Cold Copper Tears

by Glen Cook

  Bess said, “Down, boy.”

  Dean said, “Mr. Garrett!” He used his protective father tone.

  “Phoo! I don’t mess with children.”

  “I’m not a child,” Maya protested. And when you thought about it, she wasn’t. “I’m eighteen. If it wasn’t for the war I’d be married and have a couple of kids.”

  It was true. In prewar times they’d married them off at thirteen or fourteen and had given up hope of getting rid of them by the time they were fifteen.

  “She’s got a point,” I told Dean.

  “You want these eggs the way you like them?”

  How typical of him to drag in extraneous issues. “You won’t hear another word from me.”

  “Grown men,” Maya told Bess, who nodded in contempt. That nearly sent Dean off on one of those tirades that bust out of him every time one of his nieces opens her mouth.

  It occurred to me that Bess was barely three months older than Maya. Dean had no trouble picturing Bess married to me.

  People seldom see any need to be consistent.

  The key word there, though — of course — is “married.”

  I said, “Let’s forget it. Maya. Tell me what you learned while those people had you.” I went to work eating.

  Maya sat down. Bess started on her hair again. “There isn’t much to tell. They didn’t try to entertain or convert me.”

  “You always pick up more than you think, Maya. Try.”

  She said, “All right. I got the bright idea I could show you something if I followed those guys. All I showed you was a fat chance to tell me you told me so.”

  “I told you so.”

  “Smartass. They grabbed me and dragged me off and kept me in a place they used for a temple. A weird, grungy place they’d made over by painting the walls with ugly pictures.”

  “I saw it.”

  “I sat through their religious services. Three times a day I sat through them. Those guys don’t do anything but work and eat and pray for the end of the world. I think. Mostly they didn’t use Karentine in their services.”

  “They sound like a fun bunch.”

  Maya snatched a buttered muffin off my plate and smiled brightly. She was moving right in. “Get used to it, Garrett. Yeah. They were fun. Like an abscessed tooth.”

  I chewed sausage and waited.

  “They’re really negative, Garrett. In the Doom I know people who are negative, but those guys could give lessons. I mean it. They were praying for the end of the world.”

  “You’re telling me things I didn’t know. Keep going.”

  That was praise enough to light her up. It takes so little sometimes. I had a feeling she’d turn out all right, given encouragement. “Tell me more.”

  She said, “They call themselves the Sons of Hammon. I think Hammon must have been some kind of prophet, about the same time as Terrell.”

  Dean said, “He was one of Terrell’s original six Companions. And the first to desert him. A bitter parting over a woman.”

  I looked at him in surprise.

  He continued, “Later dogma says Hammon betrayed Terrell’s hiding place to the Emperor Cedric — if you find him mentioned at all. But in the Apocrypha, written that same century and kept intact in secret since, it’s the other way around and Hammon died two years before Terrell was turned in by his own wife. Known to us as Saint Medwa.”

  “What?” I gave the old man the long look now. He’d never shown much interest in religion or its special folklore. “What is this? Where’d you get all this? When did you become an expert? I’ve never heard of this Hammon character and my mother dragged me to church until I was ten.”

  “Council of Ai, Mr. Garrett. Five Twenty-One, Imperial Age. Two hundred years before the Great Schism. All the bishops and presters and preators attended, along with a host of imperial delegates. In those days every diocese spawned its own heresy. And every heretic was a fanatic. The emperor wanted to end a century of fighting. In Five Eighteen in Costain, in one day of rioting, forty-eight thousand had been killed. The emperor was a confirmed Terrillite and he had the swords. He ordered the Council to expunge the memory of Hammon, so the proto-Church and Orthodox sects wrote him out of their histories. I know because my father taught me. He was a Cynic seminarian for three years and a lay deacon all his life.”

  You never know everything about somebody, do you?

  You can’t argue with an expert. Besides, the “facts” I’d been taught had never made sense. The histories of Terreh’s time, outside the religious community, didn’t jibe with what the priests wanted us to believe.

  We had been told that Terrell had been martyred for his witnessing to the masses. But the way the secular histories go, the religion business was wide open in those days. Every street corner in the cities and every hamlet in the country had its prophet. They could rave all they wanted. Moreover, Terrell had been a prophet of Hano, who had had more followers then than he does now.

  “Then why did Cedric kill him?”

  “Because he started in on the imperial household and establishment. He got political. And he didn’t have sense enough to shut his mouth when they told him to stick to putting words into the mouth of Hano, who can look out for himself.’’

  I always figured that. Why would Hano need henchmen down here to knock the heads of unbelievers when he’s the Great Head-knocker himself? “So who are these Sons of Hammon?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of them.”

  Maya said, “They’re devil-worshippers, Garrett. They won’t even speak their god’s name. They just call him the Devastator and beg him to bring on the end of the world.”

  “Crazies.”

  “He answers them, Garrett.” She started shaking. “That was the bad part. I heard him. Inside my head. He promises them the end of the world before the turn of the century if they carry out his commands faithfully. Many will die in the struggle but the martyrs will be rewarded. They will be drawn to his bosom in peace and ecstasy forever.”

  I exchanged looks with Dean. Maya’s eyes had glazed and she was babbling like something had taken possession of her. “Hey! Maya! Come back.” I clapped my hands in front of her nose.

  She jumped and looked bewildered. “Sorry. I got carried away, didn’t I? But it got pretty intense when those guys got a service going and their god talked to them. Hell. It was really bad the night before last. He showed up in person.”

  “Yes?” Did I want to know about this? “A thing like an ape, six arms, twelve feet tall?”

  “That was the shape he assumed. Uglier than a barrel of horned toads. How did you know?”

  “I met him. Out at Chodo’s. He didn’t make good company. But he seemed kind of puny for a god.”

  “That wasn’t really the god, Garrett. I’m not sure what they meant but the thing was something like what the real god dreamed. Only he had control of the dream, like you do sometimes. You know?”

  The more she talked the more nervous she got. I wondered if they’d done something to her that she either wouldn’t talk about or couldn’t remember. “Is this upsetting you?”

  “Some. Things like that don’t happen to people like me.”

  “Maya, things like that don’t happen to people like me, either. Or anybody else. I’ve had some weird cases but I’ve never gone up against a god. Nobody these days has to deal with gods who really show up.”

  I glanced around. Dean was troubled. Maya was troubled. Even Bess, who didn’t have a notion what we were talking about, bless her vacant head, was worried. I thought back on what I’d said.

  A god who really shows up.

  That’s nightmare stuff. Who expects the gods to take an active role these days? Not even guys like Peridont. The gods haven’t busy bodied since antiquity.

  What Maya had to tell was interesting, but useful only in a cautionary sense. I still had to get my hands on Jill Craight and maybe squeeze her. Something had started all this excitement bubbling.

  I recal
led the note Jill had left in that apartment. I had made maybe the biggest screw up of a career checkered with goofs.

  I should have sat on that sucker for as long as it took. Somebody was going to come and get it — somebody who might be at the root of this whole damned business.

  Maybe I hadn’t needed Jill at all. If only I had waited there until he came... But then I wouldn’t have gotten Maya loose...

  Maybe it wasn’t too late. “I have to go out.”

  36

  It was too late. The note was gone. I cussed my blindness. I tore that apartment to shreds looking for something, anything, and found exactly what I deserved to find. Nothing.

  So it would be the hard way after all, hunt Jill Craight until something shook loose.

  I hoped I wouldn’t be hearing from the Sons of Hammon for a while. The way they’d taken it on the chin, I couldn’t see them doing anything but backing off to regroup. I just hoped the bastards were as confused as the rest of us.

  I got out of there and headed to the area where Tey Koto claimed Jill was likely to be found.

  There are pimples and pockets of Hell and Purgatory all over TunFaire. People wouldn’t want their daughters hanging out there. The kingpin probably has a finger in all of them. The worst, the biggest, where Chodo’s presence is heavier than that of a king, is the Tenderloin, sometimes called the Street of the Damned. If you want it, someone there will sell it. And the kingpin will get his cut.

  It’s Hell on earth for those who survive that way, used and abused and discarded the instant they lose their marketability. For those who haven’t been to the underside and haven’t lived with the ticks on society’s underbelly, it’s difficult to believe people will use each other so badly.

  Believe me, there are people out there who’ll destroy a hundred lives for pocket change and never know a moment’s remorse. Who wouldn’t, in fact, understand if you told them they’d done something wrong by addicting a twelve-year-old so she’d cooperate as a thirty-a-day flat-backer.

  They understand “against the laws of Man” but not “against the law of humanity.” Right is whatever you make it, for as long as you can make it last.

  They’re out there. And they’re the real bogeymen.

  And through those mean streets walks a lonely man, a solitary knight-errant, the last honorable man, bent but not broken by the lowering storm...

  Boy! Pile it on like that and I might have a future as a street-corner prophet — complete with all the kicks in the teeth that implies.

  People don’t want to be told to do right. They don’t really want to do right. They want to do whatever they want — and whine that it’s not fair, it’s not their fault, when it comes time to pay the piper.

  There are times when I don’t care much for my brothers and sisters, when I’d gladly see half of them buried alive.

  I don’t go into my high holy mode too often, but a trip to the Tenderloin gets me every time.

  So much that goes on there is unnecessary. In many cases neither the exploiters nor the exploited need to be doing what they do to survive. TunFaire is a prosperous city. Because of the war with the Venageti and Karenta’s successes in it, there’s work for anyone who wants it. And honest jobs go begging until nonhuman migrants come to the city to fill them.

  A century ago nonhumans were curiosities, seldom seen, more the stuff of legend than real. Now they make up half the population and the bloods are becoming inextricably mixed. For real excitement wait until the war is over and the armies disband and all the war-related jobs dry up.

  I’ll step down off my box with the observation that, hell though the Tenderloin is, and as vile, vicious, or degraded as its habitues may be, most have some choice about being there.

  “Garrett.”

  I think I jumped about four feet high because my sense of survival had gone into hibernation. I came down so ready for trouble I had the shakes. “Maya! What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you. I figured you’d come this way.”

  Was the little witch turning into a mind reader? “You didn’t say why.” I knew why, though.

  “We’re partners, remember? We’re looking for somebody. And there’s some places a man isn’t going to get into no matter what he tries.”

  “You get hiking right back home. I’m going into the Tenderloin. That’s no place for —”

  “Garrett, shut your mouth and look at me. Am I nine years old and fresh out of a convent?’’

  She was right. But that didn’t make me like it, or incline me to change my mind. It’s weird how the symptoms of fatherhood had set in. But damn it, Maya out of her sleaze ball duds and chuko colors wasn’t anybody’s little girl. She was a woman and it was obvious.

  And that was maybe two-thirds of my problem. “All right. You want to stick your neck out, come on.”

  She joined me, wearing a smug smile filled with good teeth.

  I said, “You snuck up on me, you know. You grew up. I can’t help remembering the filthy brat I found beat to hell all those years ago.”

  She grinned and slipped her arm through mine. “I didn’t sneak, Garrett. I took my time and did it right. I knew you’d wait for me.”

  Whoa! Who was talking shit to who here?

  Maya laughed. “If we’re going to do it, let’s go.”

  37

  To understand the Tenderloin — to even picture it if you’ve never been there — you have to get in touch with the seamiest side of yourself. Pick a fantasy, one you wouldn’t tell anyone about. One that makes you uncomfortable or embarrassed when you think about it. In the Tenderloin there’s somebody who’ll do it with you, for you, or to you, or somebody who’ll let you watch if that’s your need.

  Let your imagination run away. You can’t think of anything somebody hasn’t thought and done already. Hell, somebody’s thought of something even more disgusting. And it’s all available there in Wonderland. And not just sex, though that’s the first thing that jumps to mind.

  At that time of day, late afternoon, most of the Tenderloin was just waking up. The district worked around the clock, but the majority of its patrons were like insects who shun the light. The district wouldn’t get white-hot until after sunset.

  I asked Maya, “You been down here before?”

  “Never with a gentleman.” She laughed.

  I tried to scowl but her constant good humor was catching. I smiled.

  “Sure,” she said. “One of our favorite games. Come down here and watch the freaks. Maybe roll a drunk or kick the shit out of a pimp. We got up to lots of stuff. Most of the people who come here don’t dare complain.”

  “You know how dangerous that is?” The people of the Tenderloin are solicitous of their customers.

  She gave me the look the young save for old farts who say dumb things. “What did we have to lose?”

  Only their lives. But kids are immortal and invulnerable. Just ask them.

  It wasn’t yet dark but we had plenty of company on the outer fringe, where the offerings are relatively tame. Gentlemen were window shopping, barkers were barking, my angels were lurking, and a dozen prepubescent boys were trying to mooch copper. When I turned one down he took a big pinch of Maya’s bottom and ran off. I roared in outrage, as I was suppose to do, and took a step after the brat, then the humor hit me. “You’re on the other side now, sweetheart. You’re one of the grown-ups.”

  “It hurts, Garrett.”

  I laughed.

  “You bastard! Why don’t you kiss it better?”

  There in the tamer parts the houses display their wares in big bay windows. I couldn’t help admiring what I saw.

  “You’re drooling, you old goat.”

  I probably was but I denied it.

  “What’s she got that I don’t?” she demanded half a minute later. And I couldn’t answer that one. The delicacy in question was younger than she and no prettier, but provocative as hell.

  I needed blinders. My weakness was getting me into
deep shit.

  “There she is.”

  “Huh? Who? Where?”

  Maya gave me a nasty look. “What do you mean, who? Who the hell are we looking for?”

  “Take it easy. Where did you see her?” Grow up a little, Garrett. You got somebody’s feelings to consider.

  “Right up ahead. About a block.”

  Her eyes were better than mine if she could pick somebody out of the crowd at that distance.

  I caught a glimpse of blonde hair in a familiar style. “Come on!”

  We hurried. I tried to keep that hair in sight. It vanished, reappeared, vanished, reappeared. We gained ground. The hair disappeared in the swirl near the en-trance to a “theater” just opening for the first show. And it didn’t reappear.

  I was as sure as Maya that we’d spotted Jill.

  I tried asking questions of the theater’s barker. He was a lean whippet of a man, hide tanned from exposure to the weather. He didn’t look like a nice guy. He looked at me and saw something he didn’t like, either. The promise of five marks silver got me a look of contempt. This guy not only didn’t know anything about any blonde, he’d forgotten how to talk.

  Maya pulled me away before I tried to squeeze something out of him. One must be careful putting the arm on the help in the Tenderloin. They hang together like grapes, them against the world. “Next time how about I do the talking?” she said. “Even these jaded apes will listen to me.”

  They would, just to spite me. “All right. Let’s go across the street and sit and give this a think.” The Tenderloin does boast a few amenities absent from the rest of the city, like street-side loos and public benches. Anywhere else benches would get busted up for firewood and loos kicked down for the hell of it. Here the busters themselves would get broken up for kindling before they got done with their fun.

  The organization has no patience with people who cost it money.

  We went across. We sat. I considered the area and my options while Maya turned away offers by explaining that she was engaged. “Although,” she told one would-be swain, “I might be able to shake this old guy later.”