by Glen Cook
This is TunFaire. That would be the taproot iron law. Things get weirder.
Ask the Dead Man what it was like in the old days, when he was young and callow. He’ll let you know that everything was normal and straightforward, way back then.
The written record, however, doesn’t support him. There may be cycles of less and more but weird is with us always.
Company is coming. Another Visitor. He had concluded that our silver elves were identical to the strange people who had been called Visitors when he was a child. He’d found fragments in Casey’s head to confirm his speculation. So from now on we were going to call them Visitors.
Fasfir whipped past me as I eased into the hallway. She hurried to the front door, then stood there baffled by all the mechanisms. I nudged her aside, looked through the peephole.
A very small, scruffy, nervous brunette was on the stoop. Homely enough to be related to Dean, she was poised to knock but wasn’t sure she was ready to commit. She looked around to see who might be watching.
She flickered.
I lifted Fasfir up so she could look. “Is that your other friend?”
Fasfir nodded.
I opened the door, which startled the Visitor because she hadn’t yet announced herself.
Fasfir revealed herself, slithering around me as lithely as a cat, before the ill-favored little woman could run away.
I shut the door and left the ladies to their reunion.
I went to the Dead Man’s room. “You been eavesdropping?”
I got the equivalent of a mental grunt in response. I noted that Casey, who seldom strayed from the Dead Man’s room, was lapsing into sleep. Again. By the time he left my place Casey was going to be years ahead on his sleep.
“Finding anything interesting? Like why this one is running around loose when she ought to be a captive of the Masker contingent?”
Given fewer distractions I might exploit the present moment of emotional vulnerability to unearth those and further significant answers.
I pinched my lips closed.
We can call this woman Woderact. She seems to be what we would call a sorceress. She would be the most socially reserved of the female crew. She is not an adventuress. Yet there is about her that same intense suppressed hunger that characterized Evas. Some not so suppressed amusement. The Maskers kicked her out because she was of no use to them. She would not cooperate. Also, the Maskers may have thought she could lead them to Fasfir and Evas, either of whom might know something that would help them repair their ship.
These Maskers seem to be more hardened than are the other Visitors.
“Except for Casey.”
Except for Casey. I do believe that it is just marginally possible that Casey could do direct, willful physical harm to another being. None of the other Visitors seem able to entertain the thought.
Ah! The excitement of the reunion has begun to ebb. Fasfir’s thoughts are no longer accessible. And there goes the new mind. Ha!
A vast miasma of amusement wrapped itself around me. My metaphysical side seems to be asserting itself. I have suffered a psychic episode. You are going to have to teach night school at least one more time.
“I can lock my door.”
But you will not.
No. Being an empathetic kind of guy, I probably wouldn’t. Not for a night or two.
Please move the women out of the hallway, now. We are about to suffer another caller. It would be best that the Visitors are not seen.
73
I looked out the peephole as someone knocked. I saw a lean beanpole of a man all dressed in black. He had a black beard and wore a wide-brimmed black hat. I didn’t recognize him.
Dean came into the hallway, started to go back when he saw that I’d reached the door first. I beckoned him forward, to answer while I eavesdropped and covered him from the small front room. The stillness and emptiness in there were sweet. With luck the parrot smell would fade away eventually.
Dean followed instructions but didn’t fail to stomp and employ his full arsenal of disgusted expressions.
The man on the stoop asked, “Is this the home of the confidential operative known as Garrett?”
Sounded to me like he knew the answer already.
Dean thought so, too. “Yes. Why?”
“I have a message from Miss Contague.” Sounded like he was talking about a living goddess, the way he said that. “For Mr. Garrett.” Making sure.
He went away without saying anything more.
“That was strange,” Dean told me, handing me a vellum document folded and sealed with a red wax seal as ornate as any used by the nobility. “That man had a voice like an embalmer.”
“She chooses her henchmen to ornament her own epic. Which she rewrites as she goes along.”
“It’s a crying shame. Such a lovely young woman to be so twisted. I blame her father.”
“So do I. But however cruel Chodo was, he never put a knife to her throat and forced her to do evil. She made the choices.” When first we’d met Belinda had been trying to kill herself by slutting it up down in the Tenderloin. At the time that had been fashionable amongst unhappy young women from wealthy families.
Even now Belinda seemed determined to bring about her own destruction. Except that these days she wanted to go out in a flashy orgy of violence. So her pain could be seen and shared by everyone.
The Dead Man once told me that monsters aren’t born, they’re made. That they are memorials which take years of cruelty to sculpt. And that while we should weep for the tortured child who served as raw material, we should permit no sentiment to impede us while we rid the world of the terror strewn by the finished work. It took me a while to figure out what he meant but I do understand him now.
You just need one intimate look at what a fully mature monster can do to achieve enlightenment.
He may have been the most wonderful pup you’ve ever known but you don’t hesitate to strike the dog if he goes rabid.
What is it?
“Belinda found the flying ship that got away out in the wine country.”
Dean said, “It took that much paper just to tell you that?” No wondering on his part about why she’d even been looking.
“There’s some cry-on-the-shoulder stuff, too.” Almost like a confession. Which made me wonder if I shouldn’t be more pessimistic about my personal longevity. I might be scheduled to share her funeral pyre. “And her people have found the stable where Casey keeps his donkey.” That for the Dead Man’s benefit, not Dean’s. Dean didn’t care. “Things he told the people there led Belinda’s agents to another apartment. It doesn’t sound as fancy as Casey’s Bic Gonlit place but the stuff she says they found there makes me wonder if half of TunFaire’s population isn’t our pal Casey in disguise.”
Excellent. Will you want to relay any of this to Colonel Block?
“Not today. Because he’d pass it on.” And the people he’d pass it to don’t really need more power than they already have. “You think we can use this as leverage to work on Casey?” I wished we’d find something. I was way tired of having the Visitor underfoot. “Can we make him think we have him over a barrel, now?” He’d been around too long just to hand over to the Guard, now. Block and Relway would want to know why I hadn’t bothered to mention him earlier.
Probably. And the point to doing that would be what?
“Oh. Yeah. He’s on a mission.”
I will discuss it with him. Meanwhile, it is time you stopped lollygagging and went back to work.
I’d begun to loathe the captain of industry gig.
All right. Yes. Everybody did warn me. But... I guess it’s mostly because my partners don’t have any patience with my relaxed attitude toward work. They’re worse than tribe of dwarves trained by Dean.
There is supposed to be a lot of humorless, from under the roots of mountains, all work and no play, dwarfish blood up one of the branches of the Tate family tree. I can’t provide any arguments against the allegation, of my own
knowledge. Tinnie definitely finds it hard to step away from work for any extended length of time.
I was the only key member of the new company not having great fun with our venture. Kip haunted his vast new workshop twenty hours a day, and usually fell asleep there. Fawning Tate nephews and cousins rushed hither and yon, making sure Kip’s genius remained unencumbered by scutwork. Experts from the discontinued military leather goods operations now stayed busy trying to determine the most efficient means of three-wheel production.
My own three-wheel, the only pay I’d yet received for any of my trouble, had been spirited in from Playmate’s stable. It now resided in the Tate compound inner courtyard, where there were always folks lined up to take a short ride. The managers didn’t want their several completed prototypes defiled by the unwashed. Even brother, sister, and cousin unwashed.
Though two-thirds of the shoe factory floor had been turned over to new manufacture, the Tales weren’t abandoning their traditional business base. They were just scaling back to the peacetime levels known by their great-grandfathers.
Shoes become a luxury when you have to pay for them yourself.
The Tates would remain the leading producers of fashionable women’s footwear. They’d held that distinction since imperial times.
Though I was a rabid fan of the three-wheel and wasn’t interested in much else, less than half the reassigned production space was intended for the manufacture of my vehicle. My associates were equally taken with several other Kip Prose inventions. His writing sticks were in production already, in three different colors. And orders were piling up.
The Guard and the Hill folk hadn’t taken notice, perhaps because writing sticks don’t fly.
Kip was having the time of his life. He was the center of everything. Everyone else was having a great time, meeting the challenges. Everyone but poor Garrett. There wasn’t that much for him to do.
I’d used up my ration of genius.
There were no crooks here, trying to steal from the boss. I didn’t have any other assets to kick in, except for knowing a lot of different people I can bring to bear on a difficulty. But the only bringing together I was getting done these days took place back at the house, nights. Woderact was proving to be a researcher every bit as dedicated as Evas had been. A tad more shy, initially, but Fasfir kept egging her on. And climbed right in there with us when the adventure called her.
TunFaire gets weirder by the hour. And my life marches in the van.
There wasn’t much I could do but all my business associates seemed determined to have me right there at the factory not doing it.
I’m an old hand at skating out of the boring stuff. I acquired that skill in the harsh realm of war. I ducked out of the Tate compound. I recouped my spirit and recovered from my difficult nights by undertaking the promised visits to the troubled Weider satellite breweries.
That killed three days but didn’t demand much genius. Like so many TunFairen villains, the various crooks were completely inept. They betrayed themselves immediately. My report named several managerial types who had to go when the thieves went because bad guys as incompetent as the ones I’d caught couldn’t possibly have operated without their superiors turning a blind eye while extending a palm for a share of the proceeds.
74
Fasfir decided she had to try her luck in person, one more time. No man could’ve faulted her enthusiasm. But something was missing from her makeup. She just wasn’t a Katie. Inevitably, direct participation left her disappointed. But she didn’t have problems enjoying what Evas or Woderact shared with her, mind to mind.
Weirder by the minute.
This latest time Fasfir had a different motive for joining me.
Of late we had been refining our communication skills until, using gestures, grunts, a few spoken words, some writing, and what I could pull out of thin air, she could get ideas across. She had a big something on her mind this time.
“You want to get your whole crew back together?” I tried to appear distraught, though that very notion had been worming around in my head for two days. As things stood, my having sicced Evas on Morley hadn’t changed anything for me. Except that I didn’t have to listen to the Goddamn Parrot anymore. “Could I count on you three to stay out of mischief?”
Absolutely.
That came through almost as clearly as one of the Dead Man’s messages. I didn’t swallow it whole. The ladies hadn’t lost their interest in going home.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Fasfir became quite excited and grateful.
Moments later an equally excited and grateful Woderact joined us.
Weirder and weirder.
I hired a coach, grumbled about the expense the whole time, put the lady Visitors inside it. I let them reclaim some of the fetishes Woderact had brought along to the house. They would appear to be human if they were seen on the street.
Casey got aggravated because he wasn’t allowed to come along. Neither of the ladies believed him when he told them that he’d help them get home.
“Lookit dis,” Puddle enthused as I pushed inside The Palms. “Somebody done fergot ta lock da goddamn door again.” Puddle wasn’t doing anything but loafing in a chair. His was the only body in sight. I’d timed my visit perfectly.
“Morley around?”
“What was dat?”
“Huh?”
“T’ought I heard somet’in’.” A huge grin drove suspicion off his face. “We ain’t seen much a Morley da past few days, Garrett. What wit’ him spendin’ so much time takin’ care a dat bird.”
Sarge shoved out of the kitchen, clearly having been eavesdropping. “Poor boy is gettin’ kinda pale, Garrett. I’m t’inkin’ he mought oughta get out in the sunshine more. What da hell was dat?”
“What was what?” I asked, as innocent as the dawn itself.
“I fought I heared da stair creak.” Sarge scratched his drought-stricken, failing crop of hair. He and Puddle both eyed me suspiciously.
“What?” I inquired.
Puddle demanded, “Whatcha up to, Garrett?”
“Actually, I just wanted to drop in to see if I had any good reason to gloat.”
Both men nodded and smiled. They could understand that. Sarge told me, “I don’ know where ya found dat little gel, Garrett, but I sure do wish dey was one or two like her aroun’ back when I was’bout sixteen.”
Puddle nodded enthusiastic agreement. “Gloat yer heart out.”
“I will,” I said. “Well, if the man can’t come down, then things are going just wonderfully. If you do see Morley, tell him I stopped by. And that I’m thinking of him. But don’t let him know I’m having a hard time keeping a straight face when I do.”
A feeble groan limped, stumbling, downstairs.
Everybody snickered.
Before Sarge and Puddle discovered my latest maneuver seemed like a good time to move myself along somewhere else. “Later, guys.”
Both henchmen observed my retreat with abiding suspicion.
I set course for home, making plans for indulging in some serious rest and brew tasting. I kept breaking out in giggles, which inclined the streets to clear away around me.
75
My opinion of the legal profession seldom soars above ankle height. I believe that most troubles would settle out faster without lawyers stirring the pot. So it irks me to have to admit that Lister Tate and Congo Greve really did turn out to be useful.
Tate was a good idea man. Greve seemed to know everybody who was anybody. Well, he did know the legal beagles that everyone who was anyone paid to put words in their mouths. And he knew how to work them when they were just hanging around.
Tate told the rest of us, “We’ll create a demand for three-wheels by having them seen underneath the most important people.”
I didn’t get it. I protested, “You’re talking about giving them away! You don’t make money giving things away.”
“You have to consider promotion as a part of the in
vestment process, Mr. Garrett. It’s an investment in public exposure paralleling our investments in tools and materials. We’ll only comp ten units, total. And those will be prototype and pilot units we put together while we’re figuring out the most efficient way to build the three-wheels.”
Congo Greve said, “I’ve placed all ten already, too. Two with the royal household! One with the Metropolitan. Thousands of the best people will see that old goof and his two acres of beard pedaling around the Dream Quarter. Every Orthodox heretic in town will want one to ride to church. Plus I got one placed in Westenrache House, with the imperial family. How about that? Just those four units should give us exposure enough to generate thousands of orders.”
I never got a protest in because I couldn’t get my jaw moving. Greve knew people inside Westenrache House? The remnants of the imperial family, with hangers-on, had been forted up, or under household arrest, there, for centuries. Ever since the ineptitude of generations of ancestors let the empire crumble into kingdoms and principalities and tiny quasi states, each of which paid lip service to the imperial crown while ignoring its wishes completely.
The sole function of the empire these days, insofar as Karenta is concerned, is to furnish somebody who can crown the king whenever a new monarch ascends Karenta’s throne. Which occurs with some frequency, though we haven’t had a coronation recently. Our present monarch is particularly adept at sidestepping assassins. With Deal Relway covering his back he’ll probably live forever.
I croaked, “I think I understand.” If the King’s daughters happened to be seen larking around on our three-wheels, every young woman of substance would demand she be provided one of her own. And the herd instincts of their fathers would ensure that the girls remained indistinguishable from the princesses.
“Good, Mr. Garrett,” Mr. Greve said. “Once we establish a list, and the social primacy of our product to the exclusion of all imitators, we’ll have written ourselves a letter of marque allowing us to plunder the aristocracy.”
I gave brother Greve the fish-eye. That sounded a whole lot like the true lawyer coming through.
