But this was
bizarre.
    Maybe it was time to get up and meet the situation head-on. I
gathered my corded muscles and heaved. Two fingers and a toe
twitched. So I exercised my skill with colorful dialogue.
“Rowrfabble! Gile stynbobly!” I was on a roll, but I
didn’t recognize the language I was speaking.
    I cooled down fast when a load of icy water hit me.
    “Freachious moumenpink!” Driven by a savage rage, I
managed a full half pushup. “Snrubbing scuts!” Hey! Was
that a real word?
    Another bucket of water hit me hard enough to knock me off my
hands and roll me over. A ragmop came out of the mist. It started
swabbing. Somebody attached to the mop muttered while he worked.
That was a dwarfish custom. But this beanpole was so tall he could
only have been adopted.
    There was something weird about the mopman. Beside the fact that
he carried on several sides of a conversation all by himself. He
had little