by Glen Cook
When Evas turned up she was coolly indifferent to everything but some tea heavily sweetened with honey. She was exactly as she had been yesterday except, possibly, for projecting a somewhat more resigned attitude toward her captivity. Her sidekick Fasfir, though equally cool, presented a puzzle. She kept looking at me the way you might regard a twenty-foot python you found coiled atop the kitchen table: repelled, wary, awed, maybe a little intrigued and excited.
Still nothing from the Dead Man.
That must’ve been one hell of a dream I’d had. Especially since it’d reawakened all my aches and pains and had added a few that were new.
Evas might be willing to let me think it had been all a dream spawned by my wicked imagination but I noted, with some satisfaction, that she moved very carefully and did so mainly when she thought no one was paying attention. Fasfir noticed, though.
So. She knew.
My grin spread a little wider.
“What evil thought just burst into your mind?” Singe demanded. There was an actual teasing edge to her voice.
“Nothing special. Just a warm memory.”
Once I finished eating, and began to feel a little more awake, I moved to my office. I was feeling positive and eager to get things done. But before I could start I had to go round up a pile of missing paperwork.
During the course of the morning, various people came by the house. Most wanted money. Playmate was effusive with gratitude but didn’t bring one copper sceat to defray the costs of my efforts to salvage his madonna’s useless infant. I responded to two written requests for clarification or additional information from the good people at the al-Khar. I received a note from Manvil Gilbey telling me that Max Weider wanted in financially. The same messenger brought a sealed note from Max’s daughter Alyx, who complained that she was dying of loneliness and that that was all my fault and when was I going to do something about it?
There were other notes in time, including one from Kayne Prose, inscribed for her by a professional letter writer. That was meant to impress me. And it did, a little. Then there was a discreet letter from Uncle Willard Tate, who invited me to the Tate compound for dinner because he’d just enjoyed an intriguing visit from a certain Manvil Gilbey, associated with the Weider brewing empire. The paper on which the letter was written had a light lilac scent. The hand in which it had been inscribed was familiar and almost mocking.
It reminded me which redheaded, green-eyed beauty managed the Tate correspondence and accounts.
I’d have to gird my mental and emotional loins for that visit. Tinnie was sure to play me like a cheap kazoo if I was bold enough to venture onto her home ground.
The afternoon saw the arrival of a formal, engraved invitation to participate in the celebration of Chodo Contague’s sixtieth birthday party, two weeks down the road. And a “Just wanted to say hi” note from solicitor Harvester Temisk, implying that he’d really like to visit before Chodo’s birthday celebration.
Dean began to grouse about having to answer the door constantly — when he wasn’t hard at work pursuing his custom of charming whatever woman happened to be staying in the house. It was he who took Evas far enough along to lure forth a spoken word of gratitude. She didn’t pronounce the word right and she had difficulty saying it but she did demonstrate that at least one silver elf besides Casey came equipped with a capacity for speech. Yet one more talent unsuspected by us primitives until she betrayed herself. Possibly she was a throwback in more ways than the one.
Fasfir didn’t seem pleased.
I had begun to develop an idea of the personalities of our reluctant guests. Evas was cool and brilliant and collected and always in control. In her own mind. But in real life she’d be her own worst enemy. A sort of foreign Kayne Prose with a mind. With her self-destructive urges skewed at a different angle. Fasfir would be cool and collected and always in control but, like the best officers and sergeants, would be skilled at failing to see those transgressions which did not threaten the world with an immediate descent into chaos and anarchy.
Singe invited herself into my office to preen and gossip. There wasn’t a lot to gossip about, though, unless she wanted to discuss the recipes Dean had begun sharing with her.
I asked, “How close are you to your brother?” I didn’t think family was important among ratpeople, but had only prejudice and hearsay to go by.
“I do not have a brother. What does this one say?” She had started leafing through my papers.
“Which side?”
With unerring accuracy she had chosen the side which said, Teach me.
I told her.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. This isn’t a royal style business. I don’t have a few million people I can gouge for taxes anytime the urge takes me so I have to make do with whatever bits and pieces of paper come my way. My stuff is on the other side.”
I hoped Singe hadn’t done any poking around in here. There were almost two dozen identical sheets of paper inside my desk drawer, with both faces still virgin to the pen.
I stuck to my subject. “What do you mean, you don’t have a brother? What’s John Stretch, then?”
“Oh. Well. We do not see some things the same way you do. Humility belongs to the litter before mine. He would have a different father.” Ratpeople follow social and mating customs much closer to those of rodents than they do those of civilized beings such as myself. Chances were excellent that few of Singe’s littermates shared the same father.
“Humility?”
Singe responded with one of her rehearsed shrugs.
“So his real name is Pular Humility?”
“No. It is Pound Humility.” That’s right. The Dead Man did tell me that. “His sire is believed to have been Hurlock Pound. Chances are good. My mother managed to retain some choice and self-control even during the peak of her season. I hope I will have the strength to do the same. Though I am less likely to go into season as long as I remain in exile.”
The name Hurlock Pound meant nothing to me. “Never mind. I’m too groggy to keep up with all that. Let’s stick with John Stretch. Why did you get upset yesterday when —”
“Because I have spent too much time around you people. I suppose. And because Humility was always good to me when I was little.”
“But now he wants to use you as a counter in his effort to make himself king of the ratmen.”
“Just do not go hunting him. All right? That way I cannot blame myself for whatever he gets himself into.”
“I guess. Whatever.” The child was strange. I was convinced that she didn’t know what she wanted most of the time. Unlike her doomed brother, she didn’t know where she wanted to go.
Then again, I’m sometimes wrong.
“I have been wondering, Garrett. Do you think it would be possible for me to learn to read and write?”
So that was where she’d been going when she’d chosen that sheet of paper. I gave it some thought because, honestly, “I’ve never thought about it. That’s probably because of the prejudices all us humans are brought up with. Do you know any ratpeople who can read or write?”
“No. Reliance is the only one I know who needs to. So he has a couple of slaves to keep his books and write his letters. The same goes for the other ratman gangs.”
I kept a straight face. “Have you ever heard of anyone who tried to learn?”
“I’ve met some who wanted to learn. Wanted to try to learn. But who would teach them?”
Who indeed? Nobody in TunFaire, of whatever race, wanted ratpeople getting notions, taking on airs, thinking above their station.
“All right. Karentine is the main language in TunFaire so it’s what you’ll know best.” I recovered the sheet carrying the request, Teach me. Ironic. “Do you know any of these letters by name?”
She didn’t then but half an hour later she knew them all and had a solid grasp on the concept of how characters and groups of characters represent the sounds that make up spoken words. That
was because she’d paid attention most of her life. To everything going on around her.
I sorted out every paper I had that had anything on it in Evas’ handwriting — which was, actually, laborious, tiny printing — and got that all put away. “We humans might ought to have you strangled right now, Singe. I swear, you’re going to take over the world in a few more years.”
For once she grasped the compliment. She was learning in every direction.
I hoped she was as good in her heart as she seemed. Otherwise, I’d be helping to create a monster.
66
I did hear the pixies get excited but missed the knock on the door. I’d fallen deep into contemplation of Eleanor, who seemed to be contemplating me right back. She didn’t approve of the way I’d been running my life lately. When Eleanor disapproves I know it’s time to do some serious reassessment. I thought I had a handle on it, too.
Dean stuck his head into the office. “There’re some very nervous ratmen on the stoop.”
John Stretch.
“John Stretch?”
“One gave me that name.”
“I’m on my way.”
Bring them to my room.
I swung the door open. “Get in here, guys. They’re watching the place most of the time these days. Bic, bitty buddy. How’re you doing? Not too good, I guess. And Casey,” as a second Bic shuffled forward. “I know that must be you in that disguise. Screwed up, eh? Damn, John Stretch, you got them both. I didn’t think you could do it.” I made sure the door was solidly locked, just to retard any attempt at a hurried exit. “Go into the room behind the door on the right, please. Dean! These guys look like they’re starved. Singe! Where are you? We’ve got company. Give Dean a hand.”
In my heart I was wondering if, perhaps, Singe wasn’t the only genius pup produced by her mother. And this other pup did want to be in charge.
John Stretch and his friends didn’t know what to make of the Dead Man. It’s hard to do, him sitting there like an idol that gives off just a hint of bad aroma. Chances were excellent that they’d never run into a Loghyr before. It could be, in fact, that they’d never heard of the Loghyr race.
They didn’t know what to make of Fasfir when she invited herself in, either. She drew plenty of attention from Casey, though. Casey seemed amazed to find her alive and more amazed to find her clad in ragged native garb. But he kept his opinions to himself. The Dead Man assured me that Casey had closed his mind with a determination that was stunning. For the time being he was locked up tighter than Fasfir was.
He must suspect something.
Either that or he was a natural-born paranoid.
I took my seat. “Damn again, John Stretch. How in the world did you manage to round up these two?”
Interesting. He has a talent of his own. He can use his normal rat cousins to scout and spy for him, much as I employ Mr. Big. Though his reach is very much shorter than mine.
“It couldn’t be any other way.” I continued, “You put me in a nasty position, John Stretch. My reputation for keeping my word is my most important asset.”
Last time we met, I thought John Stretch must be dim. He wasn’t. Not even a little. He understood that I wanted to weasel out. “You agreed to a deal. We have fulfilled our undertaking.” His Karentine remained hard to follow but was adequately understandable. His courage was beyond question. Ratmen don’t talk back to humans, let alone imply threats.
“The problem is, long before I made the deal with you I swore a solemn oath to Singe that I wouldn’t let any of you people drag her away from here.”
“And he knows that if he does not keep his word to me he will soon wish he was enjoying the torments of one of his human hells instead of basking in my displeasure.” Singe staggered under the weight of a tray of hastily assembled sandwiches. She set that on the little table, began to help herself. John Stretch and his ratmen waited only long enough to get a nod from me before they assaulted the pile.
Singe brought her muzzle within inches of John Stretch’s. With her mouth full and crumbs in her whiskers, she demanded, “What the hell do you think you are doing, Pound Humility? I am not a pawn in your game. I will not be a pawn in your game. I will not be a quiet, obedient little ratgirl who lets herself be passed around like a weed pipe.” John Stretch and his henchmen glared daggers at me. This was all my fault, this ratgirl getting uppity. “If Garrett will not whip up on you and throw you out of here I will kick your mangy tail up between your hind legs myself. Then I will go to work on your idiot friends.”
John Stretch could not find words for a while. Finally, he asked, “You are not a prisoner here?”
“What? A prisoner? You are an idiot. I live here. This is where I want to live.”
Gah! I had a feeling that the cunning ratgirl had just jobbed me. A strong hint of Loghyr amusement supported that hypothesis. That damned Singe could think on her feet.
It is quite true that John Stretch believed Miss Pular was in need of rescuing. In addition to being a clever and competent criminal he appears to be an unabashed romantic and as vulnerable as you might want to hope from that quarter — as was, if you will believe it, Reliance, in his time.
He was going to get bashed if he tried anything here. “John Stretch, let’s you and me step over to my private office for a minute and talk, man to man. Go ahead, grab another sandwich. Before Singe consumes the whole pile.”
I started in while John Stretch was still reeling from his first look at Eleanor. “What’ll your guys do if they find out everything they’ve been through was just to rescue a ratgirl who refuses to be saved? There’ve been people killed. A bunch have been dragged off to the al-Khar. You know their prospects are going to be dim there.”
“Those will not be much worse than out on the streets. The war is over. There is no more work. Humans have no more motive to treat us with respect. For those imprisoned the misery just will not last as long. The stable disaster was bad luck. Bad timing added to the fact that we were not told just how much material we were expected to remove.”
“Maybe you didn’t know the temper of the neighborhood very well, either.”
“Of course we did not. No ratpeople live there. But the promised payoff seemed worth the risk.”
“It always does. Until the pain starts.”
“Possession of Pular Singe is more than a personal matter. All ratkind is watching. Yes, I would have rescued her. Even having heard the words from her own mouth, in Karentine rather than cant, I find it hard to believe that she prefers to live among humans.”
“I’ll tell you why. You know the saying, ‘Lower than a ratman’s dog’?”
“I know it. I understand it.”
“I’ll tell you what’s lower than a ratman’s dog. A ratwoman. Think about it.”
He got it. A point in his favor. Most ratmen wouldn’t have if you’d drawn them a picture. “That may be another reason why Reliance considers her an important symbol. She is living proof that things can be done in ways other than the ways they have always been done.”
“Reliance has been advised by a higher power. He’s renounced his interest in Singe. In return the Syndicate will let him live. But he’s just stupid enough to think he’s clever enough to sneak around the Outfit, somehow. So I’m going to invest in some rough insurance as soon as we’re done here.”
“You mean that?’
“Singe is my friend, Pound Humility. She’s one of the most remarkable people I’ve ever met, of any species. I want to see her become everything she can. I want to see what she can become if she’s given the chance. Despite the customs and politics of ratpeople. Despite the prejudices of everybody else. You understand?”
“No. But I can accept. If Singe is safe from Reliance.”
“Answer my question. What’ll your friends do if they find out what you were doing?”
“If we do not have possession of Singe? They might be angry enough to kill me.”
“Thought so. You ratfolk aren’t subtle peop
le. So maybe you’ll want a running start... No. Wait a minute. Wait just a minute. I might have an angle. Hang on here for a second.”
I zipped across the hallway. “Singe, come out here. Yes, bring the sandwich.” I shut the door behind her. “Singe, my sweet, whatever happened to that now-you-see-me, now-you-don’t fetish we took off Casey out in the country?” I knew we hadn’t turned it over to the Guard. Mainly because I’d forgotten all about it.
Singe’s whiskers folded back. Way back.
The significance of which I intuited instantly. “Oh, no. You didn’t. You wicked girl.” Not only did she know about Evas, she’d been there to watch. “You figured out how to work the box.” Now she was a sorceress, too. And she hadn’t said a thing. “Old Bones. Are you listening?”
I am here.
“Then show Singe what I want her to do.” There were too many untrustworthy ears in the place tonight.
And now the Dead Man knew about Evas, too. He hadn’t before, though three people in the house did know. Evas must have some considerable skill at sealing memory blocks, including those in minds not her own.
But I did know, Garrett. Because the pixies knew. However, it was none of my business. He had nothing to say about his failure to be a direct witness himself.
But the pixies, too. Who didn’t know?
Dean. So far.
Even Fasfir?
Even Fasfir.
Grrr! He was right before. This was personal stuff. But when had that ever kept him from butting in with his opinion? And why hadn’t the senior elf woman blown up like a bad batch of beer?
Now wasn’t the time to worry. We needed to get on with business. “Keep Singe posted on what I’m saying.” I returned to John Stretch. “Here’s what we’ll do. Singe will go with you, all docile and bashful, for your sake. Because we think it’ll be good to have you for a friend. Let all ratkind marvel at your coup. But I want to warn you. Singe is going to vanish. Like a candle being snuffed. I want you to lie low for a few days after that. Things will be going on with Reliance and his like. Pay attention. Try not to repeat their mistakes after your luck turns.”
