Book 06 - Red Iron Nights by Glen Cook Read Free Book Online

where he painted posters and placards and a rickety table
where he calligraphed handbills. A semiclear corner boasted a
ragged blanket.
    Two steps inside, I saw that I’d leapt to an erroneous
conclusion. Barking Dog did indeed clean house. There was a second
room, with no door in its doorway, where he moved his trash
whenever his primary got too deep.
    He didn’t apologize. He seemed unaware that his
housekeeping varied from the norm. He just asked, “What did
you find out from that Hullar?”
    “I didn’t go see him. What happened was, I had an
idea.”
    “You didn’t strain nothing doing that?”
    It must be on my forehead in glowing letters that don’t
show up in a mirror. “You’ll like it. Be good for both
of us. Here’s the plan.” I told him how we could make a
few marks. His eye developed a malicious twinkle.
    “Son, I’m maybe gonna like you after all. You
ain’t as dumb as you look.”
    “It’s my disguise,” I grumped. “Want to
do it?”
    “Why not? I can always use an extra mark. But don’t
you figure we ought to go fifty-fifty? When I got to take time out
of my busy schedule to do all the work?”
    “I figure the split’s fine at two for me and one for
you. I have the contract. I’ll have to rewrite whatever you
give me. And I’ll have to hike over to the Tenderloin to
deliver it.”
    Barking Dog shrugged. He didn’t argue. “Found
money,” he muttered.
    “Speaking of money. How do you live? Not to mention pay
for all that paper?” Even junk paper isn’t cheap.
Papermaking is a labor-intensive industry.
    “Maybe there’s some with enough sense to see the
truth and want to spread it.” He glowered. He wasn’t
going to tell me squat.
    Could be a helpful believer. TunFaire boasts a fine crop of
lunatics, with more ripening daily. Or maybe he was stealing paper.
Or maybe he had a fortune stashed with the gnomish bankers. You
never know. In this town, almost nobody is what he seems.
    I answered surliness with a shrug. “I’ll catch you
every couple days.”
    “Yeah. Hey! Maybe you could give me a hand.”
    Only at long range. His breath had taken on new freight, a heavy
wine odor that combined with its previous fetor in a lethal gas.
Maybe we could bottle it and send it to the Cantard. It could
discourage entire Venageti brigades.
    “How?”
    “Some religious nut grabbed my spot while I was
away.”
    “Set up next to him, stick close, outlast him.” The
man’s faith wouldn’t outlast Barking Dog’s aroma.
“That don’t work, then ask me.”
    “All right.” He was doubtful. He couldn’t
smell himself. His nostrils were corroded to the bone.
    “See you.” I had to get out. My eyes were watering.
My nose was running. My head was spinning.
    I didn’t hurry home. I let the rain rinse the smell off
me. I wondered if it would ever stop raining. Should I invest in a
boat?
    The weather had a bright side. Flying thunder-lizards
hadn’t pestered TunFaire since the rains started.
    Everyone cheered when those monsters first appeared. They
gobbled rats and cats and squirrels and, most especially, pigeons.
Pigeons don’t have many fans. But the thunder-lizards shared
some of the pigeons’ worst habits. The missiles they launched
were both larger and more precisely targeted.
    There was talk of bounties. The monsters tended to be attracted
by the Hill, where the rich and powerful live. They favor high
places. The upper classes and thunder-lizards both. If the latter
had had the sense to stick to the slums, there would have been no
dangerous talk.
     
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9
    The only warning was Dean’s smirk, filled with so much
childish malice I knew something was going on.
    Garrett!
    Oh-oh. I’d forgotten I’d left him with those
evangelists.
    I considered taking a powder. But, hell, it was my house. A man
is king in his own castle. I stepped into the Dead Man’s
room. “Yeah?”
    Sit down.
    I sat, warily. He was too calm.
    Have you contemplated the state of your immortal
soul?
    I