Old Tin Sorrows

by Glen Cook

  “Jennifer?”

  “Yes. They look a lot alike.”

  I hadn’t seen that. I tried to see Jennifer in the blonde. “I don’t know. There’s a lot of Stantnor in Jennifer and none in this one.”

  I guess I squeaked. He asked, “What?”

  “That face in the background. There was a lot of Stantnor in it.”

  “Jennifer? Bradon did her bad.”

  “I don’t think so. I got the feeling it was male.”

  “Around thirty and stark raving mad.”

  The lightning had fits outside. I shuddered, jumped up, started lighting lamps. I couldn’t shake the chill. “I’m spooked,” I confessed.

  “Yes. The more I look, the creepier it gets.”

  The chill stayed with me. I wondered if we were being watched. “Think I’ll start a fire.”

  “Whoa! What did you say?”

  “I’ll start a fire. I’m freezing my—”

  “You’re a genius, Garrett.”

  “Nice of you to notice.” What did I genius? It went right by me.

  “Fire in the stable. You figured right, too. Not for you at all. For something Bradon had hidden. What did you find hidden? The paintings.” He gestured at the blonde. “The painting.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “I do. What were the others? Crazy stuff. But people we’ve seen and places in the Cantard.”

  So I looked at the painting again.

  Morley said, “There’s the key to your killer. That’s why Bradon died. There’s why the stable burned. That’s your killer.” He laughed. It was a crazy noise. Hell. Everything was crazy in this place. “And you slept with her.” He started to say something else, caught himself, reflected. “Oh, man.” He came and put a hand on my shoulder.

  He could have slept with a mass murderer and thought nothing of it. Maybe he’d have smiled and cut her throat afterward. A lovable rogue most of the time, but there’s a cold subterranean stream inside him.

  He knew how it would hit me before it hit. He was there when I started to rattle.

  It wasn’t as bad as I feared, but the idea did shake me. “I’ve got to pace.”

  He let me get up and try to walk it off. That didn’t do much good. The whoopee-making noises outside didn’t help. The thunder ripped at my nerves like cats howling at midnight.

  Then I recalled promising Jennifer I’d see her later. The old mind fixed on that, telling me I could clean out a whole bird’s nest with one stone.

  “Where you going?” Morley demanded.

  “Something to do. Promises to keep. Almost forgot.” I got out before he pressed me, sudden as that, not quite sure I was thinking right.

  37

  I glanced over the rail. Kaid and Wayne were seated on opposite sides of the fountain, not talking. They’d cleaned up Chain. Peters had gone. I wondered why they bothered. Maybe they couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t see me getting much sleep despite exhaustion and hurting everywhere.

  I made it to the loft, crossed, slipped down to the third floor without attracting attention. It was a great house for sneaking. I tiptoed to Jennifer’s door. I tapped. She didn’t answer. I shouldn’t have expected her to, as long as it had been. I tried the door. Locked.

  Only reasonable. Any fool would have taken that precaution. I tapped again and still got no response.

  “So much for that idea.” I started for home.

  And stopped. And without understanding why I turned back and went to work on the lock. I had it undone in moments.

  Jennifer didn’t like the darkness. Half a dozen lamps burned in a sitting room identical to her father’s. Not knowing the layout of these end suites, I decided the best place to find her would be behind the same door the old man used to make his entrances. I locked the hall door and headed that way.

  I don’t know what you’d call the room beyond. It wasn’t a bedroom. It was more a small, informal sitting room with only a few pieces of furniture and one big window facing west. It was gloomy, lighted by a single candle. Jennifer was there, in a chair facing the window. The drapes were open wide. She’d fallen asleep despite the excitement outside. I doubted she’d have heard my knock had she been awake.

  Now what, bright boy? Make the wrong move and they’ll turn you into a eunuch.

  Hell. It’d been tried before. I shook her shoulder. “Jenny. Wake up.”

  She shrieked and jumped and stumbled away and . . . The gods were kind. One of those barrages of thunder absorbed her cry. She recognized me and got herself under control—more or less.

  She held her hands over her heart and panted. “You scared me to death. What’re you doing here, Garrett?”

  I fibbed a little. “I told you I’d come by. I knocked. You didn’t answer. I got worried. I fiddled the lock and came to see if you were all right. You looked so pale I just reached out to shake your shoulder. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Did I sound sincere? I poured it on. I do sincere pretty good. Been studying Morley’s technique. She relaxed some, moved a little closer.

  “Gods. I hope I didn’t wake the whole house yelling like that.”

  I apologized some more. Then it seemed only natural to hug her to comfort her. A minute after that, when she’d stopped shaking so bad, she found a little girl voice and asked, “You’re going to ravish me now, aren’t you?”

  For me it was the perfect thing for her to say at the moment. I busted out laughing. It took the built-up pressure out of me. It took almost too much. I had to fight it to control it.

  “What’s so damned funny?”

  Her feelings were bruised. “No. Jenny. Honey. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at me. Honest. I really am. No. I’m not here to ravish you. The condition I’m in, after today I couldn’t ravish a chipmunk. I’ve been burned, bludgeoned, and kicked half to death. I hurt all over. I’m so tired I could pass out on the spot. And I’m totally upset about Chain. If there’s anything I’d want from a woman now, it would be for her to comfort me, not for me to ravish her.”

  You slick talker. Pay attention. Talk like that, it’s eight to five you’ll wind up getting comforted by a vestal virgin. Just be harmless, helpless, and in need of mothering, and pour on the sincere.

  Well, what with one thing and another, I talked myself right into something without consciously planning it. Fifteen minutes later we were in her bed. Fifteen minutes after that I was trying hard to stay harmless, helpless, and in need of comfort.

  There’s something reassuring about just lying around holding somebody after you’ve been bruised and abused and treated like a wolf treats a fox that isn’t fast on its feet. But there’s also something about being comforted by somebody put together like Jennifer that makes you forget they shoved you through the meat grinder sideways—hide, hooves, and all.

  We’d been whispering, mostly just talk, innocent enough but she couldn’t he still. She was relaxed enough now, considering. She moved, seemed startled, asked, “Is that what I think it is?”

  Body pressure left no doubt what she meant. “Yeah. Sorry. Can’t help it. Maybe I’d better go.” I didn’t make any move to leave, though. Not me.

  “I can’t believe it. No. It’s impossible.”

  It wasn’t impossible at all.

  For a while I forgot the painting, the storm, all my aches and pains. I even got to sleep some. Though that was more like catnaps between tests of the limits of possibility.

  I knew I was going to hate myself in the morning.

  It was just my body that hated myself in the morning. It felt about a hundred and two years old. My head was fine, not counting my cold. I kissed Jennifer on the forehead, nose, and chin, headed for my own quarters while it was still early enough that I might not be noticed.

  Wayne and Kaid were on duty still. Sort of. Kaid was nodding. Wayne was sprawled on the fountain surround, snoring. Cook was in the kitchen cursing. I heard her all the way to the fourth floor. I wondered what was bothering her. I was sure we’d all know
before long, what with her closed-mouth, stoic ways.

  I went up, through the loft, down. I glanced across as I started into my hallway. The blonde stared at me from the hall to the General’s suite. I waved feebly. She didn’t respond. “Oh, boy.” I headed for my door.

  For a second I thought she’d gotten there before me. Then I realized it was the painting. It seemed so creepy, I turned it to face the wall.

  “You have a nice time?”

  Morley was in a big overstuffed chair. He looked like he’d been asleep.

  “Ghastly.”

  “That’s what puts that smug look on your face. I’ll remember that. Get cleaned up. It’s almost time for breakfast.”

  Him eager for one of Cook’s breakfasts? “I’ll give it a skip and take a nap instead.”

  “You’re working, Garrett. You don’t take time off to nap whenever you feel like it, do you?”

  “That’s the beauty of being your own boss.” He was right. More right than he knew, really. I could go get some sleep, sure. And if somebody got killed while I did, I’d be haunted for years. “Yeah. All right.”

  Now he looked smug. Bastard. He knew right where to poke me. I went into the dressing room, threw some water on my face, mixed up some lather, hacked and slashed. Morley planted himself in the doorway. He watched the show awhile, then said, “I’d better move on the cook fast. Or you’ll have every woman in the place wrapped up.”

  “You’re out of luck. She was my first conquest.”

  He snorted.

  I said, “I had to move fast because I knew you’d head for her like a moth to a candle.” I wiped my face. “On the other hand, I won’t stand in your way. She’s definitely your type. I’ll sing at your wedding.”

  “Don’t think you can provoke me into a battle of wits with an unarmed man.”

  “Huh.”

  “I know it’s your diet talking. Maybe I ought to talk to the cook about that. Dietary improvements could do your General more good than squadrons of doctors and witches.”

  “Got you on the run already?”

  “What?”

  “Last recourse, old buddy. You start talking about red meat and celery juice and boiled weeds.”

  “Boiled weeds? You ever actually buy a meal at my place? I mean, pay for it out of your own pocket?”

  I was tired enough to forget how well he does sincere. I made the mistake of offering an honest answer. “I don’t recall doing that. Every time it’s been on the house.” And not that bad, but who was going to admit that?

  “And you complain about free meals. You know how much it costs to gather those ‘weeds’? They’re rare. They grow wild. They aren’t cultivated commercially.” He put on a lot of sincere. I wasn’t sure if he was yanking my leg or not. I know it isn’t cheap to eat at his place. But I’d always figured that was part of the ambience. Make his customers think they were buying class.

  “We’re getting too serious,” I said, by way of ducking possible issues. “Let’s go see how she’ll poison us today.”

  “Not the best choice of words, Garrett, but let’s.”

  38

  Sometime back a hundred years ago, Cook whumped up one big breakfast and she’d been re-warming leftovers ever since. The same old greasy meats and biscuits and gravy and all that, so heavy it would founder a galleon. Your basic country breakfast. Morley was in pain.

  He concentrated on biscuits and muttered, “At least the storm passed.”

  It was quiet out. The rain had fallen off to a drizzly mist. The wind had died down. It was getting colder, which I didn’t interpret as a positive omen. I figured it meant the snow would be back.

  Jennifer didn’t show, which I didn’t find mysterious and nobody else mentioned, so it must not be unusual. But Wayne wasn’t around either and he wasn’t the kind who missed his meals. “Where’s Wayne?” I asked Peters, who looked groggy, crabby, and like he still hurt plenty.

  He gave me the answer I was afraid I’d hear. “He pulled out. Soon as there was enough light, just like he said. Kaid said he had his stuff all packed and at the front door. He was raring to go.”

  I looked at Kaid. Kaid looked like I felt. He nodded, which seemed to take all the energy he had. I muttered, “And then there were three.”

  Peters said, “And I’m having a hard time talking myself into sticking.”

  Cook rumbled, “What are you boys on about now?” I realized she probably hadn’t heard. I told her about Chain. And when I thought about Chain I wished I hadn’t, because Wayne the gravedigger was gone and that meant either Peters or I or both of us would have to hike over to the graveyard and wallow in the mud till we got Art Chain planted. I knew Morley wouldn’t do it. He hadn’t hired on for that, as he’d remind me with a shit-eating grin while he kibbitzed my digging style.

  Eight hundred and some thousands apiece now. And all the survivors improbable suspects.

  I thought about burning my copy of the will right there. But what good would that do if they didn’t know it was the last copy? Then I had a terrible thought. “Was the will registered?” You can do that to keep your heirs from squabbling. It means filing a copy of the document. If Stantnor’s was registered, then the villain did not have to worry about my copy or about the General having torched his.

  They all looked at each other, shrugged.

  We’d have to ask the General.

  I started to say I wanted to see him, but a racket out front cut me off. It sounded like a cavalry troop arriving.

  “What the hell is that?” Kaid muttered. He shoved himself off his stool, started moving like he was forty years older than his seventy-something. Everybody but Cook toddled along behind. Cook didn’t leave her bailiwick for trivia.

  We swarmed onto the front porch. “What the hell?” Peters demanded. “Looks like a damned carnival caravan.”

  It did. And the mob with the garish coach and wagons boasted every breed you could imagine.

  None of the vehicles were pulled by horses or oxen or even elephants, which you sometimes see with a carnival. The teams were all grolls—grolls being half giant, half troll, green, and from twelve to eighteen feet tall when they’re grown. They’re strong enough to tear out trees by their roots—big trees.

  A pair of those grolls waved and hollered. Took me a moment. “Doris and Marsha,” I said. “Haven’t seen them for a while.”

  A skinny little guy bounced up the steps. I hadn’t seen him for a lot longer. “Dojango Roze. How the hell are you?”

  “A little down on my luck, actually.” He grinned. A strange little breed, he claimed he and Doris and Marsha were triplets born of different mothers. I’d given up trying to figure that out.

  “What the hell is this, Dojango?” Morley asked. I’ve never been sure but I think Dojango is some distant relative of his.

  “Doctor Doom’s medicine show, carnival, and home spirit disposal service, actually. Friend of the Doc said you had a bad spirit needing handling.” He grinned from ear to ear. His brothers Doris and Marsha boomed cheerfully, not giving a damn that I didn’t understand one word of grollish. They and the other grolls and all the oddities with them got to work setting up camp on the front lawn.

  I glanced at Peters and Kaid. They just stared. “Morley?” I raised an eyebrow about a foot high. “Your doctor friend’s referral?”

  His smile was a little weak around the edges. “Looks like.”

  “Hey!” Dojango said, sensing my lack of enthusiasm. “Doc Doom is the real thing, actually. Real ghost tamer. Exorcist. Demonologist. Spirit talker. The works. Even does a little necromancy, actually. But there ain’t much call for those skills, actually. Not when you’re not human. How many of you humans would think of using a nonhuman to call up your uncle Fred so you can find out where he hid the good silver before he croaked? See? So Doc has to make a mark here and a mark there some other way. Peddles nostrums mostly, actually. Hey. Let me go get him, bring him up, let you judge for yourself.” He spun around and headed fo
r the coach, which hadn’t disgorged any passengers yet.

  He ran halfway down the steps. I muttered, “I don’t believe this. The old man would foul his drawers if he saw it.”

  Morley grunted. His eyes were glazed.

  Roze came back. “Oh. Doc Doom is kind of a quirky guy, actually. You got to give him some room and be a little patient. If you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t,” I told him. “Better not be too quirky. I’ve got quirky enough right here and no patience left over for more.”

  Dojango grinned, managed to leave without using his favorite word again. Actually. He dashed down to that ridiculous coach, which was so brightly painted it would have blinded us on a sunny day. Breeds swarmed around it. A couple got up a giant parasol. Another one brought a set of steps. Somebody else laid out a canvas dingus from those steps to the steps to the house.

  Morley and I exchanged glances again.

  Dojango opened the coach door and bowed.

  Meantime, grolls set up a circus on the lawn.

  I asked Morley, “You heard of this guy?”

  “Actually, yes.” He smiled. “Word is, he’s the real thing. Like Dojango says.”

  “Actually.”

  Kaid sputtered and went back into the house.

  A figure seven feet tall and maybe six hundred pounds wide descended from the coach. What it was wasn’t immediately obvious. It was wrapped up in so much black cloth, it looked like a walking tent. The tent was covered with mystical symbols in silver. A huge hand came out and made a benevolent gesture to the troops. One of the taller breeds dragged something out of the coach and planted it atop Doctor Doom’s head. It added three feet to his height. Priests should wear something so bizarre and ornate.

  He came toward us as though the star of a coronation processional.

  “You Doc Doom?” I asked when he arrived. “Give me one good reason why I should take you seriously after that clown show.”

  Dojango, bouncing around like a puppy, seemed stricken. “Hey. Garrett. You can’t talk to Doctor Doom that way, actually.”