“Ta-ta,” I told the Dead Man—softly, so the Goddamn Parrot wouldn’t hear. “I spent the day with a beautiful blonde. In penance, I’m going to spend the evening with a gorgeous redhead.”
He did not respond. He sure would have had he been awake. Winger had a special place in his heart. He had half believed my threat to marry her.
Laughing gently, still unforgiven, I tiptoed toward the front door. Before his departure, at incredible expense (to me), Dean had had a key lock installed in the new door, like I hadn’t survived before he was there to slam bolts and bars into place behind me. Dean placed his trust in the wrong things. A key lock never stops anybody but the honest people. Our real protection is the Dead Man.
Loghyr have many talents, dead or alive.
I strutted away smiling at one and all, deaf to their squabbles. We were getting a lot of nonhumans in the neighborhood, mostly rough type refugees from the Cantard, never shy about expressing opinions. There was always a fuss among them.
Worse, though, were the proto-revolutionaries. Those crowded every loft and sleeping room. They overflowed the taverns, where they chattered foolishly about ever less workable dogmas. I understood what moved them. I didn’t think much of the Crown, either. But I did know that none of us, them or me, was ready to try on the king’s shoes.
A real revolution would make things worse. These days no two revolutionaries agree whither the Karentine state, anyway. So they would have to murder one another wholesale before . . .
Revolution had been tried already, anyway, but so ineptly that hardly anybody but the secret police knew.
I ignored the hairy-faced, black-clad agents of chaos on the corners, scowling paranoiacally while they debated doctrinal trivia. The Crown was not in much danger. I have contacts in the new city police, the Guard. They say half the revolutionaries are really spies.
I waved to people. I whistled. It was a glorious day.
I was on the job, however. Though I was whistling my way to dinner with a beautiful woman, I observed my surroundings. I noticed the guy following me.
I roamed. I dawdled. I ambled. I strolled. I tried to get an estimate of the clown’s intent. He wasn’t very good. I pondered my options.
Turning the tables appealed to me. I could shake him, then follow him when he ran to report.
I do have enemies, sad to admit. In the course of my labors, occasionally I inconvenience some unpleasant people. Some might want to even scores.
I hate a bad loser.
My friend Morley Dotes, a professional killer who masquerades as a vegetarian gourmet, claims it’s my own fault for leaving them alive behind me.
I studied my tail till I was sure I could handle him, then hurried along to keep my date with Maggie Jenn.