by Glen Cook
Dean beat the seven-year locusts to the kitchen. I celebrated the new age by nudging Morley into my office, explaining the situation here. Being Morley, part elf and familiar with things sorcerous and eldritch, he cut straight to the heart of it, immediately finding the thing that had been nagging me since the Dead Man had told me he’d given me enough to go on.
“The man you skragged was naked when you brought the Watch captain. The men buried in the old days would have gone into the ground wearing whatever they had on when they were executed. Which would have been what they were wearing when they were caught. The clothes must be the key. Or something the old boy had on him. An amulet. Jewelry. Something that whoever got into the coach house took when he stripped the corpse.”
“Cut it.” By that point I’d gotten the point, if you follow me. It wasn’t the man that was cursed, it was something that went with the man. Like maybe some knives.
I shuddered. I shivered. I went cold all over. This was grim.
I would have to do some legwork. One hell of a lot of legwork. I would have to dig out records that went back to imperial times to see what the villains had in common. What piece of apparel, decoration, or whatnot, that might carry a curse compelling a man to waste ladies who ought to be conserved for fates sometimes known as worse than death.
Is it really worse, girls?
29
The case had developed a certain rhythm. I should have expected what happened next, as I was about to rejoin Block and the Dead Man. It was guaranteed.
Somebody pounded on the door. “Three guys with knives,” I muttered as I headed that way, Dean having proclaimed himself incapacitated before the pounding stopped.
I peeped through the peephole. “I wish it was three guys with knives.” I considered pretending nobody was home. But Barking Dog knew better. He had come around often enough to know our dark secret. Somebody was always home.
I opened up. “Uhm?”
“Been more than a week, Garrett. You ain’t been over to get my papers.” He bulled in behind the usual aromatic advance guard, dripping. He produced his latest report.
“You writing the history of the world?”
“What else I got to do? It don’t stop raining. I don’t like getting wet.”
“I noticed.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Cabin fever’s making me cranky. Maybe you ought to polish your speeches. It can’t rain forever.”
“No. Only all day every day. You noticed that? It’s mostly just raining during the daytime? How did the weather get so screwed up, Garrett?”
I thought about tossing him something flip about the Cantard and stormwardens but feared he’d go off the deep end with some wild new theory.
“You’d think the gods themselves don’t want me spreading the truth.”
“Them probably more than most mortals.” I left it at that, mostly because I didn’t get a chance to say anything more,
Barking Dog froze. His eyes got huge, his breathing ragged. He threw one hand up, fingers twisting into the sign against the evil eye. He said, “Gah! Gah! Gah!” in a high squeak, retreated toward the door. “It’s him!” he croaked. “Garrett! It’s him!”
Him was Captain Block, who stood in the doorway to the Dead Man’s room, gaping. When I turned back to Amato, I saw nothing but the door closing behind him.
“Gah! Gah!” I said, making the horns. “What was that?”
Block asked, “What was Amato doing here?”
“Him and the Dead Man are buddies. They get together to make up stories about the secret masters. It’s amazing how they get along. What’s your story? How do you know Barking Dog?”
Block’s cheek twitched. He looked like he wasn’t sure where he stood. “In the course of my labors as a minion of the hidden manipulators, the puppet masters who pull the strings on marionette judges and functionaries, I was forced to circumscribe Mr. Amato’s freedom.”
I laughed. “You arrested him?”
“I didn’t arrest him, Garrett. Whatever he claims. I just asked him to come talk to a man who was put out about something he said. He’d have been fine if he could’ve kept his mouth shut for five minutes. But he just couldn’t resist tearing into the best audience he ever had. One thing led to another. I had to take him in front of a magistrate for a formal warning about libel. He couldn’t stop running his mouth. Donner doesn’t have a sense of humor. He doesn’t find Barking Dog an amusing street character. The more he bore down, the more Amato jacked his jaw. So he got pissed, gave Amato fifty-five days for contempt. And all of that is this running dog’s fault. You never heard such carrying on as when we were walking him over to the Al-Khar. Hell, if he could’ve kept his mouth shut then, I’d probably have screwed up and let him get away. But he pissed me off.”
“A different view of events,” I said. “Though his version isn’t much different. He said it was his own fault.”
Block chuckled, but grimly. “I wish all our rebels were as harmless.”
“Huh?”
“One of the reasons the Prince wants to get serious is, he thinks we’re on the brink of chaos. The way he puts it, if the Crown can’t demonstrate its willingness to fulfill its social contract with the Karentine people, in an obvious and popular fashion, we’ll head into a period of increasing instability. The first sign will be the appearance of neighborhood vigilante groups.”
“We already have those, some places.”
“I know. He thinks they’ll get stronger and become politicized. Fast, if Glory Mooncalled stays lucky. Each time he makes fools of us, more movers and shakers head down there to help tame him. The more that go, the fewer there are to keep the peace here.
“He thinks the vigilantes may connect up, form private militias. Then different groups that don’t agree politically will go to knocking each other’s heads.”
“Got it. Some might even take a notion to get rid of the folks running things now.”
“The Crown could end up as one more gang on the streets.”
Good boy me, I didn’t say a word about that.
Overall, we Karentine rabble are unpolitical. All we want is to be left alone. We avoid what taxes we can, but do pay some as protection money. You pay a little here and there, the tax goons don’t grab everything. Near as I can tell, that’s the common man’s traditional relationship with the state—unless he’s a state thug himself.
I said, “I might have to take a closer look at this prince—if he really thinks the Crown is something besides a mechanism for squeezing out cash to benefit the privileged classes.” I buttered too much sneer onto my remarks. Block didn’t understand that I was being cynical and sarcastic instead of seditious. He gave me a thoroughly dirty look.
I said, “Maybe I should pay more attention to the fable about Barking Dog’s running mouth.”
“Maybe, Garrett.”
“What did you do down there?”
That’s a question every veteran understands. And every human male adult in TunFaire who can stand on his hind legs, and plenty who can’t anymore, are veterans. The one thing the Crown does very well indeed is find every man eligible for conscription.
“Army. Combat infantry to begin, then long-range recon. After I was wounded they moved me into military police. I saved a baronet’s ass once, which is how I came to get this job.”
A hero. But that didn’t mean squat. Most everyone who lives long enough to get out does something heroic sometime. Even some downright nasty scum, like Crask, have medals they trot out. It’s a different world in the Cantard. It’s a different reality. Regardless of where they stand, heroes or villains, the men with the medals show them off with pride.
Contradictions. Being human is contradictory. I’ve known killers who were artists, and artists who were killers. The man who painted Eleanor was a genius in both fields. Both natures had tortured him. His torment ended only when he crossed paths with someone even crazier.
I said, “We’re wandering far afield
. Let’s scope out what to do about this killer.”
“You buy that about it coming back from the dead?”
“You mean like there’s been outbreaks before?”
Block nodded.
“From him, yeah. I buy it. We’d better dig into the old records. You have the manpower and access for that, and the clout to get around functionaries.”
“What do I look for?”
“I don’t know. A common thread. Anything. If the same spirit is coming back again and again, then it’s been caught and stopped before. We see what they did back then, we can do it now. And maybe figure out how they screwed up so the cure didn’t take.”
“If your buddy don’t have something he caught from Barking Dog.”
“Yeah. If.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“I saw the first guy alive and dressed. I’ll work the clothes and hope I get lucky again.”
He eyed me narrowly. He thought I knew something. I did, but what good would it do to tell him there was a survivor of a murder attempt—and she was Chodo Contague’s kid? He’d get himself a case of heart troubles complicated by hemorrhoids.
“Right. So tell me one thing, Garrett. What the hell is Morley Dotes doing here?”
He wasn’t dumb enough not to know that Morley and I went way back. “I know what he is, Block. And I know what he isn’t.” But how to explain that this professional killer never offed anybody who hadn’t asked for it? How explain that Morley had standards less flexible than most people on the right side of the law? “He’s my window onto the other side of TunFaire. There’s anything to find out there, he’ll find it.” I hoped.
I wasn’t sure why I’d sent Dean for Morley, now, though it had seemed the thing to do at the time. Maybe he could conjure me a connection with Chodo’s kid. She had to know something. Her pretty head might hold the one fact we needed to nail this butterfly freak.
Right. She was the type who saw nothing but herself. She’d probably forgotten butterfly granddad as soon as the fear went away.
Block scowled, not liking Morley being involved. Gods spare me the born again—even when they’re born again only so they can cover their asses. “Don’t go righteous on me,” I said. “It won’t help.” How did he know, anyway? Morley was keeping his head down.
Block’s scowl deepened. “I’ll go get my men started. I’ll let you know what they find.”
Sure he would. After he milked every ounce of advantage. My opinion of him had improved, but not so much I didn’t think he was a born functionary. Him using me was still a desperation measure.
“Do.” I saw him into the drizzle, then went to find out what the Dead Man thought.
30
“Another thousand marks if I wrap it permanently?”
So the man promised. He delivered before. The Dead Man was pleased with himself for having wangled another cash commitment from Block.
“Occasionally I’ve complained about the way you—”
Occasionally? Would you not prefer ‘frequently’? Or ‘consistently’? Possibly even ‘persistently’ or ‘continuously’?
“Once in a while. Whenever the seven-year locusts sing. But I did want to make the opposite point. That was a coup, getting him to pay again.”
He is desperate.
“And desperate times are the best times for those who are alert to opportunity. I understand. What do you think about interviewing Chodo’s daughter?”
Morley had invited himself out of my office into the Dead Man’s room. Now he invited himself to comment. “This came up before. My overtures were not greeted with cries of joy.”
“Leave it to me. I got style. Get word to Crask that I want to talk about the girl. Don’t say what girl. He don’t know I know who she is.”
“I don’t get it. How can he not know? . . . ”
“You don’t have to get it. Just tell him I want to talk to him about a girl. You don’t say which one, he’ll know what I mean. Him and me can take it from there.”
“You’re working an angle, Garrett. You ought to know better. You always get yourself into deep shit. What is it? Don’t try anything with the kingpin’s kid. You get a notion like that, slash your wrists and save the rest of us some grief.”
“What do you think?” I asked the Dead Man.
An interview with the girl may prove unproductive, but an interview is necessary to demonstrate that. If possible, arrange to see her here.
“The very core of my master plan.”
You lie. But I do trust your sense of self-preservation will deflect your inclinations.
“I am a mature human being, sir. I do not look upon all members of the opposite sex as objects of desire.”
Morley sneered. “Only those over eight and under eighty.”’
“You’re not helping. Sure, I don’t plan to be in bed alone when I go. But I don’t plan to go for a couple centuries, either.”
Ha. I convinced me. All but one tiny part that wondered what I’d do if Chodo’s daughter suffered some miraculous remission and not only became able to see me but decided to whisper sweet nothings . . . Sometimes even the stoutest-hearted of us white knights find the dictates of reason, conscience, and survival overruled by parts not amenable to the dictates of the mind. There’s a sociopath in each of us just waiting to miss the connection between an act and its consequences.
“Right.” Morley didn’t believe me.
I got the impression the Dead Man didn’t either.
My own doubts were less apocalyptic. I’d seen enough of the woman to have become deafened to the sirens of that fantasy. I might snort and stamp, but I wouldn’t lose control. She wasn’t my type.
We talked about this and that till Morley decided he’d heard enough bad news. He said, “If I’m away too long, Puddle and Sarge and the kid will have me set for the poorhouse.”
“Sure. Let’s go watch them race the flying pigs.” I saw Morley out, rejoined the Dead Man.
What now, Garrett?
“I’m thinking real hard about taking a nap.”
Indeed? And what was that Mr. Amato brought? I trust that you do recall that we have another iron in the fire?
“Come on. You want me to drag that mess down to Hullar?”
It occurred to me that doing so might be useful in more than the obvious way. When you deliver the report, invest a few minutes in trying to learn if anyone knows why the Contague woman turned up there.
“I did wonder about that.”
But you were not ambitious enough to pursue it. You really must make TNT your motto, Garrett.
“TNT?”
Today, Not Tomorrow. Take it from an expert. The only thing one should defer is one’s final appointment with Death.
Hang around with the Dead Man long enough and you can read him well enough to get messages that aren’t in his words. What he hadn’t said but meant was that if I didn’t go make myself a nuisance at Hullar’s place, I wouldn’t get any peace at home.
You compromise. That’s life. Every day you make deals that buy you peace—or an opportunity for a good night’s sleep.
I decided the path of least resistance lay through Bishoff Hullar’s taxi-dance place.
31
Crunch and I were getting to be buddies. After only five minutes of squinting and thinking he remembered that I preferred beer. That saved him one question in his routine. I saved him the others by asking for a pint of Weider’s pale lager, then told him, “Tell Hullar Garrett’s here.”
“Garrett. Right.” He tiptoed away. I waited for his feet and beard to disagree. No such luck. That dwarf defied the laws of nature.
He took a while. I sipped beer and surveyed the place. I’d never seen it so busy. It was jumping. Three couples were dancing while the band snored through something I might have recognized had it been played by real musicians. Three tables boasted customers. There wasn’t a girl left over to hustle me—though by now they had me pegged for a waste. They remembered better than Crun
ch did.
One of the girls caught my eye. She was new. She had some life left. And she was a great actress—unless she really was having a good time. She was younger than the rest, an attractive brunette who looked enough like the brunette I’d seen earlier to cool my fantasies.
“Be out in a minute,” Crunch said behind me. I’d turned to lean against the bar while I studied the local wildlife. I glanced over my shoulder. Crunch looked back, puzzled. He didn’t understand what was going on. He had an idea I was a bagman for the outfit, only I made deliveries instead of collections.
I’d caught him on a real good day first time around. Most of the time he was like this. Puzzled. By everything.
“Who’s the brunette there, Crunch?”
He squinted, had trouble making her out. He fumbled out a pair of cheaters, perched them on his nose, pushed them back with a finger like a dried-out potato. I was surprised. Glasses are expensive. “That there’s the new girl, mister.”
Right. “Come with a name?” Her or me?
He puzzled it but didn’t come up with anything before Hullar descended on the stool beside me, his back to the bar too. He accepted a mug from Crunch. “It don’t get no better than this, Garrett.”
I glanced his way. I read no more from his expression than from his tone. Was he saying this was heaven on earth? Was he stating a fact about business? Was he being sarcastic? Maybe he didn’t know himself.
I handed him Barking Dog’s latest.
“Shit. Don’t you got nothing else to do? All I want to know is, is the crazy bastard getting his tit in a wringer? I don’t need to know every time he picks his nose.”
A point I kept trying to get across to Barking Dog. I said, “First time I dropped in here, Crask was here.”
