Read Online Book 3 - The White Rose by Glen Cook - Free Book Online Page B

ready.” Bomanz began
assembling his pack.
    “Wait up, Pop. I’ll go too.”
    “You need to rest.”
    “That’s all right. I feel like digging.”
    “Okay.” Something was bothering the boy. Maybe he
was ready to talk.
    They’d never done much of that. Their pre-university
relationship had been one of confrontation, with Stance always on
the defensive . . . He had grown, these four
years, but the boy was still there inside. He was not yet ready to
face his father man-to-man. And Bomanz had not grown enough to
forget that Stancil was his little boy. Those growths sometimes
never come. One day the son is looking back at his own son,
wondering what happened.
    Bomanz resumed rubbing flakes off a mace. He sneered at himself.
Thinking about relationships. This isn’t like you, you old
coot.
    “Hey, Pop,” Stance called from the kitchen.
“Almost forgot. I spotted the comet last night.”
    A claw reached in and grabbed a handful of Bomanz’s guts.
The comet! Couldn’t be. Not already. He was not ready for
it.
    “Nervy little bastard,” Bomanz spat. He and Stancil
knelt in the brush, watching Men fu toss artifacts from their
diggings.
    “I ought to break his leg.”
    “Wait here a minute. I’ll circle around and cut him
off when he runs.”
    Bomanz snorted. “Not worth the trouble.”
    “It’s worth it to me, Pop. Just to keep the
balance.”
    “All right.” Bomanz watched Men fu pop up to look
around, ugly little head jerking like that of a nervous pigeon.
    He dropped back into the excavation. Bomanz stalked forward. He
drew close enough to hear the thief talking to himself.
    “Oh. Lovely. Lovely. A stone fortune. Stone fortune. That
fat little ape don’t deserve it. All the time sucking up to
Besand. That creep.”
    “Fat little ape? You asked for it.” Bomanz shed his
pack and tools, got a firm grip on his spade.
    Men fu came up out of the pit, his arms filled. His eyes grew
huge. His mouth worked soundlessly.
    Bomanz wound up. “Now Bo, don’t
be . . . ”
    Bomanz swung. Men fu danced, took the blow on his hip, squawked,
dropped his burden, flailed the air, and toppled into the pit. He
scrambled out the far side, squealing like a wounded hog. Bomanz
wobbled after him, landed a mighty stroke across his behind. Men fu
ran. Bomanz charged after him, spade high, yelling, “Stand
still, you thieving son-of-a-bitch! Take it like a man.”
    He took a last mighty swing. It missed. It flung him around. He
fell, bounced back up, continued the chase sans avenging spade.
    Stancil threw himself into Men fu’s way. The thief put his
head down and bulled through. Bomanz ploughed into Stancil. Father
and son rolled in a tangle of limbs.
    Bomanz gasped, “What the hell? He’s gone now.”
He sprawled on his back, panted. Stancil started laughing.
“What’s so damned funny?”
    “The look on his face.”
    Bomanz sniggered. “You weren’t much help.”
They guffawed. Finally, Bomanz gasped, “I’d better find
my spade.”
    Stancil helped his father stand. “Pop, I wish you could
have seen yourself.”
    “Glad I didn’t. Lucky I didn’t have a
stroke.” He lapsed into a fit of giggles.
    “You all right, Pop?”
    “Sure. Just can’t laugh and catch my breath at the
same time. Oh. Oh, my. I won’t be able to move again if I sit
down.”
    “Let’s go dig. That’ll keep you loose. You
dropped the spade around here, didn’t you?”
    “There it is.”
    The giggles haunted Bomanz all morning. He would recall Men
fu’s flailing retreat and his self-control would go.
    “Pop?” Stancil was working the far side of the pit.
“Look here. This may be why he didn’t notice you
coming.”
    Bomanz limped over, watched Stancil brush loose soil off a
perfectly preserved breastplate. It was as black and shiny as
rubbed ebony. An ornate ornament in silver bossed its center.
“Uhm.” Bomanz popped out of the pit. “Nobody
around. That half-man, half-beast design. That’s
Shapeshifter.”
    “He led