Book 06 - Red Iron Nights Read Online Free PDF Page A

barely sunup. You expect me to
think
at
that time of night?
    I got me a drizzle of ice water down my spine.
    I screamed. I cussed. I said stuff to set dear old mom spinning
in her grave.
    I got up, to no avail. The old boy had him a head start.
    I sat on the edge of my bed, put my elbows on my knees and my
forehead in my hands. I asked the gods, which I believe in once a
week, what I’d done to deserve Dean. Hadn’t I always
been one of the good guys? Come on, fellows. Let’s all play a
prank on the universe and let true justice reign for a day. Get
that old sucker.
    I blinked. Between the heels of my hands I glimpsed Dean peeking
around the doorframe. “Time to get up, Mr. Garrett. You have
to be outside the Al-Khar in two hours. I’ve started
breakfast.”
    My suggestion about breakfast reversed the traditional
alimentary process. He wasn’t impressed.
    He clumped downstairs. I groaned vigorously and stumbled to a
window. There was barely enough light to see. The city ratmen were
banging and clanging their trash carts while they pretended to do
something useful. A herd of dwarves hustled past, carrying bundles
bigger than they were. They were a sullen, surly, silent gang. See
what getting up early does?
    Except for dwarves and street sweepers, the thoroughfare was
barren. Sane folk were still in bed.
    Only impending poverty kept me from easing back into mine.
    What the hell? I could turn old Barking Dog into a career.
Anybody dumb enough to have him tailed deserved to have his purse
looted. Sure be safer than most jobs that come my way.
    I prettied myself up and moseyed downstairs. I paused outside
the kitchen to put on a heavyweight scowl—though at that time
of night, if my rest is disturbed, scowling comes naturally.
    Which did me no good. I stepped into the smells of spicy
sausages, stewed apples, fresh hot tea, biscuits just out of the
oven. I didn’t have a chance.
    He won’t cook like that when I’m not working.
I’m just hanging around, it’s maybe a bowl of cold
porridge developing a crust. If I want fresh tea, I’ve got to
put the pot on myself.
    What do you do with these work-ethic fanatics? I mean, I
don’t mind if he busts his butt working for me—which
I’ve never noticed him doing. My problem is, he’s one
of those characters who want to redesign the rest of us. His
ambition is to see me collapse from overwork, rich, before my
thirty-first birthday. I’m going to fool him. That
won’t never come. I’m going to stay thirty forever.
    I ate. Too much. Dean hummed as he cleaned his pots. He was
happy. I was employed. I felt abused, trivialized. Such a vast
array of talents and skills wasted trailing a nut case. It was like
using a rosewood four-by-four to swat flies.
    Dean was of such good cheer about my employment that he forgot
to kvetch till I was halfway through my second helping of apples.
“You go past the Tate compound to get to the Al-Khar
don’t you, Mr. Garrett?”
    Oh-oh. When he Misters me he knows I won’t like what
he’s got to say. This time he was pretty transparent.
“Not today.” He was going to nudge me to make up with
Tinnie. Which I wasn’t going to do on account of I’d
decided I was done apologizing to women for things I didn’t
do. “Tinnie wants to make up, she knows where to find
me.”
    “But . . . ”
    I got up. “Something you need to think about, Dean. Maybe
while you’re finding a home for that cat. And that’s
what you’ll do if I suddenly find me a wife to manage the
house.” That would hold him.
    I headed for the front door. I didn’t get there. The Dead
Man’s voice rang in my head.
You are leaving without
taking adequate precautions, Garrett.
    He meant I was leaving
the house unarmed. I said, “I’m just going to follow a
crazy man. I won’t get into trouble.” Without bothering
to go into his room. He doesn’t hear physically.
    You never plan to get into trouble. Yet each time you assume
that attitude and go out unprepared, you end