Read Book 06 - Red Iron Nights for Free Online Page B

introduced myself. I
shook their hands. I turned on the old Garrett charm. They became
uneasy almost to the point of suspicion. I probed only deeply
enough to make sure their brand of salvation wasn’t limited
to humans. Most of the cults are racist. Most of the nonhuman races
hold to no gods at all.
    I confessed, “I’m not free to entertain a new system
of beliefs myself, but I do know someone who should see you. My
partner is the most ungodly sort you can imagine. He
needs . . . Let me caution you. He’s
stubborn in his wickedness. I’ve tried and
tried . . . You’ll see. Please come with
me. Would you like tea? My housekeeper just put the kettle
on.” They chattered steadily themselves. What I had to say
mostly got shoved in in snatches.
    They followed me. I had a hell of a time keeping a straight
face. I sicced them on the Dead Man. I didn’t stay around to
watch the fur fly.
    As I hit the rain I wondered if he’d ever speak to me
again. But who needed spiritual guidance more? He was dead already,
already headed down the path to heaven or hell.
    But the grin on my clock wasn’t any smug celebration of my
ingenuity. I’d had me another attack of inspiration. I knew
how to turn the Barking Dog business into a scam that would make us
both happy.
    The man could read and write. He did his own signs and
broadsides. And he was harmless. And he needed money. I’d
seen that where he lived. So why not have him keep track of
himself? I could hand his journal over to my client, split my fee
with Barking Dog, save myself hunking around in the weather.
    The more I thought about that, the more I liked it. And
who’d know the difference?
    So the heck with Bishoff Hullar. I wouldn’t press my luck
there. I’d stay away except to collect. I chose a new
destination.
    I went off to sell Barking Dog. I didn’t anticipate any
trouble. I would appeal to his sense of conspiracy.
    Some white knight, eh? Our hero, third-string con artist.
    I didn’t suffer much guilt. The Bishoff Hullars of the
world deserve what they get. Hell, before I got to Barking
Dog’s place I was chuckling.
     
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8
    Some of us take a notion we’re what the world perceives us
to be, so we create images the world feeds back. You see it
especially with kids. You get some pathetic louse of a parent,
always sniping at his kid, telling him he’s no good and dumb,
pretty soon he’s got a dumb, no-good kid. That’s your
one-way version. I’m talking about creating yourself.
    I worked at it, not always consciously, when I wanted the world
to think I was bad. I didn’t make my bed. I changed my socks
only once a week. I cleaned house once a year whether the place
needed it or not. When I wanted to look real mean, I stopped
brushing my teeth.
    Barking Dog must have lived in those same two rooms for about
eleven thousand years without cleaning once. The place could become
a museum where mothers showed their kids why they ought to pick up
after themselves.
    The smell suggested it was the one place in TunFaire not
infested by vermin. The smell was the smell of Barking Dog Amato,
confined and reinforced by time and made heavier by oppressive
humidity. Barking Dog had no handle on the principles of
hygiene.
    Thank whatever gods he’d been out of there awhile.
    I’d never seen that much paper anywhere, not even in the
offices of royal functionaries. Once Barking Dog muffed both sides
of a handbill sheet, he flipped the cull over his shoulder. When he
brought in food, its wrappings, paper or cornhusk, joined the
rejected handbills. The broken cadavers of earthenware wine bottles
lay everywhere. Unscathed survivors apparently were returned for the
deposits.
    The entire history of Barking Dog Amato lay there, in
sedimentary layers, ready to be excavated by a historical
adventurer unencumbered by a sense of smell.
    I took that in at a glance after Amato invited me in. I wasted a
second glance on his furniture. That amounted to an artist’s
easel