Book 02 - Bitter Gold Hearts by Glen Cook Read Free Book Online

The
kidnappers . . . I overheard them talking. They
had somebody watching our place. When they saw you, they talked it
over and decided they had to play the whole thing as straight as
they could. Because of your reputation. So you see, I owe you a
debt of thanks. I might not be here if you
hadn’t . . . ”
    In addition to his other charms Junior was a rocker. Whenever he
spoke, he jerked back and forth, staring into space. It must have
been a joy growing up in the Stormwarden’s household.
    I got a strong feeling that he had much more on his mind, that
gratitude was just an excuse for seeking me out. But you
don’t have much luck pressing guys like him when you
don’t have a hold on them. They tend to break for cover. So I
leaned back and tried to look pleased with his praise and
interested in anything else he might want to tell me. In a moment
it was obvious he was working himself up to something. He started
stammering. But he never got the chance to open up.
    “Here you are, my lord.” And here he was, the
Domina’s florid flunky, Slauce, wearing an ingratiating smile
belied by eyes in which the humor had been extinct for years.
“I’ve been looking everywhere.”
    I doubted that. He had to have been following Junior to pop up
so quickly and inconveniently.
    “Courter. I was just telling Mr. Garrett how grateful I am
for his help.” He rocked. His eyes gave him away. He was
terrified of this character Courter, who had used the name Slauce
when he had visited me.
    “The Domina needs you right away, my lord.” A
command cautiously couched for my benefit. Junior flinched.
    Across the room Bruno and the boys had been huddled together for
a while. Apparently they decided the presence of Junior and his
keeper meant there was no more percentage for them there. They went
away, though Bruno left me a final dirty look. Junior got up and
Courter took hold of his arm, not heavy-handed but definitely like
he thought his man might try to run. He passed close enough to
trip. I thought about giving it a shot to see what would happen,
but I left it as a thought.
    “See you later, Karl.”
    His look of despair brightened as he took the notion seriously.
Courter looked at me for the only time during his visit. He had
visions of bloodshed echoing through his eyes. I smiled and gave
him a big friendly wink. It did nothing for his ulcer. I gave it
the old try but I couldn’t get involved in my drinking. I
held a caucus with myself, took a vote, and decided to go home and
purge my soul by either subjecting it to the torment of old
Dean’s recitation of the encyclopedia of his eligible
relatives, or simply dosing it with a generous helping of the Dead
Man’s poisonous humors.
    They disappointed me. Both of them. I think they had discussed
it while I was gone. Dean was whistling when I walked in.
“What happened? Your females ambush a troop of hussars and
take them prisoners for life?”
    He was in too good a mood to take offense. I couldn’t get
a pout from him. I demanded, “What’s going on around
here? Why are you grinning like a fox with goose feathers in his
whiskers?”
    “It’s his nibs. He’s ebullient. Exultant.
Positively ecstatic.”
    “All that, huh? This I’ve got to see.”
    “It is one for the books, Mr. Garrett.”
    “What’s that you’re working on
there?”
    “A lamb roast.”
    “Lamb is mutton. I don’t like mutton.” I had
more mutton than I ever wanted while I was in the Marines. We ate
it every meal except when we had to make do with rocklike chunks of
salt pork or circumstances forced us to eat our horses or, worse,
we had to subsist on roots and berries.
    “You’ll like this. You’ll see.” He
talked cooking technique.
    I walked, grumbling, “Mutton is mutton is mutton,”
figuring I would have to eat the stuff with a big show of
appreciation because whenever I get critical of Dean’s
cooking and he takes umbrage, the next meal is sure to include
green peppers. There is no