The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant, Page 3

  “See you in a few, Billi,” I muttered as I dabbed the white onto a small pad.

  Apart from a heavy sigh, that was the last sound I made once the pale, stark paint began to cover my face. I had to get over this grumpiness because it would come through in my performance. Yeah, I had a case finally, but losing future Waldorf gigs would hurt my business more than I wanted to admit. I couldn’t count on one case to pull me, Miranda, and the business through these tough times; so I needed to put on my best face (which got a grin out of me as I started to work on my first overly-rosy cheek) and make sure I was bringing home the mutton.

  Painting the second cheek suddenly conjured an image of the Ice Witch herself, Eva Rothchild. Maybe it was one of those passing thoughts, wondering if she was somewhere in the mansion working on her own visage. I could have gone a lifetime (and that’s a Dwarf’s lifetime, mind you!) without seeing her again; but once I got to browning up the eyebrows, and unbraiding and bushing out the beard, I would barely recognize myself. Besides, with the limited attention span she was blessed with, Eva wouldn’t wonder how many Dwarves there were in Chicago.

  A few more strokes with the brush, and now it was time to hit the brows.

  Oh, shit. I really must have been preoccupied. I’d forgotten to put my tunic on first. I was still in the street clothes I had changed into after heading home from the McCarthy meeting. I wasn’t too worried about my dress shirt, but the tunic was one of those over-the-head jobbies, so I had to wiggle into it like a hot one from the Thieves’ Guild. I always hated this dance; but at least this time, in my private water closet, I could do it alone with only my reflection in the handheld mirror mocking me.

  ***

  “Welcome, welcome, one and all! Welcome, welcome to this ball!

  Now is when we dance and dine, revel in friendship and times divine.

  And on my charge shall I serve diligently

  To protect you, the city’s collected nobility.

  So celebrate, eat, and tap your toes to song,

  For this house will burn the tallow as ere the night is long!”

  All I wanted to do, at this particular moment, was vomit.

  It was tough enough to somersault in light combat armor, but some of the things my clients wanted me to say added new depth to hokey. Then again, if my buddies from my old unit were to see me in this goofy makeup, reciting bad, silly poetry would be the least of my worries.

  Now came the pride-swallowing portion of the evening. The sea of pressed trousers closed in, only a few of the waves parting for me, not out of respect but more to protect their expensive raiment from my face makeup. Eh, these guys were fine, unless they really pissed me off. Then, suddenly, I’d become the clumsiest son-of-a-bitch ever to wear light armor, and I’d take a strategic stumble into a particular pair of pants as I skipped though the crowd, lightly humming the national anthem of Munchkinland.

  Alright, let’s just put this to rest right now: Skipping is part of the job. I don’t like it and I don’t do it when I’m out of costume. I only skip, dance, or giggle when the price is right. Try and get me to perform this routine simply for your amusement, and I guarantee you’ll be feeling some serious pain.

  “Well, hello there, little man!” the man bellowed. This dink was so full of himself, especially when his friends reacted to the mocking toast. “So if I drink any more of this magic potion, what shall happen to me?”

  I struck the pose of an actor from a silent film conveying shock and surprise. My outstretched hand turned to a quivering finger (not the finger, but I was tempted) pointing at his flute. “You drink the ancient elixir of Queen Illora,” I said in my best trembling treble. “The more you drink of it, the happier shall you feel, but beware of its curse upon sunrise! And if you suddenly feel the sharpest of pains in your loins, you best follow the Yellow Brick Road and find salvation at its end!”

  Another one of these high society types chimed, “So why is it a road to salvation, this Yellow Brick Road?”

  Yeah, like I didn’t see that coming. “Alas, it is marked so in the memory of those brave men who did not head the warnings of Waldorf!”

  Applause. A raising of glasses. Then it was asses and backs to the Dwarf to resume whatever scintillating conversation they'd been enjoying before I showed up.

  It was the image of Miranda standing in a breadline, or maybe doing something I wouldn’t stand for one of my sisters doing to make some extra coin, that kept me going through the night. The contraband flowing in substitute of water didn’t help matters much. The comments would get more and more abrasive. I would be expected to balance glasses on my head. It was always a roll of the bones as to how pleasant these elite would be when drunk. This was an older crowd, so at least the younger heirs-apparent were off keeping to themselves or hitting the harder stuff from poppy fields or South American jungles. They were usually the ones daring each other to slap said glass off my head. Damages would, of course, come out of the performer’s pay.

  That’s it, Billi. Stay with the positive. You’ve got to, for Miranda’s sake.

  As I wandered through the collection of evening wear, I noticed an odd scent in the air. It wasn’t overpowering, but had that subtle, lingering quality like the air in a kitchen just after someone's cooked a T-bone steak. The scent wasn’t as pleasant or as mouthwatering as a T-bone; it was more earthy and stale, but it did have that lingering quality. When I caught wind of it again, I decided to follow it.

  The source of the smell—the closer I got to it—now reminded me less and less of “overcooked T-bone” and more of “rotten eggs with just a hint of marsh”. I never did like the assignments that would take me and my boys into the swamplands. It wasn’t the variety of crawlies that would slither, swim, and slink their way around, but it was the smell. Nature’s sewer, we Dwarves called the marshlands of Acryonis.

  Stopping just shy of what I believed was offending my nostrils, I slipped into my routine before a small group of people. All of them were enjoying the bubbly with generous portions of party favors.

  “Good and true nobles of the realm,” I implored, removing my helmet and tousling my hair to make it look a bit more goofy. “May I impose upon you all and ask for your counsel?”

  Never understood why these high society types all tittered and snickered more when I would speak like the Shakespeare actor-washout, but that’s why Harv was paying me the big bucks: to keep these inebriated socialites happy.

  “I have…fallen…in love…” And with a quick breath, I spoke timidly, “…with a lady in my court.”

  And here it came. The collected “Aaawwwww…” that never ceased to test my patience. How utterly condescending.

  “Is she a tiny person, too?” one of the ladies, apparently fighting to keep her balance, asked me.

  No, as a matter of fact, she’s a six-foot redhead, with a great ass and tits that make babies tremble at the bounty of the feast.

  Instead, these words left my lips. “That she is, my lady. A lady of minor nobility and I dare to court her; but I so need practice in my manners. I know how to use a fork and spoon, so that does me well!” Okay, I’ll admit it: I think that’s funny. I knew a few captains in my day that could barely grasp the concept of eating with their mouths closed. “There is something I would ask…” And here I made eye contact with the dipso struggling against gravity, “…of you, my lady. Might I practice a courtly manner by kissing your hand.” Then I would start, and stutter a bit, and add, “Just for practice!”

  Without the goofy makeup, there was no way these people would give me the time of day, but with me making a Goblin’s ass out of myself and playing the Dwarf-in-love, I had charmed her enough to get an offered hand. Yeah, she looked at her date apprehensively as she did so; but still, I got the offer.

  The lady in question was what I called one of those aging beauties. Not bad looking, but definitely not one of the younger fillies that could easily begin the celebrations at sunset, enjoy a good tavern tickle, and then retur
n to the party and continue until sunrise. She was gracefully heading to the quiet life, or at least that was the image she was portraying.

  The stench nearly knocked me over as I awkwardly took her hand and placed a soft kiss on her middle knuckle. I looked up and saw an elegant bracelet on her wrist, of what appeared to be emeralds and diamonds, exquisitely arranged. Quite an eye-catcher of an accessory.

  I gave her wrist the smallest of turns and watched the stones wink back at me.

  “Many thanks, my lady!” I exclaimed, giving a silly bow. I continued to speak while fumbling with my helmet, “So what do you think? Shall I charm my lady fair?”

  “You’re going to charm her short little socks off!” the lush replied, clumsily waving her hand around. “You are so damn cute!”

  Her date put his arms around her, his own laughter growing less sincere and more awkward. “That’s enough, Annie. I think the Dwarf has some other people to bother.”

  Ah, got it, pal. The wife’s in her cups and making a spectacle of herself. The last thing you need is her drawing attention to herself and you. People might notice.

  “Many thanks, my lords and ladies!” I exclaimed, straightening my helmet and giving another bow, “Eat, drink, and be merry.”

  Returning to the other guests, the smell subsided; but I now understood why there was something hanging in the air. Faint, and thankfully overpowered by the other aromas in the room. Damsel Dipso was not alone.

  With an idea of what was causing it, I could now try and shut it out. The last thing I needed to make this evening complete was a headache akin to the ones brought on by the smell of the swamp. Another goofy routine or two, and then I could give myself a break.

  A small group of salt-and-pepper shakers encouraged me to do a forward-tumble (probably to settle a bet to see if the short guy could move that well in armor). When I recovered from the simple gymnastics, I caught a glimpse of that unmistakable blonde hair, brighter than sunrise over the Shri-Mela Plains. I even dared eye contact with Eva Rothchild as I scrambled to take off my helmet and sink to one knee in honorable deference, though the slapstick nature of my gesture was hardly respectful. I didn’t sink my head so low, though, to completely remove her from view. Her face remained just in my peripheral. Eva’s only reaction was a turn of her nose upward, the angle of her head making it easier to polish off what remained in her glass, and then a quick swap with a full one that almost passed her by. Much like the other guests, she told me, “Show’s over, Dwarf…” by turning her back to me, the dress brazenly dipping low.

  Cute little temptress, ready to play. Yeah, that’s my Eva. Beauty and the Bitch.

  The salt-and-peppers were sympathetic to my snubbing, and they conveyed it with that collected “Aaawwwww…” I was dealt earlier.

  A sudden flash in my mind of ripping out the battle cry of Gryfennos and taking my battle axe to everyone around me was what made me decide I was ready for a break. I was allowed one for every two hours. I was supposed to be part of the revels for three, so that meant at least one after the first hour and a half.

  I glanced at the closest clock. Only forty-five minutes had passed. Now I remembered why I didn’t include my battle axe as part of the costume.

  Okay, so what could I do to check out for a moment without stiffing the host? Yeah, ol’ Daddy Rothchild was watching, casting glances at me just to make certain I was worth the price tag. I don’t think the hard times had hit him so hard that he was watching the pennies or anything, but I’m sure he didn’t want to part easily with any of that hard-earned (and now, even harder-kept) fortune. Never quite understood why those folks who could afford to spend gold never did.

  In the corner of my eye was a corridor leading to the East Wing of the Rothchild estate, and it appeared empty for the time being. A few minutes in the shadows, maybe fiddling with my armor, would give me the time I needed to clear my head of homicidal tendencies.

  The hallway was still connected with the ballroom, but what a world of difference it made. A strange oasis of silence only footsteps away from a vast wasteland of privilege and vanity fair. I bent down in the shadows of a small alcove to adjust the laces along my boots. Not that they needed adjusting, of course. (First rule of combat: Lace your boots properly. Death on account of tripping over your bootlaces is something you really don’t want on a ledger somewhere.) Still, playing the illusion of a “wardrobe malfunction” was an excuse to step away from the crowds and catch my breath.

  “So, Miles, have you considered my offer?”

  Maybe it was the lack of formal wear and stuffy attitudes in the quiet hallway that made this polished voice louder than its intended whisper, and maybe it was the echo of the corridor that made the intended whisper sound even cockier than it was. I merely continued to straighten my belt as Miles answered his friend.

  “Bruce, if this was a different time, I would take you up on your offer, but I’m quite content with current arrangements. Besides, I have no reason to alter said arrangements, now do I?”

  “But you are a friend; and if there is anything I am known for, it’s looking out for my friends.”

  These guys were friends? This was a pissing contest of Orc-sized proportions.

  Miles didn’t seem phased by Bruce’s insincere concern as he continued, “But my needs are covered, my business protected. It will remain as such, and provided you continue to do what you are currently doing, we will all benefit.”

  “Don’t give me that shit, Miles!” Was that desperation I heard in Bruce’s voice? “The Crash hardly touched you. Your investments were sound.”

  “I know they were. They were in my business, and my business still stands, tough times aside. I’m able to meet the needs of even my harder-hit clientele.”

  I straightened up and fiddled with my helm, to see if I had enough light to check these guys out. Miles had his back to me. The martini in his hand caught the light from the ballroom. Bruce was a good match with his pal, height for height. The tuxedo gave his broad shoulders an even sharper cut than normal, and while he wasn’t poking Miles with a threatening finger, he was standing close enough to be pushing boundaries. Anybody getting that close to me in a tavern was looking to start a fight.

  Usually, I would finish it.

  Miles took a sip of his martini, holding his ground like a Dwarf unit standing against an Ogre charge. I almost admired Miles, but even in his confidence, he was an arrogant ass with a bull’s-eye painted on his chest, just waving a banner over his head.

  “Yes, it’s true that you look out for your friends, especially at the tables, from what I’m told. If it weren’t for your nasty habits, I think you would be an adequate businessman.” The martini was polished off in a single gulp, and then Miles added, “Do you want to hold on to what’s left of your family legacy? Then I suggest you sit back and continue to sign the papers that are put in front of you. Asking questions is a bad investment choice. Changing the arrangements is a far worse one.”

  Bruce took a moment. He was letting that last bit sink in. When he finally found his voice, that earlier cockiness was notably absent. “So you truly believe we’re secure?”

  “Even in what’s left of our economics, I would dare say, yes.”

  Bruce gave a nod, scoffing lightly as he looked into the crowd. “I hope you’re right. We’re in uncertain times. Today’s fortunes could disappear tomorrow.”

  “Not mine, Bruce. Not mine.” Miles handed him an empty glass and gave his shoulder a light pat. “Be a chum and fetch me a fresh martini. I, for one, feel like celebrating tonight.”

  Miles had been doing so well, and then he’d gone and given Bruce a verbal kick in the nuts.

  Maybe that was Bruce’s problem: He was a working man’s noble, still punching a time clock and not letting his subjects run the business. Maybe he was successful enough to run with the lead stags, but it was his personal demons that made him cursed goods. I started feeling bad for the guy, and made myself a promise to brush a cheek up against
Miles’ tuxedo pants before the evening was done.

  A final deep breath, and it was back into the foray. I recalled the last time I'd worn this light armor in combat. I'd been surrounded by several garrisons of Dwarven infantry, screaming our heads off, with our halberds, spears, and rølmstirks (a pole-arm weapon unique to Gryfennos, and a pretty nasty weapon when in the right hands) all pointing the way to several ranks of Orcs, Trolls, and Goblins. By the time it was all over, a third of our numbers were on their way to the Everlasting Fields, and the rest of us were surrounded by a sea of stiffs.

  A sea of stiffs. Huh, well, this party wasn’t so different then.

  The evening picked up its pace after my brief breather with Miles and Bruce, neither of whom I saw for the rest of the night. Good thing, too, because I really didn’t need to explain to Harv why the client was charging us for a guest’s laundry bill.

  I did manage to have another passing with Eva, and afforded a smirk at the chatter I overheard.

  “So, Eva, what’s this I hear about your date at that merger party your dad thr—”

  “He wasn’t my date!” she snapped. I wouldn’t have been shocked in the least if the glass in her hand had shattered. “I was just getting in a dig at Julie Lesinger.”

  “Huh,” her date replied. If this dink was looking for a tavern tickle later that night, he apparently didn’t intend for Eva Rothchild to be his intended. “That wasn’t the story I heard.”

  “Really, Trevor?” Eva sneered, “And just what did you hear?”

  Poor Trevor’s face was looking mighty pale, matching the stark white of his tuxedo shirt. Then he did, perhaps, the dumbest thing you could do in such a spot. He spilled the beans.