made to suffer. Golems have rights.”
“Serve, not suffer,” the crowd chanted.
I saw a handful of curious onlookers like ourselves, but most of the crowd consisted of golems dressed like peasants, laborers, beasts of burden. One wore a dress with a low-cut bodice, its rounded clay breasts scrunched up in a bad imitation of a lusty barmaid.
“Serve, not suffer!” they chanted. Someone bellowed, “Three cheers for Art.”
They all yelled, “Art! Art!”
The golem speaker stood straight-backed, strong and confident, his clay smooth and moist. The name Art was imprinted on his forehead. “I am on a crusade for my fellow golems. We want better conditions at the Real Renaissance Faire.”
“And in the whole Unnatural Quarter,” called another golem.
There was something about Art. Though most golems were subservient walking lumps of mud, this one was a leader, filled with charisma.
McGoo sidled up to me, dressed in his beat cop uniform, which meant he was on duty. I shuddered to imagine him in a Renaissance costume. “Hey, Shamble. Seen anything suspicious?”
“If you don’t see something suspicious in the Quarter,” I said, “then that in itself is suspicious.”
He tipped his cap toward the golem firebrand still shouting from his soapbox. “Who’s that?”
“A rabble-rouser,” I said.
“A crusader for justice,” Robin interjected.
“That’s what I meant to say,” I corrected myself. “His name is Art.”
McGoo nodded with mock seriousness. “You could frame him and hang him on the wall.” When I responded with a blank look, he added, “Then he’d really be art.” McGoo waited for me, or anyone, to laugh. He was about to explain the cleverness of his joke when fortunately we were interrupted by several huge ogre guards bent on violence.
“Break it up! Break it up!” The ogres’ voices sounded like rocks rattling out of a gravel truck. They carried thick spiked clubs.
The golem workers scattered, knowing they weren’t supposed to be on a coffee or crusading break. The burly ogres elbowed people aside as they pushed their way toward the defiant Art, swinging their clubs.
One of the smaller golems, obviously a convert to Art’s cause, threw himself in front of the ogres, and they squashed him, bending his body and smooshing his shoulder and arm as they knocked him with a club. The damaged lump of clay twitched and crawled away.
McGoo charged in. “Hey, I’m law enforcement here. I’m a peace officer.”
“We’re chaos officers,” said the nearest ogre. “Private contractors.”
Art sprang from his soapbox and ducked down as he melted into the milling crowd. He ran a palm over his forehead to smear out the letters of his name, leaving only a blank gray patch as he disappeared.
The ogres—generally about as bright as golems—were easily confused.
After the impromptu crowd dispersed and the ogres strutted in circles holding up their heavy clubs in search of something to do, I nudged Alvina along. “I better get you away from this.”
Robin’s nostrils flared, and she flashed a venomous glance at the ogre guards. “We were all a witness to that!”
While McGoo went to have stern words with the overenthusiastic ogres, I hurried my companions toward the big tent on the outskirts. “We’re off to see the dragon.”
IV.
Two more security ogres stood outside the dragon’s tent, though I couldn’t understand why an enormous creature like Alice would need bodyguards.
“To keep the paparazzi away,” said one of the ogres.
“And autograph hounds,” said the other. “Now, piss off.”
Robin was incensed, but I tended to be calmer, more relaxed. After coming back from the dead, I found it easier not to be bothered by little things. I stepped forward. “We’ve been hired by King Mortimer Dred to investigate a missing sword that recently belonged to Alice. We’re here to interview her.”
Alvina piped up, “It’s an important part of the case.”
Sheyenne produced a copy of the client engagement contract, which enlisted our services for locating the sword called Excalibur, and thrust it in front of the ogres. “See, here’s proof.” They squinted, tugged on their drooping fat lips, and pondered. Ogres were