by Glen Cook
John Stretch had no idea what I was talking about but he listened.
He’d know the whole story soon enough.
“Have another sandwich while Singe gets ready.”
Stretch and his henchrats dug in, eating with an amazing devotion. I told Stretch how he could pick up a little extra pocket change by hunting elves.
I continued to have this strong desire to meet Lastyr and Noodiss.
I heard Singe’s distinctive step descending the stair. I met her at its foot. I told her, “I want you to be careful. Don’t let anybody get close enough to get a good hold on you. Disappear first time they’re all looking at something else. Once you figure they can’t blame it on John Stretch. Don’t leave a trail they can sniff out.”
“You care.”
“Of course I care. You’re my friend. I worry about you.”
“Good. It is all right, you know. You and Evas. Or you and Kayne Prose. Or you and her daughter. That sort of thing does not trouble ratfolk like it does your people. I was curious. Evas suspected I was there after a while but by then she did not care.”
If I’d had whiskers they would’ve been back far enough to tie behind my head. The more I saw of Singe the less well I seemed to know her. Maybe I needed to stop using her as a mirror.
“Please be careful.”
“I will be careful, Garrett. Because I mean to have my turn. Someday.”
Help!
67
“What have we got with these two?” I asked the Dead Man, after I’d seen the ratpeople into the street and after I’d turned the Goddamn Parrot loose to keep track of them.
Singe needed watching. Reliance couldn’t be blamed if he attacked his enemies and, lo! Pular Singe happened to be tromping around with them. That wouldn’t violate the letter of any agreement with higher powers.
“Other than a big-ass grudge, of course.”
Very little that is new or interesting. Mr. Bic Gonlit did persist in trying to sell Miss Pular after you asked him to behave. For which effort his reward has been to end up here, traded for her.
Bic winced badly. He was getting the benefit of the Dead Man’s wisdom.
The thoughts must have been particularly strong. Fasfir stirred back there in the darkness, where she sat cross-legged atop a stool. She would’ve been an elegant sight had there been enough light to reveal her. None of the silver elves seemed to be acquainted with the concept of underwear. Or of modesty, either.
Officer Casey did hire those ratboys who just left. A great many of them, going well beyond John Stretch’s gang. They were supposed to steal everything from Cypres Prose’s workshop, without exception, evidently because Casey’s superiors had ordered him to see that it was all destroyed.
I didn’t speak aloud, just articulated my questions softly in the back of my throat. “He can do that? He has the sorcery to be able to talk to people in another country?”
Evidently.
No wonder the Hill crowd wanted to lay hands on these people. I had trouble imagining the full power of the weapon that would be instantaneous communication. There would be no defeating armies with that capacity.
Indeed. It is extremely difficult to dig information out of Casey. But it can be done, slowly, if one approaches the task with considerable patience. He does not appear to be as adept at concealing himself as Fasfir is, when worked over time.
“So maybe she can get him to cooperate. You have any idea where his ship is? It’s the only working one left. If we knew where it was the rest of the silver elves would turn into our best friends.”
Quite likely. And I do know where the ship is. Approximately.
“Approximately? And? Or is it a but?” It would be something.
Severe sorceries project it. And actually finding it might be difficult. Our visitors do not envision spatial relationships the way you do. They see different colors, hear different sounds, sense things you do not sense at all.
“Oh, well. Will Casey just do more mischief if we cut him loose?”
He will try. He is what he is. He shares many of your character traits. He will try to do the job he has agreed to do. He has, just recently, received those orders concerning the eradication of inappropriate knowledge. Whatever that may mean. I suspect that that means there is now an actual physical threat to Cypres Prose, simply because he has so many wonderful ideas. Ideas he received from his elusive friends.
“Then we’ll just have to keep him around here.” If he got too rambunctious, I could always send him off for a wondrous vacation in the al-Khar.
In a conversational sort of voice, I said, “Bic, we’re going to give you one more chance to get out of our way with your ass still strapped onto the rest of you. All it’ll take is for you to carry a letter from me to Colonel Block at the al-Khar. Because I don’t have time to handle it myself. Can you manage that without getting distracted? Knowing that the letter means enough to me that I’ll hunt you down and feed you your magic boots, one from each end, if my message doesn’t get through within the hour?”
“Garrett, how come you’re so damned determined to make my life miserable?”
“Maybe you’d better look at the facts, Bic. Who did what to who first? I think your beef is with Casey. This critter right here, dressed up like you. He had you jumping through hoops by pretending to be Kayne Prose in heat. While he was working Kayne, pretending to be you.” I’m so clever. Sometimes I can spot a pothole only minutes after I’ve stumbled into it. “And you and Kayne both ended up screeching because you couldn’t get all the way lucky. Old Case couldn’t pretend that part.”
Bic growled. Bic didn’t want to listen to any damned theories.
“Look at him, man. He looks like you in a funhouse mirror.” A mirror that skinnied him down and tailed him up.
“Never mind. I’m not going to argue till you’re convinced.”
“So just give me your damned letter and let me out of here.”
“And don’t forget to remember me in your will. Because I’ve treated you better than anybody else in town would’ve done.” I found myself lusting after a beer. Or something with a better kick. I hadn’t had a drop since our country picnic. But I couldn’t take time out now. I had business to attend to, outside the home. “Bic, I’d kiss you good-bye but then you’d just come back for more.”
I shut the door behind the little man at last, leaned against it. “I sincerely hope that that’s the last time I ever see Bic Gonlit.” The man was like a mosquito. Not a major problem but one persistent annoyance if you didn’t kill him.
“Can he possibly have any other reason to buzz around my ear, now?”
Suppose the Guard arrest and question him.
“I didn’t think of that.” I hadn’t, which seemed real dim of me the second the subject came up. “But he will. And he’s clever enough not to let that happen. I wish the bird was here to send out to watch him.”
You might send a pixie. They have not yet done much to earn their keep.
“That seems a little dangerous. For the pixies. Let’s just trust Bic to do what he said he’d do. I’m going to clean up and change now. I’m heading up to the Tate compound. To see Willard Tate.”
Old Chuckles failed to seize the opportunity, though I’m sure he noted my unnecessary explanation of why I had to put myself in close proximity to a certain ferocious redhead who couldn’t quite seem to decide how big a part of my life she wanted to be.
68
“I think we’re in business,” I told the Dead Man when I returned in the wee hours, a little light-headed. Willard Tate enjoys his brandies and loves to share his pleasures with people he likes. He likes me right now.
The rest of the Tates are wine people, every one with a favorite vintage. I’m not much on the spoiled grape juice myself. I prefer that Weider barley soup with plenty of hops. But I couldn’t be impolite when a taste was offered.
And it was hard to keep track of how much sipping I did when I was a little distracted, off and on, by Ti
nnie and her wicked cousin Rose.
I said, “I’ll have a sitdown with all the principals as soon as I arrange for Morley to make space available.”
I would take Morley on a nostalgic voyage into his past, returning The Palms to the days when it was The Joy House and neutral ground for meetings just like the one I planned. He was a good friend. He deserved to get the business.
Excellent. And though I do begrudge admitting it, I believe you have suffered one of your better ideas this time.
“Did Singe get back yet?”
More than an hour ago. All went well. She ate and drank like a lumberjack, then went to bed. That child has an amazing capacity for beer.
“If she’s going to keep sucking it down here, she’d better start showing an amazing capacity for bringing in cash. What about the jungle chicken?”
Still out there. Watching the al-Khar now. To see how the Guard responds to your message.
“There’s only one response possible. Don’t tell me they haven’t done anything.”
Nothing dramatic. There have been comings and goings but, not being familiar with the routine around the jail, I do not know if they are unusual. And it would behoove us to recall that we live in a political world. What Colonel Block should do and what he is allowed to do might not be identical — if someone important upHill happens to be an investor in Reliance’s undertakings.
“I know. I know. It’s a blackhearted world. I’m going to go put away some beer myself. Then I’m going to sleep till noon.”
A man’s fondest dreams and dearest ideals often become storm-tossed wrack upon reefs of reality.
I wakened to find myself already deeply involved in some extremely heavy petting.
Evas had decided school was in again. Only... It took a few moments of exploration to determine that tonight’s pupil wasn’t Evas. Perhaps Fasfir had pulled rank.
Fasfir was a dedicated student, give her that. Her focus matched Evas’. It seemed she wanted to practice till she got it right. She didn’t go away until people started stirring around the house.
Good thing I’d announced that I meant to sleep in.
69
Dean didn’t get the word. Or didn’t care. He wakened me. His stern look of disapproval was the one he reserved for my sloth, brought out on occasions when he felt he couldn’t state his opinion aloud. He would’ve employed an entirely different and much uglier scowl had he known about Evas or Fasfir.
He told me, “You need to get up. There are messages awaiting your attention. And Miss Winger is in the street outside, apprising the world of all your shortcomings.”
“I doubt that. She hasn’t had a chance to catalog them. Unless you’ve signed on as her adviser.”
He plowed ahead. “And the workmen have arrived.” He said that last quickly and softly, as though it was a minor, mooshy afterthought of no consequence whatsoever.
I didn’t think about it. Which was the point.
John Stretch had cut Winger loose. Good for him. Good for her. Maybe not as good for me if she was going to roam the streets accusing me of being in cahoots with those ugly fraternal twins, Mal and Mis Feasance. Although I certainly had trouble imagining why she might do that, considering she slept in their bed herself, most nights.
“None of that sounds all that pressing to me,” I grumbled, knowing he was going to be disgruntled simply because I was in bed when it was light outside already.
Dean shrugged. His usual, aggressive morning attitude seemed to have abandoned him. He was intrigued by something on the floor. Something he might possibly have last seen hanging off Fasfir. He frowned deeply as he tried to get a mental grasp on the facts.
I saw the change when he decided he was imagining things.
I said, “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
On instructions from the Dead Man, Dean let Winger into the house. She stormed from the front door directly into the kitchen, where I was working on breakfast while surrounded by my harem. “Have a cup of tea, Winger.” Then I said, “If you insist on being abusive I’ll just chuck you right back out in the street. Where you can keep on entertaining the secret police spies who watch this place every minute.”
Winger was wound up. She blistered the air with her extemporaneous remarks. However, mention of Relway’s gang got her stuttering fast. Unfortunately for her immortality, I wasn’t paying enough attention to recall her exact words for posterity. Which was probably just as well. She hadn’t been doing a whole lot of nun-style talking.
“You’re running around loose, aren’t you?” I wedged the question in while pouring tea for myself and Evas, who seemed astounded that something like Winger existed. “Imagine that. And you didn’t get one single precious little hair on your pretty head harmed, either. Amazing.” I wasn’t responsible but she didn’t need to know that.
Winger thought some. The implications made her stumble some more. She decided to sit down and enjoy an eating contest with Singe — at least until she’d worked herself up for a fresh round of accusations.
Once she had her mouth full, I asked, “How did those ratmen manage to capture you? I expected something to happen. Morley was supposed to send some men to back you up. Didn’t they show?”
“Those pussies?” I think that’s what she said. Her mouth was still full of dribbling crumbs. “Those assholes ran out on me.”
I sighed. That wasn’t that hard to translate. It meant she’d been such a bitch that Morley’s guys had decided that the job wasn’t worth it, that Winger deserved whatever she got. Morley would back them up. And would demand that they be paid for their suffering. And he’d have the moral right of it, probably.
Winger remains her own worst enemy.
Maybe she ought to try a little adult education with Sarge.
Some crashing and banging started up front. “What the hell? Sounds like somebody’s beating on the side of the house with a sledgehammer.” For a moment I envisioned Doris doing to my house what he’d refused to do to Casey’s place.
Nobody told me anything. But Dean’s attitude suddenly seemed evasive.
I recalled his having said something about workmen.
I drained my teacup and headed for the front door, noting that I wasn’t hurting much of anywhere this morning. Which was wonderful. And surprising. I ought to have some cramps, or something, considering the rigors of my instructional duties.
The racket got the Goddamn Parrot going. “Help! Help! Oh, Mister, please don’t...” I leaned in to tell him, “Aw, shut yer ugly beak, ya little pervert,” before I went on to the door. “Ain’t nobody here who ain’t heard it all before.”
Wait.
“Huh?”
I believe we are about to have a caller.
“But somebody’s trying to wreck the outside of the house.”
Masons are removing a couple of bricks to permit the pixies access to the hollows in the middle course of the wall.
The outer walls of my place are three-course brick masonry, a very dark, blackish rough red brick. Typically, the center course of that sort of construction includes a lot of voids.
So some genius had gotten the notion that those voids could be turned into pixie apartments. Gah! Now I’d have them squabbling inside my walls, day and night.
I supposed chances were excellent the guilty genius spent most of his life making and unmaking messes in my kitchen.
As the Dead Man had predicted, someone knocked on the front door. The knock had that peremptory character I associated with the secret police, that combination of confidence and impatience.
Nor was my guess in error, though my visitor was no one I recognized. And had been chosen, no doubt, because of that fact. If they had to deal with me directly, they would show me too many faces to remember. “Yes?”
“Courier. I have a message for you from Colonel Block.” A written message at that. He slapped a small, scroll-style document into my hand, then turned and took off, stepping like he was marching to a drumbeat pitched too high
for human ears. He headed straight up the street to Mrs. Cardonlos’ rooming house, probably to collect the daily reports. Which meant they’d given up bothering to pretend.
Well?
Reading, I closed the door with shoulder and elbow. “A report on what they’ve been doing about Reliance and some other rat gangsters using human slaves to manage their bookkeeping.”
Generous of the colonel.
“Yes, indeed. And I’ll tell you this. I wouldn’t want to be a known ratman criminal right now.” What Block was willing to commit to paper would be just the tip of the iceberg. And what he’d been willing to set down was so vicious and wicked that I felt belated reservations about having unleashed the whirlwind.
“Here’s an interesting ‘Did you know?’ Did you know that ratpeople, alone of all the intelligent peoples of TunFaire, have no legal standing whatsoever? Less, even, than an ox or a draft horse? That anyone can do just about any damned thing they want to them with complete legal impunity? Just the same as if they were regular rats?”
Easy to understand why, then, they would be bitter.
“Better believe.” Not one in a hundred of my fellow royal subjects had a conscience sufficiently well developed to understand why I found that situation troubling, too.
Do not bruit that about. Few people know. Were that common knowledge, someone would soon be killing them for their fur or their teeth or their toenails, or something such.
And people capable of that were out there, strangers to conscience, remorse, and pity, who were constitutionally incapable of encompassing those concepts however often they were explained.
“I’ve unchained a beast.”
This once may be for the best. Mr. Relway may know no limits but those he imposes from within. Which may make him appear infinitely ferocious even while those internal limits do exist. He will exterminate ratmen with wild enthusiasm but everyone who perishes will have been a true villain.
“Or if they weren’t they wouldn’t have gotten themselves dead. Right? I know that game of old.”
