by Glen Cook
"Does the glassware mean anything special?"
"Not really."
"Morley, could you hold that lamp up so Mr. Algarda can get a look at those pictures?"
Morley turned the pictures, too. They had not been visible from where Algarda was standing. Algarda asked, "Who are these people?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
"I can tell you who they were forty years ago. This is my great uncle Nathaniel. He died while I was in the Cantard."
"Did he have kids? Playmate remembers him as a neighborhood thug from when he was a kid. Morley remembers him vaguely, with no where, when, or why. Today he's a resurrection man called Nathan." I had to explain that because Algarda was unfamiliar with the term.
"Really? People will do anything, won't they? It took a lunatic god to create our tribe. Let me think." He put on a frown more of puzzlement than concentration. "All right. Nathaniel had one child, Jane. She would be my mother's cousin but was way younger than Mom. Younger than me, even. She was a ferociously wicked, precocious six-year-old last time I saw her. She might've looked like this at eighteen." He indicated the drawings of the woman. "She'd be in her fifties, now."
We had an old woman in the mix, though based on nothing solid I guessed she would be older than that. "Could she have produced children who looked like their ancestors?"
Algarda shrugged. "Possibly. I don't know much about those people. We never had a lot to do with them. They weren't good people." He shot me a sudden, narrow look, maybe reading something into my question. "As far as I know, their line died out during my first tour." He looked at the artwork more closely, appreciating what Penny had captured. "The man even has the scars Nathaniel had." He looked hungry when he considered Penny's drawings.
He was deeply uncomfortable when our gazes met again. "Are you some kind of diabolical facilitator?"
"Excuse me?"
"Last time the Algardas got into trouble you were digging up worms. Here you go again."
Morley interjected, "The worms were there, begging to be dug. Be grateful Garrett was manning the shovel."
Algarda was a hard guy. He tried laying a hard look on Morley. Morley took no notice. Algarda said, "You're right. There's probably some serious behind-the-scenes rumbling going on at the top of the Hill. This could even tie in to some odd questions I've been asked lately, by people I never expected to visit my new place."
He did not explain. He did say, "I'll dig into a couple of old family legends." He turned toward the doorway.
Singe did not move. She looked to me for advice. I nodded, but said, "I'm supposed to tell you to go straight to the place in Elf Town from here."
He frowned. "For who?"
"The Windwalker."
He gave me the hard-eye but then just nodded and turned to follow Singe. She returned from the door to say, "I don't think he is happy with you."
"My heart is broken. Was his mother involved last time we had some excitement with his people? A couple of old crows got themselves dead, if I remember."
"I do not recall. I will look it up." Someone knocked. "That will be Mr. Tharpe."
"Have you started reading minds, too?"
"No. That would be crippling around you two. I saw him coming up the street when I let Mr. Algarda out." She went to open up.
Morley said, "We're inching toward something."
"Yes. And it might involve the undead or zombies after all."
74
Tharpe rolled in and crashed onto a folding chair. "Damn! This cold air feels good."
"It hot out there?"
"Working on getting there. And I need to shed about twenty-five pounds. Shit. Look at you, up on your hind legs and everything, Dotes."
I said, "Once we weaned him off the poison he came back fast. Next week he'll be able to make it to the front door with only one rest stop."
"You better watch out for the little girl, then. He'll have her giggling and squealing like a piggy in some dark corner."
Once upon a time Morley would have joined the game. Now he just scowled. "I'm a one woman man, 'Head."
Tharpe said, "Singe, honey, my dogs are worn down to the ankles. You want to take a look out front and see how big that flock of flying pigs is? Take one a them Amalgamated umbereller thing-jobbies along in case they got the flying dyer-rear." He snickered at his own wit.
I chuckled, too.
Morley tried but only managed to look grim.
Saucerhead continued, "Ah, gotcha. A health issue, that woman being involved."
Maybe a real health issue. Morley looked physically uncomfortable. I asked, "You all right? You need something?"
"I've been pushing it too much. I'm starting to feel it."
"Singe, I don't think he's ready to do without his angels." I hadn't seen any ratwomen today.
"I'll make sure they're here tonight."
"Good on you."
She asked, "Why don't we ask Mr. Tharpe what he's doing here? That might prove interesting."
Saucerhead said, "Mr. Tharpe was hoping somebody would bring him a mug so he could relax while he was telling his story."
I asked, "You need musical accompaniment? I saw a mandolin somewhere the other day, when we were salting the windows. It was short two strings, though."
Singe made a growling noise.
Maybe that was enough grab-assing around. "There's a problem, 'Head. The beer barrel ran dry. Dean is out trying to find Jerry right now."
"I guess I can wait."
Singe growled even louder.
"Whatever happened to that sweet little ratgirl you brung home a few years ago, Garrett?"
Singe told him, "She spent those years around crude human men. Please do explain why you came here. Besides the obvious."
She bruised Tharpe's feelings with that, not something easy to do. He knew she was calling him a moocher. Which he was, often enough, but not the obnoxious kind you want to bang on the head with a shovel. Usually you wanted to help, gently, because Saucerhead is a good guy blessed with a plentiful supply of minor bad luck.
I told him, "You've been bubbling. You've been threatening to tell us an interesting story. So how about it?" I glanced at Singe. I had no idea what he had been asked to do.
Singe shrugged. She didn't know, either. And Saucerhead wasn't talking. He did, in fact, seem confused.
He asked, "He's really asleep? The Dead Man, I mean."
"He really is. He'd be snoring like Playmate if he was among the breathing."
"Damn! I figured he'd plunk in there and get what he wanted before it went away."
Getting exasperated, I snapped, "Just do it the old-fashioned way! I'll give him the word when he wakes up."
"Oh. Yeah. That'd work, wouldn't it? So what it is, he wanted me to prowl around the costume shops in the theater district."
TunFaire did not have a theater district as such. Theaters were scattered across midtown, with others downtown. A few smaller venues were out in the neighborhoods. The World was four long blocks from its nearest competitor. The support shops, costume makers and set builders, were concentrated in a patch near the geographic center of the big name play-houses. And that was what Saucerhead meant.
"Costume shops," I mused.
"Yeah. Himself charging in on things from an unexpected angle. Instead of hunting a girl who wears tight black leather and spiffy wigs, find out who makes her outfits. Find out who whipped up them ugly gray wool suits and goofy helmets for the zombie brunos."
"Clever," I admitted, thinking we needed a neologism for the patchwork reanimated baddies who hung out inside the wool and weird wooden helmets.
"Definitely outside the box," Morley said. "Not an angle that would have occurred to me."
"I take it you came up with something, 'Head, on account of you've been wearing such a big shit-eating grin."
"I got to admit I never found who made the stuff for the zombies. Maybe the folks that build them have them make their own outfits. But I did find a guy that made stuff for the h
ot witch."
"Do tell."
"Here's the part that's got me feeling smart. This guy ain't no theater costumer. He makes custom stuff for the fetish trade."
"Really? I'm starting to think that we've been underestimating you, 'Head."
"People got a habit of doing that."
True enough, though usually only in regard to estimating how much abuse he can suffer and go on living.
"How come you thought of this fetish person?"
"I was passing by his place. I had this friend once, she liked to play dress up. I knew where she got her stuff. So I went in and got a little pushy, pretending like I was working for Relway. The tailor guy went all white and shaky and told me about this custom order for a bunch of black leather outfits that had to sync up with six different wigs. He got his gig through the wigmaker. And he got hands-on with the woman when she came for fittings."
"All right. Good story. Who was she?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. She never told him. But I guarantee you, she got to that tailor. He had stars in his eyes. His hands shook when he showed me how her body curved. And him as nancy as you can hope to find down there."
"Excellent," I said. "Just excellent. What about the wigmaker?"
"I got the name. He should be the next target."
Morley observed, "This is like taking over for the Dead Man, Garrett, us at the heart of the web while minions do the legwork."
Saucerhead frowned. He wasn't thrilled about that minions remark.
Singe said, "Mr. Tharpe, you do recall the name of that special tailor, don't you? And the wigmaker?"
Tharpe understood. Singe wasn't questioning him. She wanted to get the information committed to paper so it wouldn't get lost.
Morley said, "I meant it about just sitting around like the Dead Man."
"I know. And I'm thinking that maybe he gets frustrated, too, because he can't get out and snoop for himself."
"You? Frustrated about having to lay around and do nothing?"
"It's different when it isn't your own choice."
75
Jerry the beer guy turned up while Singe was winkling critical information out of Saucerhead. I helped bring the kegs in. Dean had gone for an extra, a standard-grade tavern beer good enough for our endless stream of guests.
Saucerhead was the first benefactor, though what he got was the last partial pitcher off the cripple in the cold well. I took half a mug. Morley got nothing but he doesn't drink. Singe got a taste off Saucerhead's pitcher.
Dean and Penny came back as Jerry and I were loading the empty kegs on his wagon. Dean had bought so much stuff he'd had to hire a cart to haul it. I did a brief apprentice stint in the porter trade.
It's good to develop new skills.
Dean's purchases didn't inspire me.
He was concerned about our finances-especially after having bought three kegs of beer and paid the deposit on the extra.
While lugging apples and potatoes, I took a look around. The complement of watchers had become disrespectfully small.
Folks thought the tale had moved on. Morley and I were not considered factors anymore. Or, maybe, the powers on the Hill had grown fangs so long and green that people formerly inclined to hang on my adventures had chosen discretion as their expression of valor.
Yeah. That felt better than thinking I wasn't worth watching anymore.
Having made sure the fresh kegs felt at home I scuttled back into the Dead Man's room. "All right, Mr. Tharpe. You've done an admirable job so far. What next?"
"I don't know." His tongue had gotten a little thick already. He was thinking about his next pitcher. "I figure somebody else should take over. I asked so many questions people was starting to believe I was one of Relway's Runners. One of the ones so dumb he don't know how to hide it."
"They act scared?"
"Of course they did. Everybody is afraid of the Unpublished Committee, excepting you and me and maybe your napping friend across the way." He meant Morley, who had gone back to his cot while the beer barrel population was being restored to glory.
"Any threats?"
"You know anybody stupid enough to threaten Relway's thugs? Anybody still running around loose, I mean. There's probably a shitload helping drain Little Dismal Swamp."
"You're right. I don't. Anybody serious about bucking the Director better be smart enough to keep his big damned mouth shut."
Tharpe said, "So I was thinking, since I couldn't find the people who made the masks and outfits for the zombies, maybe the next step would be to look the chain back a link and find out who made that ugly cloth. And who came up with the stuff to make them stupid helmets. Did you save one of them from the other night?"
"The red tops took everything."
"That General Block, he's smarter than he lets on. I wonder if he's been thinking the way I been."
I doubted it. "Did you run into any real Runners when you were poking around?"
"No."
"You were ahead of them." I should give Block a heads-up. He could swamp that district with investigators able to scare a stone into spilling its guts.
"I'm thinking you're onto something, 'Head."
"I got one more thing. Then I'm gonna head into the kitchen and get me another pitcher. I'm gonna enjoy that. Then I'm gonna curl up in a corner and sleep for about two days."
"Sounds like a plan. What's your one more thing?"
"Get the Remora to take over where I left off. He pokes around down there, them people will lay down and spread their legs. They'll do anything for him if it might get them a shot at connecting with one of his shows."
"Saucerhead, you drink all the beer you want." I felt like the peasant boy who's just been handed the magic sword. Big things were coming.
Tharpe showed me his biggest, goofiest grin, headed for the kitchen. I went over to discuss it with Singe. She was recording Dean's purchases in her books.
76
"Saucerhead came up with an original idea." I explained.
"That is an interesting angle. Somebody has been feeding him smart pills. Let's hope Mr. Salvation feels amenable." She brushed aside my suggestion that we send for him. "He'll ignore us if we appeal to him. He needs to think things are his idea. Wrangling him takes craft."
"Did Old Bones craft him into doing something for us?"
"He did. I don't know what. Certainly something the Dead Man told him only he could manage."
I shook my head. Jon Salvation. I couldn't get used to a Remora with airs.
Focused on her books, Singe told me, "You need to put your prejudices aside when you think about that man, Garrett. He is a near complete waste of flesh in ways you consider important, but he is also the best and most powerful playwright working. And, in his mind, he is one of your inner circle."
"I got you. But do you realize how ridiculous that is to anybody who knew Pilsuds Vilchik?"
Singe asked, "Answer the door. I still have entries to make and Dean's notes look like he kept them in code."
"The door?"
"Someone is knocking."
"Damn, your ears are better than mine."
"I'm young. I'm pretty. And I'm not human."
No way could I respond to that and have anything good come of it.
She snickered as I left the room.
John Stretch and two ratwomen were on the stoop. I figured his henchrats had witnessed the beer delivery.
The so well-to-do lord of the ratfolk underworld joined me in with the Dead Man. His women joined Morley. "This cool air is wonderful."
I had worked up a sweat doing porter work so I was in complete agreement. "I'm scared to ask Singe how much we pay for the heat exchange spells but on these warm days it seems worth it."
"There must be some kind of climate change going on. Ratpeople aren't usually bothered by hot weather but this much heat, this early, worries me. What will it be like when we hit the blazing heart of summer?"
"Blazing heart, eh?"
"Not original,
I admit. It is from a street corner rant I heard the other day. Though he actually said, 'The blazing heat of summer. ' His point was, the hottest day of summer would seem refreshingly cool once we found ourselves in hell."
"A street theater guy. You got to love them. Life would be less fun without them."
"Too true."
He had a reason for being here beyond a hope for free beer. I put on an expression of eager curiosity. I drank some beer myself.
"The reason I came by-I wanted to let you know, I just launched a special operation."
I took a long sip. "I'm all ears."
"The stink of corruption in that warehouse had to be unique. And something like it would be strong wherever the zombie makers are building their monsters now."
He looked expectant.
"I imagine so." I looked expectant right back, sure he had a point to make. "Yes?"
"Ah." Pleased with himself. "I put out word to ratfolk across the city. Sniff out places that stink of death and chemicals."
"Brilliant!" How could the people who wanted the thing left alone object? "Everybody is thinking more clever than me."
"Everybody?"
"Saucerhead Tharpe came up with the notion of looking for the people who made the costumes, then to work back from them."
"That would be interesting, too. But my method has more promise."
"You're right. Find the monster manufactory and back-tracking won't be necessary."
He wanted more pats on the back. Some parts of his life must not have been going as well as he would like.
I said, "Enjoy your beer." Which must not have been the perfect sentiment at the moment. He looked puzzled.
The day went downhill from there. The world kept intruding.
All the folks sent out by the Dead Man would come back to plague me.
77
Jon Salvation turned up first, glowing. He shook my hand. "I don't know what you did, Garrett, but, thank you, thank you, thank you."
"All right. Good for me. What are you talking about?"
"Tinnie. She's going to take the part. She turned up for first readings this morning. She was an angel. And she nailed her character first try. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
