Blind God's Bluff A Billy Fox Novel - By Richard Lee Byers Page 0,26
“Clarence!” he bellowed. “Clarence!”
Clarence came running. Or scurrying. He was one of the little squirrel guys, about three feet tall if you didn’t count the tail, skin black and leathery where the gray fur didn’t cover it. “Yes, Lord!” he chattered. “Here, Lord!”
Gimble stuck out his hand. “You made this,” he said.
Clarence hesitated. “Yes, Lord. I mean, my crew did.”
“Look at it closely. See if you can find a sharp edge.”
Clarence hesitated, and then, working partly by squinting at close range and partly by touch, obeyed. “There is a tiny little rough spot,” he said at last. “But it will only take a second to smooth it out.”
Using that same hand, Gimble grabbed him by the throat and jerked him off the ground. Clarence made choking noises, kicked, and pawed at the tin man’s wrist.
“Then you should have taken the second when you had it,” Gimble said. “Now it’s too late. You’ve embarrassed me and injured Lord Timon’s proxy.”
“For God’s sake,” I said, “it was just a pinprick!”
Gimble kept on strangling the little guy.
“Look,” I said, “you said I helped you. Put him down, and we’re even.”
Gimble dropped him. Clarence thumped down on the marble and lay there gasping and shaking.
“Thanks,” I said. Not because I really felt like thanking Gimble—right then, I wouldn’t have minded taking a sledgehammer to him—but because it seemed like the smart thing to do.
Head bob-bob-bobbing, Gimble kept looking down at Clarence. “The champion forgave you,” he said. “He saved your life. Thank him.”
“Thank you, sir!” Clarence wheezed.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“But I don’t forgive you,” Gimble said. “Not yet.” He made a fist and backhanded Clarence across the side of the head. It knocked the little guy cold and stretched him out on the floor. Blood flowed from the gash in his forehead—if squirrels have foreheads.
As I knelt down beside him to make sure he was breathing, I said, “And you’re the guy who takes good care of your assistants.”
“Yes,” said Gimble, “but this is only a serf. I’ll see you at the table.” He turned and walked away.
CHAPTER FIVE
I checked to make sure Clarence was still alive. He was. But he didn’t show any signs of waking up, and his cut was bleeding a lot, like head wounds do.
I felt a shiver at the center of me. It was my mojo, waking up so I could use it to help the little guy. Except that I didn’t know how to do that.
And the shiver hurt like a twinge of backache. Shoveling down a disgusting amount of food had helped, but I was still hung over from using too much magic the night before.
I looked around. “I need some help!” I shouted.
Some of Clarence’s buddies came running. So did some of Timon’s people. Their bosses might be rivals, but I didn’t see any sign of bad blood between the two groups. It wasn’t like Yankee fans and, well, everybody else’s fans.
A guy from the Tuxedo Team had a first-aid kit and seemed to know how to use it. After a couple seconds of confusion, the rest of us pulled back and gave him room to work.
Someone brushed up beside me. I looked down and saw A’marie.
“Gimble clocked the little guy for no reason,” I murmured. “And if he wins—”
“We’ll celebrate,” she said. “Because this is nothing compared to what Timon likes to do.”
She was almost as good at guilting me as Victoria had been. I reminded myself that she’d said she’d be okay with it if Wotan moved in and started eating humans. So who was she to make me feel bad?
It was just about then that Timon himself showed up. He was hanging onto the shoulder of a scaly brown guy—another little one, like the squirrel people—with a growth like a sailfish fin on his hairless head, using him for a seeing-eye dog. Fido jabbered to his lord, and then they headed in our direction.
“Gimble just got done beating up one of his people pretty bad,” I said. “How does that sit with your ‘traditions of hospitality?’”
Timon sneered like it was a stupid question. Up close, I could see a sluggish squirming at the back of each eye socket, and sludge seeping out of them like snails had been crawling on his face. He smelled as ripe as ever, but today, his breath was more onion-y.
“Naturally,” Timon said, “Gimble is entitled to deal with his own underlings however he likes. How long have you been out of your room?”