by Glen Cook
It’d been a while since we two had crossed paths. He seemed to have grown in that time, both in stature and in confidence.
I turned away on the theory that he could use a little deflation.
Allow the colonel to enter, Garrett. That will serve us better in the long run.
“Took you long —” Block snarled as I swung the door inward. “Damn! Garrett!” he barked when I swung it right back shut, bruising his nose.
Garrett!
“Just a little courtesy lesson.” I opened the door again.
Colonel Block appeared more flustered than angry. And his goons — three gorillas damned near as big as Saucerhead Tharpe — wore dazed looks, as though they were asleep on their feet, with their eyes open.
“Good evening, Colonel. How can I help you?”
Evidently the shock had been enough to startle Block into a case of the courtesies. That or some light touch from the Dead Man. “Yes. We’ve had reports of some unusual events, Garrett.”
“This’s TunFaire. We have wizards and priests enough here to supply the world with weird.”
I led Block into the Dead Man’s room while we talked. His goons remained outside, still as memorial pillars. He replied, “But in this instance there’s reason to believe that you might be involved.”
“What? Me? How come I get blamed for everything?”
“Because someone fitting your description, accompanied by persons fitting the descriptions of known associates of yours, including a cursing parrot, was seen near the sites of several unusual incidents. I’m disinclined to accept the explanation that your evil twin was out there trying to scuttle your reputation. You don’t have one.”
Go ahead and tell him the truth, Garrett.
I’ve cooperated with the authorities on most occasions. It rankles but, to be honest, it’s never been that huge an inconvenience.
So I told him the whole story. Sort of. Almost. In the young peoples’ abridged form.
Then he told me a story. His was a lot shorter.
“Coming up here we ran into a crowd of ratpeople. Twenty or thirty of them, trying to work up their nerve for some villainy. When they recognized us they scattered like roaches. A couple of my guys mentioned seeing a little fat man running with them. Either one of you want to say something about that?”
“I would if I could, boss. But I don’t have any idea.”
The Dead Man had no comment at all.
Block asked, “Any ideas about these lights in the sky, these flying helmets and whatnot? People keep seeing them and getting upset about them so other people keep telling me that I have to do something about them. Nobody has any suggestions about what the hell that might be and I don’t have any brilliant ideas of my own.”
“You’ve started to regress. You had your language so cleaned up you could’ve fit in at court.”
“That’s what’s causing it. Polite society. Those folks have more demands, and can make bigger pains in the ass of themselves, than any three normal human beings.”
“Who’s telling you to do something about those things? Do they really think you’d interfere in wizards’ experiments?”
“Get real. It’s wizards doing the demanding, Garrett. They can’t figure out what’s going on. So they expect Colonel Westman Block of His Majesty’s Royal TunFairen Civil Guards to unravel the mystery for them. Meantime, Wes Block can’t keep his own feet untangled. But they don’t need to know that. How much does the Prose kid know?”
I’d been afraid we’d get to that as soon as he’d mentioned the failed investigations of our lords of the Hill. “I don’t know. Not much more than squat, but he’d like everybody to think he’s in on the secrets of the universe. He’s a loon. Eighty percent of what he says is complete ‘I-want-you-to-think-I’m-special’ hooey.”
“Does he know where to find those stray elves he picked up?”
“My guess is, he can get in touch somehow if it’s critical. But we don’t know where he is.”
“Yes. That’s right, isn’t it? That other bunch snatched the boy up. So you say.” He gave me a look filled with suspicion. He was succumbing to Relway’s Disease. Trusting no civilian.
Sometimes I think Deal Relway divides the population into three categories. The smaller two consist of known criminals and of policemen, with a very fuzzy boundary in between. The other, largest category includes all the rest of us. And we’re all just crooks who haven’t been found out yet. And we should be treated accordingly.
Block eyed the Dead Man. “Is he asleep again?” Old Chuckles had shown no sign of sentience since the colonel’s arrival.
“An excellent question. Lately I’m getting random moments of nonsense but nothing consistent. I’m worried. He may be on that last level ground before he hits the slippery slope down.”
Block scowled, still suspicious. He had heard this one before.
I said, “Indulge my curiosity. How come you’re out prowling the streets yourself? I thought you guys had a division of labor where the colonel stays back at the Al-Khar snoozing and harassing prisoners while the rest of the guys do all the real work.”
Block didn’t respond right away. He glanced at the Dead Man again, definitely wondering if he could get away with telling me less than the whole truth. “When your name came up I knew it was bound to get exciting. It made sense to get close to the center of the action right at the beginning.”
I didn’t need the Dead Man to tell me that Block was dealing me a steaming hot load. The Hill might not be behind the flying lights and pots but somebody up there wanted to be involved. And when the Hill wants something even its biggest detractors put on a show of flashing heels and flying elbows. Not many people relish the notion of spending the rest of their lives dead and being tortured.
Which is no contradiction where the top-ranked sorcerers are involved.
You might, by a stretch, be able to say that Colonel Block and I are friends. Not thick and thin, hell and high water, blood brother friends but guys who like and respect one another, who are willing to lend a helping hand to one another, where it’s possible to do so.
It was conceivable that Block was doing so at the moment, so that I wouldn’t walk into something entirely blind. And so that, in return, he could tap me for a little information that would keep him in good odor with the people prodding him from behind.
I can do that for him. It’s worked out for us in the past. The tricky part is keeping outsiders from forming the idea that we can get along.
Block observed, “You really are a big old barrel of nothing, aren’t you...? What the hell is that?”
The pixies out front had declared war. Possibly on themselves, they were so raucous.
They’d been silent since my return. So much so that I’d begun to suspect an evil influence at work.
“Pixies,” I told Block. “I seem to have adopted a mob. Against my will. I’d better see what’s got them excited.” Inasmuch as the Dead Man didn’t seem inclined to inform me.
I heaved out of my chair and headed up front. In the small front room the Goddamn Parrot was asleep already, muttering in his diabolical dreams. No doubt he had protested his recent utilization by making a mess Dean would nag me about for weeks.
Block followed me. Through the peephole I watched one of his escorts fling something upward. I said, “Your boys are tormenting my pixies.”
“I’d better get them out of here before it gets out of hand, then. Don’t hesitate to let me know if you learn anything useful.”
“You wouldn’t accidentally let slip which sorcerer types are interested in my problem, would you?”
“Not hardly. Not even if I knew. But I think you can safely assume that just about anybody up there would be interested in gaining the secrets of flight.” He opened the door, went out growling. “What the devil do you men think you’re doing?”
“They started it. They were throwing...”
Chunk! The door cut it off.
19
I
returned to the Dead Man’s room. “So how come we needed to chase Block and his pals away? And how the hell did the Goddamn Parrot get back in the house?”
Mr. Bic Gonlit is out there awaiting an opportunity to reclaim his magical boots. Colonel Block was unable to add anything more to our meager knowledge.
Miss Pular opened the door for Mister Big while you were napping.
“Did Block add anything to our meager knowledge?” I didn’t like that business about Singe opening the door with nobody to back her up. Old Bones isn’t always attentive to detail.
Only internal confirmation of most of what he told you. The people on the Hill have become exceptionally interested in unusual celestial events of late. In Block’s mind they’re convinced the flying objects represent a threat from foreign sorcerers. Although a minority believe that a rogue cabal of Karentine wizards are behind what has been happening, hoping to elbow the rest out of the inner circles of power. Whatever the truth, the root concern is those people’s fear for their positions.
“Oh, they wouldn’t like to lose their power, would they? Do I need to go out and catch Bic Gonlit?” Because I was bone-tired. I was ready to hit the sack, skipping the evening’s last five or six mugs of beer.
Judging by your stunning success in that direction before, perhaps your ideal course would be to wait for him to come to you. He does seem to be extremely superstitious about his boots. They are a controlling factor in his life.
Singe came in from the kitchen carrying a tray. She’d hidden out there while Block was in the house. And she hadn’t wasted her time. She’d made more sandwiches. And had drawn me a mug off the keg in the cold well.
I gave her a look at my raised eyebrow trick as I went to work on a sandwich. Her whiskers twitched and pulled back in the ratkind equivalent of turning pink.
“It’s all right, Singe. You’re welcome. Old Bones. I’m not going to be able to keep my eyes open much longer. If I get him in here can you handle the interview?”
His exasperation with mortal weakness became palpable. Get him in here. That is the key first step. Then you two can run off to bed whilst I labor...
Singe squeaked. Her whiskers went back so far it looked like they were about to pop out.
“He doesn’t mean that, Singe. He just means sleep. You take the guest room on the third floor.” She was familiar with it. She’d used it before. “I’ll see if Block’s gone.”
He is. Though an observer remained behind and is seated on Mrs. Cardonlos’ stoop, pretending to be drunk. He is about to fall asleep at his post.
I went to the front door certain that any sleepiness being experienced by Colonel Block’s man had an artificial origin. Unlike my own.
Singe followed me. She carried a lamp. Its light silhouetted me when I opened the door.
Bic Gonlit arrived five minutes later. He was about as hangdog as it’s possible for a man to look.
“Bic, old buddy,” I said, “why’d you want to go and bring a bunch of ratpeople around to my place?”
“You still got my boots?”
“They’re in a place of honor. But I’m going to burn them and scatter their ashes on the river if I don’t hear some explanations.”
“You don’t have a reputation for being that hard, Garrett.”
“You’ve got a rep as a bring them in alive kind of bounty hunter, Bic. So besides the answer to my ratpeople question — which I want to hear real soon now — I’d sure like to know why you’re hanging around me. But where are my manners? Come on in. We don’t want to do business out here. The Guard keeps a watch on me.”
Gonlit jumped. He looked back nervously. He sure was a worried little man. And barefoot, too.
He slipped past me, taking one final troubled look back as he did so.
“Tell me about the rats, Bic.”
He stared at Pular Singe. “Because there’s a huge reward out for her. Reliance wants her bad. I thought I’d get my boots back during the confusion when Reliance’s gang were grabbing her.”
“Plus you’d’ve made a few marks,” I said. “I appreciate your honesty. So I’m not going to hold a very big grudge. All you need to do is explain why you were hanging around in the alley out back and just had to slug me. We’re going in here.” I held the door to the Dead Man’s room. Bic’s boots were in there, sitting on the table next to Singe’s sandwiches. But I had a feeling it would be a while before they enjoyed a loving reunion with Bic’s feet. “Take a seat, brother.”
“I just want my boots, Garrett.”
“We all have dreams, Bic. Sometimes we have to give a little something to attain them. What about the alley?”
“What alley?”
“Now we’re going to play tough?” Exasperated, I snapped, “The goddamn alley behind my house. Where you bushwhacked me and pounded me over the head with a sap.”
Gonlit looked at me like I’d just sprouted antlers.
Garrett.
I jumped. So did Bic and Singe.
“Yeah?”
Bizarre as it may seem, the man really does have no idea what you are talking about. I now find myself examining the hypothesis that the Bic Gonlit you encountered in the alley was not the man who is here with us now. Either this man h as a twin or what you ran into was the creature I sensed and set you to collect, somehow projecting an illusion based upon the expectations of Cypres Prose.
I now agree that it is time you went to bed. Have the man sit down. Bic hadn’t yet accepted my invitation. Then go. I will see that he dozes off, too.
Pular Singe made an offer that was difficult to refuse because she was so fragile emotionally. “Not tonight, Singe. I’m so tired I’d fall asleep in the middle of things. And you’d get your feelings hurt. While you kept telling me that it was all your fault.” She was getting used to hearing me yell at her about embracing blame for what other people did.
That wasn’t as honest as I should’ve been. But it did buy me time to think about an answer that would leave Singe with her tender dignity intact, feeling good about herself.
The more I considered it the more I suspected that I’d need the Dead Man’s help to work this one out. Singe was at an age and stage where she wasn’t going to hear much from me that she didn’t want to hear.
Though I must say my “not tonight, another time” response certainly seemed to ease her anxieties for the moment.
Maybe she wouldn’t find the nerve to bring it up again.
20
Those damned pixies woke me up twice during the night. And both times I got a touch from the Dead Man indicating that we had a prowler outside. He didn’t trouble himself enough to report what kind of prowler. And I was too groggy to care.
The pixies made good watchdogs. Yet if that was what I wanted I’d just as soon get something big but quiet that would eat the prowlers without waking me up or disturbing my neighbors.
It was near the crack of noon when I stumbled downstairs and found a sullen Dean sharing his kitchen with Pular Singe. Singe was at the table eating. She had dragged her custom chair in from the Dead Man’s room.
Dean was doing dishes and wrestling with his prejudices. Not many folks have much use for ratpeople. I’ve always belonged to the majority myself. But I do try my best to contain my dislike. That’s been a lot easier since Singe came along.
I mumbled, “You’re going to get fatter than the Dead Man, Singe.” I flopped into my own chair. “My head still hurts.” Though a lot less than it had.
Dean said, “I’ve warned you and warned you to ease up on the beer, Garrett.”
“It wasn’t beer this time.”
Dean rattled some dishes and snorted, not believing me.
“It’s not. Singe can tell you. I got knocked out by some kind of wizardry a few times yesterday. And every time I woke up I had a worse headache than before.”
“Then explain why I had to send out for a new keg this morning. It hasn’t been ten days since you finished the last one.”
“New keg? B
ut the old one shouldn’t be...”
Singe had developed a fierce interest in a fly doing acrobatics from the ceiling.
“And you don’t have a bit of a hangover from all that, either. Do you, girl?”
She shook her head, tried one of her want-to-be human smiles.
“Gah! This’s the cruelest of all cruel worlds.” I would’ve teased her about selling her back to Reliance or something but she’d probably have taken me seriously.
Dean took his hands out of the water long enough to pour a mug of tea and set a breakfast platter in front of me. That was mostly seasonal fruit, accompanied by small chunks of cold ham.
A typical meal, really. Which left me wondering how Dean managed to produce so many dirty dishes, pots, and pans.
I downed a long slug of tea. There was something in that cup besides plain tea. It left a bitter taste underneath the honey. So Dean had counted on me showing up with a headache. Since he doesn’t coddle my hangovers he must’ve been forewarned. So his fuss was all for form.
So the Dead Man was good for something after all.
Though he wouldn’t have coddled a hangover, either.
Singe tried to fuss over me. Dean looked disgusted. I showed him my evil eye. Of all the females to pass through my kitchen the one he’d pick to dislike actively would be the only one who was willing to treat me special.
He was plenty willing to climb all over me when it came to me not treating every girl as if she was uniquely special.
I tossed back some more tea while thinking my house was turning into a nest of cranky old bachelors.
The pixies started acting up out front. Dean ignored them. He had his cutting board out and was getting ready to mutilate vegetables.
“You going to check that out?” I asked.
“No. Happens every fifteen minutes. If it means anything the thing in the other room will let us know.”
If he wasn’t asleep. The Dead Man has a habit of falling asleep, sometimes for months, usually at the most inconvenient times, businesswise.
