by Glen Cook
‘‘I haven’t seen one. But something is going on. Most of the workmen refused to come in again this morning. And they know the bug problem has been solved.’’
I have enough.
Two minutes later, all looking like they couldn’t remember why they had come by my place, Alyx and her henchwomen—the beautiful Miss Tate included—slipped back out into the weather. Which had improved during their visit. Macunado Street was busy.
34
When I got back to the Dead Man’s room, I said, ‘‘You want to take a feel around the neighborhood? See if you can spot anything that might be a Lurking Felhske?’’ I’d caught something from the corner of my eye.
A moment later,In the shadow of the stoop, across the street in the downhill direction. Where they always hide when they want to watch this house without being seen themselves.
‘‘That’s the one.’’ The one the neighbors all watch because a lurker means good family entertainment might be about to happen.
There’s a chaotic shimmering. I cannot penetrate it. But that is of minor import. You need to move forward. Find Mr. Tharpe.
‘‘How come?’’
We must take full charge of the security function at the World. Using people we trust.
‘‘Ah. I see.’’ Not really. He isn’t a managerial type. He wants to unravel puzzles, not to get tangled up in mundanity. ‘‘This based on what you learned from the ladies? And what was Tinnie’s problem?’’ If she’d been any more remote, she’d have been invisible.
Women talk about relationships. How they are working. How they are not. Miss Tate has been the butt of considerablepessimistic speculation concerning her most significant relationship.
Uh-oh. Something more to worry about.
I understand that the complications are as much her creationas yours. She recognizes that herself. But she cannot blame herself in front of her friends. They would say she is enabling you by making excuses for your bad behavior.
Definitely not something I wanted nagging me right now. ‘‘Back to the subject. You learned things.’’
Principally from Heather Soames. She has an organized, scholarly mind. She is slightly insane, as well. Miss Weider, on the other hand, is as empty-headed as she appears. Yes, I know. She has her positive attributes. From a young man’s point of view. But you, as you declared earlier, are taken.
‘‘Taken. But not dead. Or blind.’’
The other women, including Miss Tate, have no particular knowledge concerning the World’s troubles. Only Miss Soames and Miss Weider do. Miss Soames is interested in the opportunity the World offers. Miss Weider despairs of it ever coming to fruition.
‘‘She isn’t sabotaging things, is she?’’ I’d seen stranger things.
No. But there seemed to be substance to her ghost story.
‘‘How could she be the only one who . . . ?’’
There have been others. Few with the regular sightings she has experienced, however. It would seem the sightings are of considerable emotional impact. Denying them might be easierthan discussing them.
‘‘Hang on. How would Alyx see them? Max wouldn’t let her go near the World.’’
Max Weider knows only what Max Weider sees. And what Manvil Gilbey chooses to tell him.
‘‘Like that, eh? So. A targeted ghost?’’ In TunFaire most anything can happen. And eventually does.
Based on anomalies in Miss Weider’s memories, it could be that she was hypnotized and told that she saw ghosts. But that seems unlikely.
‘‘That would mean someone close to the Weiders, or who can get close, wants to sabotage the World. I’d agree. Improbable.’’
That is all I can give you. Nothing inside her head looked like a thread begging to be tugged.
‘‘And Heather Soames?’’
Miss Soames is, truly, an interesting mix. Very nearly two people in one body.
‘‘Another one? Let’s fix her up with Barate Algarda. They could be their own extended family.’’
You find me in a charitable mood. I have been handed several worthy puzzles. So I will exercise my benevolenceand stipulate that your observation included amusing elements.
‘‘Score one for Garrett. All right. Give me the gory details on Heather.’’
Miss Soames is determined to develop the soul of a serpent.But she cannot get shot of a soft spot for Manvil Gilbey.Whom she seems to have met the week she started tricking, at a tender age. Who has always treated her with respect, as an equal, not as what she was determined to be.
‘‘So Gilbey is a good guy.’’ No earth-rocking secret wriggling out of the sack, there. ‘‘And, hard as she tries, she can’t help liking him. And can’t make herself work evil on him.’’
In essence.
Because she needed one anchor in the world outside. She had to have somebody out there to care about. And who she could let care about her.
Been there. On the anchor end. For Belinda Contague, psychotic queen of TunFaire’s underworld.
He understands. He is clever in the ways he manipulates Miss Soames. Refusing to let her slide under by placing less destructive alternatives in her path. In such a manner that she cannot refuse without worsening her own concept of who she is.
‘‘I’ve known Gilbey a long time. He wouldn’t waste the time if he didn’t see something worth saving.’’
Just so. And try as she may to trip herself into falling down the well of perdition, the thing Gilbey sees betrays the destructive urge. It compels the other Heather to respond and produce. She has found a passion for the idea of the World. She could be the finest theater manager working— if she steps off the road to hell long enough to give it an honest effort.
Heather Soames would not be the first or even tenth person I’d met who came with a wounded personality, fitting a similar mold. There are droves of them. The cleverest and strongest have learned to hide it. ‘‘Why do so many people get that way?’’
In your species the most common cause is what the child must endure. Especially from their own families.
‘‘Huh?’’ More of that wit on the razor’s edge.
It is the cruelest secret of your race, Garrett. I have seen dozens of generations of your people. I have seen the bleaknessand darkness and despair haunting ten thousand human minds. It would amaze and horrify you to discover how many of your young are maltreated, how often, and how terribly.
‘I’m not sure I can be amazed by human evil.’’ He was right, though. The exploitation of children isn’t uncommon. Nor is it illegal, except in the churchly, moral sense. For some faiths.
I have no direct experience but I’ve known plenty who do. And suspect there are more who just can’t talk about it.
That is true. You see only the surface reality. Exploitation is so common that your people shrug it off as part of growingup. Assuming the victims will forget. And many do, becauseso little is made of what was done to them. But the internal influence never ends.
Now I was uncomfortable. I felt a crusader zeal beginning to bubble down deep inside him. And that was not a crusade I wanted to take on. The cure for that lay in the hands of fanatics like Deal Relway. People who saw in black and white exclusively and would act on what they saw. Change doesn’t come through persuasion. Not in a single lifetime.
I could imagine numerous commonlaw and customary exceptions to any do-gooder law the Crown might hand down. Including the inarguable fact that before your thirteenth birthday you’re legally the property of your parents. Unless you have the stones to run away.
There’s a timeless conflict between what’s right and what’s legal. Laws, most times, get handed down with good intentions. And immediately become cobblestones in the highway to hell. The instant the grand good purpose thuds down, unintended consequences start bubbling up around the edges.
You are a cynical beast.
‘‘It’s the company I keep.’’
Indeed.
Amazing how much sarcasm can be loaded into one sup
posedly neutral message.
The perverse foibles of your species need not concern younow. Unless the children of the Faction turn out to be productsof abuse. Which could well explain their penchant for sneaking around. Ah! Interesting.
‘‘What now?’’
Another of the company you keep is about to pass across the stage.
‘‘Huh?’’ Master of witty repartee. That’s Mom Garrett’s ever-lovin’ blue-eyed baby boy. ‘‘Tinnie came back?’’ I was in a mood for that. In a mood, lately, for having the redhead underfoot most of the time.
Pular Singe, in damp street clothes, stuck her snoot through the doorway briefly. She didn’t say anything. She wore a chagrined look, near as a ratperson can. She went on, not in silence, raising an angry racket climbing the stairs.
‘‘Did I miss something?’’
No doubt. That is another of your master-level skills.
At least he was awake at a time when his minds might come in handy.
She spent last night away from home.
‘‘Ouch!’’ I turned into a worried father in two seconds flat.
Again, you need not be concerned. She did nothing to worry you. She did nothing but disappoint herself. And be forcefully reminded that she is not human. And, therefore, less prone to be victimized by the vagaries of romance.
‘‘I’ll take your word.’’ Provisionally. But that world out there is overrun with guys just like I used to be. Some might even be ratmen.
Lucky for Singe, ratmen aren’t interested unless they’re close to a ratwoman in season. And a determined ratwoman can avoid that through judicious use of pharmaceuticals.
Of course, a ratman of a mind also has the option of injudicious use of pharmaceuticals.
Me and my baby girl maybe ought to have a talk about the kind of guys she’s going to run into now that she’s almost growed.
Old Bones was over there trying not to laugh out loud.
‘‘I’m not ready to be daddy to a litter of ratpeople pups, Chuckles. Not to mention, Dean would quit on us if we had ratbrats underfoot.’’
But he does not mind cats.
‘‘No. The racialist. Well, species-ist, I guess.’’
I could feel him regretting being too dead to break out in belly-busting laughter.
I went to have a look outside. Sourly.
The weather had gone the direction opposite my mood.
Good. I wouldn’t freeze completely once I got out there.
35
First stop I visited Mr. Jan. My family have bought clothing from him for generations. Half each of two different generations, anyway. Mr. Jan might fix me up with a new coat.
I took my time getting there. People were watching. I didn’t want to add any excitement to their days.
Mr. Jan had been issued to the tailoring trade from its First Chief Directorate of Stereotypes. He was a skinny little old guy whose war service must have happened in the first half of the last century. He shone on top, had bushy white on the sides, white mustaches but no beard. And a persistent accent that made me wonder if he might not have avoided the war altogether. Age hadn’t blunted his mind. He recognized me although I hadn’t been in since my move to Macunado Street.
He asked what I’d been doing while he laid out choices in coat styles. I gave him the high points, none of which sent an eyebrow up a fraction of an inch. Nothing outside Mr. Jan’s world could be as dramatic as the tribulations of the tailoring trade. He did manage an occasional well-timed, unenthusiastic grunt to let me know he was listening.
I wasn’t focused on old adventures, either. I was trying to figure out how to make my tails collide so I could watch the fur fly.
Seeing me underwhelmed by the choices, Mr. Jan said, ‘‘You’re the man for a new kind of all-weather coat we’re thinking about doing. My son Brande brought back a sample from a trading trip he made with friends from the war.’’ The old man cast furtive glances around. Brande and his Army buddies must have had the good fortune to have a few tons of surplus weaponry fall into the hold of a ship that they then quickly took beyond the reach of Karentine law. Where they could enjoy the benefit of a profit margin with a tiny underside.
There’s a lot of that going around. The markup between wholesale and retail is just too seductive.
Mr. Jan told me, ‘‘This example will be tight on a man with your shoulders. But you’ll get the idea.’’ The coat he brought out looked like light brown tent canvas. ‘‘This would be the summer weight. Waterproof. There’s a button-in winter lining. They wear these in Kharй, where it rains all the time.’’
I recalled the name. Vaguely. From a long time ago. Stories about rain and fog.
He was right about the fit. But I liked the coat after I saw it in a mirror. ‘‘You’ve sold me, Mr. Jan. When you make it, pretend I’m some kind of street magician.’’
‘‘You want hidden pockets?’’
‘‘Lots. Big and small. Put some in the liner, too.’’
‘‘How long do you want it to hang? To the knee is the style in Kharй, but their weather isn’t as fierce as ours.’’
‘‘Mr. Jan, you’re the coat maker. Use your own judgment.’’
‘‘I’ll need to take measurements.’’
‘‘Do your worst, foul fiend. Oh, I need something temporary, too.’’
‘‘I expect I’ll have something used that will do,’’ he said. Ignoring my jest. After numerous measurements, carefully noted on reusable vellum, he asked, ‘‘How is your mother?’’ In a cautious, tentative way. My answer meant more than he wanted me to guess.
‘‘She’s gone, Mr. Jan. Some time ago. She had no will to go on after Mikey died.’’
The war with Venageta had been on for generations. People just assumed they would lose some of their male kinsmen. My mother lost her father, her husband, and two brothers. And remained unbroken. But she gave up after Mikey went down.
That hurt. Secretly. I’ve never convinced myself that my death would have triggered as intense a response.
‘‘Sorry I brought it up.’’
‘‘You didn’t know.’’
‘‘Goes to show how long it’s been.’’
‘‘You make this coat as good as the last one . . .’’ I stopped. I didn’t want to suggest that I expected his product to outlive him.
‘‘I won’t see you again after you pick it up. I understand the commercial implications. There are coats out there that my grandfather made. And Jan trousers even older. We’re less about fashion than value and durability. There. That should do it.’’
‘‘How’s business been since the war ended?’’
‘‘We never depended on military sales. We have plenty of work.’’
‘‘Good. Good. How long till the coat is ready?’’
‘‘Ten days? Probably sooner. Check in after the weekend.’’ He went into the back, then brought out a hideous, multicolored rag I wouldn’t have been caught dead in if it weren’t for the weather. ‘‘This is the only thing I’ve got that’s big enough. Try to bring it back in one piece.’’
‘‘Every crook in town will want to take it away from me.’’
Mr. Jan just stared. The First Chief Directorate doesn’t issue them with a sense of humor.
‘‘Look, once I leave you’ll likely be visited by somebody who wants to know what I wanted. Whatever they want to know, go ahead and tell them.’’
That made the old man frown. Had we been out of touch so long that he didn’t know what I do?
He’d get the idea soon enough.
I left a generous deposit.
36
My whole life I’ve suffered from a compulsion to tug the king’s beard. The temptation has gotten to me more times than I care to recall.
Natty as all hell, I left Mr. Jan’s place fighting an impulse to go throw an arm across the shoulder of one of the guys following me. Just to mess with him. And with any other watchers.
I resisted. This time.
I move
d out slowly so everybody could keep up. I headed for The Palms. Which would amaze no one.
I did not receive the usual hostile reception. I was suspicious immediately.
Sarge seated me in a comfortable chair. Puddle brought tea. Quickly. In a silver tea service. My suspicions deepened. ‘‘What’s going on, Puddle?’’ It wasn’t like them to ignore such a stylish coat.
‘‘I told ’em your head wouldn’t be turned by no tea.’’
‘‘Nor by manners. That just makes me wonder where they’ve been for the last ten years.’’
Sarge said, ‘‘I don’t know about Morley, Garrett. But I ain’t known you dat long.’’
‘‘The question stands. How come you’re being nice?’’
‘‘Orders.’’
‘‘I know Morley isn’t suffering a conscience attack over the way you guys usually act. So what’s the story?’’ I had a notion. Any time somebody is slimy nice to me it’s because they want a name moved up the waiting list for the three-wheels.
‘‘Da boss has got him a new girlfriend.’’
‘‘Earthshaking news. What’s it been, days and days since the last one?’’
‘‘A while, actually. Ever’ time you turn around, here came another one a’ dem sky elf women, wantin’ some a’ his special.’’
‘‘They aren’t bothering him anymore? That would be disappointing.’’
Sarge looked a little shifty. ‘‘Don’t you figure you about got even by now?’’
‘‘Hey. You’ve had the Goddamn Parrot here all winter. What do you think? Is a hundred years long enough to get even for that?’’
The big slob just laughed. ‘‘Dere ya go, overreactin’ agin. You oughta sign up wit’ one a’ dem actin’ companies. Ye’re so big on da drama.’’
So I’ve heard from a few folks. Who are just fooling themselves.
Morley appeared. He had a big smile pasted on. Which just revealed the sharpness of his teeth.
‘‘Gee! You guys must want something real bad.’’
‘‘Garrett, you have to be the most cynical human being I know.’’
