Glen Cook - Garrett Files 08 - Petty Pewter Gods

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Petty Pewter Gods
PETTY PEWTER GODS
by Glen Cook
Book 8 of The Garrett Files
Scanned by wicman99; proofed by Nadie. If you enjoyed this e-text, why not consider buying a print
copy?
Table of Contents
● Chapter 1
● Chapter 2
● Chapter 3
● Chapter 4
● Chapter 5
● Chapter 6
● Chapter 7
● Chapter 8
● Chapter 9
● Chapter 10
● Chapter 11
● Chapter 12
● Chapter 13
● Chapter 14
● Chapter 15
● Chapter 16
● Chapter 17
● Chapter 18
● Chapter 19
● Chapter 20
● Chapter 21
● Chapter 22
● Chapter 23
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Petty Pewter Gods
● Chapter 24
● Chapter 25
● Chapter 26
● Chapter 27
● Chapter 28
● Chapter 29
● Chapter 30
● Chapter 31
● Chapter 32
● Chapter 33
● Chapter 34
● Chapter 35
● Chapter 36
● Chapter 37
● Chapter 38
● Chapter 39
● Chapter 40
● Chapter 41
● Chapter 42
● Chapter 43
● Chapter 44
● Chapter 45
● Chapter 46
● Chapter 47
● Chapter 48
● Chapter 49
● Chapter 50
● Chapter 51
● Chapter 52
● Chapter 53
● Chapter 54
● Chapter 55
● Chapter 56
● Chapter 57
● Chapter 58
● Chapter 59
● Chapter 60
● Chapter 61
● Chapter 62
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Petty Pewter Gods
● Chapter 63
● Chapter 64
● Chapter 65
● Chapter 66
● Chapter 67
● Chapter 68
● Chapter 69
1
I greeted the morning the only way that makes sense. I groaned. I groaned some more as I pried me off
the sheet. Several thousand maniacs were raising hell out in the street. I muttered dreadful threats,
dropped my feet into the abyss beside my bed. My threats didn’t scare up any peace.
Pain blazed from my right temple to my left, ricocheted, clattered around inside my skull. I must have had
a great time. I told me, “You got to quit drinking that cheap beer.”
The guy jacking his jaw was yakking way too loud. I clapped a hand over his mouth. He shut up. I used
my other hand to open a curtain a peek. I had some morning-mad notion that by looking I could grab a
clue about all that racket.
A club of sunshine whacked me right between the eyes. Like to laid me out. Gah! An ill omen for sure.
These bright days are never kind. Everybody I ran into would be just like the weather: warm and sunny.
Argh! I was in the mood for low overcast and light drizzle, maybe with a frigid south wind.
I peeled layers of fried skin off my eyeballs, took another look. Where there is life there is hope.
“Well.” Across Macunado, standing out like she might be the source of the brightness, was a trim piece of
work who would have no trouble making the short list for girl of my dreams. She looked right at me, like
she knew I was watching. My toes curled. Wow!
I didn’t notice the human rights guys and their ugly banners shoving dwarves and elves aside as they
chased a gang of centaur refugees, flinging bricks and stones. I didn’t chuckle when some fool bounced a
rock off a fourteen-foot troll’s beak and took up a brief career as a human club. Just another day of
political dialogue in my hometown.
I was focused. Maybe I was in love. Again.
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Petty Pewter Gods
She had all the right stuff in all the right places in absolutely perfect proportion. She was a small thing,
not a rat’s whisker over five feet, and of the redheaded tribe. I would have bet the deed that she had green
eyes. I drooled. I wondered what madness was loose upon the earth, that all those lunatics down there
weren’t dropping their sticks and stones and surrounding her, panting gales of garlicky breath.
“Whoa, Garrett,” I muttered, after the curtain slipped from numb fingers and broke the crackling magic
connecting my eyes with hers. “Where have we heard all this before?” Female is my weakness. Pretty
redhead will do me in every time.
Oh, but what a delicious failing!
I wrestled with my clothes for a minute before daring another look. She was gone. Where she had stood, a
drunken one-armed war veteran was trying to assault an even drunker centaur. The centaur was getting
the best of it because he had more legs to keep him off the ground.
That troll must have been in a bad mood anyway. He bellowed his intention of clearing the street of
anyone who didn’t have green skin. He had a good work ethic, too.
Down the way Mrs. Cardonlos and her broom vigorously defended the stoop of her rooming house from
fugitives. How would she blame this on me? I was confident that she could find a way. Too bad she
couldn’t saddle that broom and fly away.
Some dreams arrive stillborn. There wasn’t a sign of that redhead anywhere.
But nightmares always come true.
Instead of young and gorgeous I spied old and homely and not even female.
Old Dean, my resident cook, housekeeper, and professional nag, was home from his journey north to
make sure one of his numerous ugly duckling nieces didn’t weasel out of her wedding plans. He was
standing at the foot of the front steps. He stared up at the house with pinch-lip disapproval.
I shambled toward the stairs. Somebody had to let him in.
Dean’s knock set the Goddamn Parrot to squawking obscenities.
Garrett! Oh, boy. That was my sidekick, the Dead Man, only recently awakened for the first time in
months. He had a lot of vinegar stored up. Kindly set aside your sensual maunderings and still that
horrible thumping.
It was, for sure, going to be one of those days.
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Petty Pewter Gods
2
T. G. Parrot—whose given name is Mr. Big—started whooping as I worked the latch. “Help! On, please,
Mister, don’t hurt me no more.” He sounded like a terrified child. He thought it was great fun trying to get
me lynched.
Mr. Big was a practical joke that had been played upon me by my alleged friend Morley Dotes, who must
have spent years teaching that bird bad manners and worse language.
Dean wrinkled his nose as he pushed inside. “Is that thing still here? And what is that dreadful odor?”
By “thing” he meant the bird. I pretended to misunderstand. “He was too heavy for me to move by
myself.” The Dead Man goes somewhat over four hundred pounds. “Maybe he’s getting ripe. You better
work on his room first thing.” Dean hates the Dead Man’s room. He doesn’t like being in the presence of
a corpse, possibly because that rubs his nose in his own mortality.
Your sense of humor has putrefied.
Dean, of course, didn’t receive the Dead Man’s mind message. Wouldn’t have been fun for His Nibs if he
caused a reaction that the old man understood.
I didn’t pay him any mind. That always irks him. I was preoccupied, anyway. Still looking outside, I
noticed that the redhead was back, watching from across the street. Our gazes met. That energy crackled.
Down the block my favorite neighbor, the widow Cardonlos, spotted my open doorway. She pointed,
jabbered, probably telling one of her tenants that I was the linchpin of all the evils plaguing our street.
Her mind would not stretch any farther.
Other than making herself a boil on the bottom of my happiness, she did not much matter in my life.
Dean expelled one of his mighty, put-upon sighs. He dropped his duffel, stood there shaking his head. He
wasn’t three steps inside, but he had to assure me that his absence had been a domestic disaster. As had
been inevitable.
I looked for the girl again. Redheads are trouble. Always. But that kind of trouble looked real appetizing.
Gone again, damn it. A mob of street rowdies had come between us, pursuing the ethnic debate with club
and brickbat. Enterprising folk of several tribes tagged along, hawking sausages and sweetmeats and
souvenirs to the participants. Never is there an event so wild, so dire or disgusting but what some
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摘要：

PettyPewterGodsPETTYPEWTERGODSbyGlenCookBook8ofTheGarrettFilesScannedbywicman99;proofedbyNadie.Ifyouenjoyedthise-text,whynotconsiderbuyingaprintcopy?TableofContentslChapter1lChapter2lChapter3lChapter4lChapter5lChapter6lChapter7lChapter8lChapter9lChapter10lChapter11lChapter12lChapter13lChapter14lCha...

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