by Glen Cook
He was having fun with me. And I didn’t know what it was all about.
I sighed and got to work dragging Green Bean. I didn’t damage him much getting down the front steps. I planned to dump him somewhere on Wizard’s Reach, but when I got to the stoop where I’d left Squint, Vrolet was gone. I replaced him with Green Bean.
The rain continued to fall. Most of it found a way to get under my collar in back. I needed a hood or a big hat.
Gloves wouldn’t hurt, either.
Garrett!
I jumped, startled. “What?” I was still ten yards from my stoop, clinging to an abandoned, stolen goat cart, halfway unconscious, trying to keep from sliding back downhill.
Remember to breathe. You are lucky to be close enough to be assisted.
Yeah? I had a feeling that I’d just been manipulated somehow, so I’d learn a lesson.
I went in and attacked some more cocoa. Then hot tea, then cold water. I crowded the fire. I asked, “Are we learning anything? Has any of this been worth my trouble?”
You will be pleased to learn that Mr. Rory Sculdyte considers you one of the most dangerous men in TunFaire. Worth murdering preemptively.
“Oh, my. I’m a made man now. Are we headed for another anticlimax, with these guys all being marginal?”
Not quite. You were a target of opportunity for the Batt brothers, not the point of the exercise. Merry Sculdyte had instructions to put you to sleep if the opportunity arose. Perhaps the stone egg was slung at you by an opportunist Sculdyte soldier. You are on the list not only because you are a general nuisance but because you might find Chodo before the Sculdyte crew. You have an astonishing reputation among these thugs. Clearly, they do not know you at all well.
“What’re my chances of digging them out?”
Getting better by the minute. Every thug able to get up on his hind legs has been looking. We know a very great deal about where Mr. Contague is not.
“Is he with Belinda? Or does Harvester Temisk have him?”
The consensus is that Miss Contague is hunting her father with more vigor than anyone else. And your idea did occur to me. I have asked John Stretch to put word out in the ratman community, offering a substantial reward.
Clever. Ratfolk go everywhere. Nobody pays attention, except to yell. I glanced at Singe. She seemed quite pleased. And tired.
It was getting late. I realized, with some surprise, that we hadn’t yet tapped the new keg.
How long could that last?
This Brett Batt is ready to go. You cannot imagine what a banal personality the man has. Though knowledgeable. Certainly knowledgeable.
“You got something useful?”
A few points of interest did lurk in the corners of his mind.
“Such as?”
I will see that you know what you need to know if a situation should arise where you need to know it.
All right. We were going to play games. More games. He’d fished something tasty out of Brett’s head. He didn’t want me to know. Or maybe to obsess about it.
More or less. It has little to do with anything we are investigating now. Take him out of here.
Grumbling, I laid a two-hand grip on Brett’s collar and started hauling. The only help I got was Singe’s volunteering to work the front door.
Brett was one lucky bruno. His good buddy Garrett had hold of him at the head end instead of by the feet. Because of this his good buddy Garrett one-manned him down the ice-rimed front steps without banging his skull on even one.
“What’cha doin’?” Saucerhead Tharpe asked. He had collected coagulated precipitation till he looked like the abominable iceman. He wasn’t alone. A wobbling companion, clinging to his arm, also looked like a perambulating ice creature.
“I’m dragging this butthead over to that cart.” I’d suffered the inspiration of a fanatic slacker. If I could just get Brett aboard that thing…
Tharpe and his pal grabbed hold and helped me hoist Brett into the cart. Then Tharpe said, “Me an’ Bitte are gonna get on in outta the weather. All right?”
“Go ahead on. There’s hot cocoa. And we got a new keg in. I’ll be there in a minute.” I eased in between the double trees, got a good hold on those poles. When I broke their ends loose from the ice, the cart began to roll.
It worked like a rickshaw in reverse. Me behind. Trying to keep up.
Macunado Street slopes gently down for a third of a mile. Long before that I turned loose. The cart rolled. It went on. I flailed around, slipping and sliding, never quite falling down. I couldn’t keep up and didn’t try.
Brett’s ride managed not to smash into anything for longer than it took me to lose sight of it in the dark. I heard it glance off something, continue on, ricochet off something else, then participate in a huge crash. I imagined Brett flying through the night, then spinning on up the glassy street on his prodigious pecs.
His problem. I headed on home wondering why I hadn’t broken some of his bones before I let him roll.
I found Singe waiting to let me in. She was amused. “How many times did you fall this time?”
“Not even once.”
She was disappointed.
Saucerhead and his drinking buddy wandered on into the Dead Man’s room, where Old Bones continued to entertain Merry Sculdyte.
Garrett, I need you to transcribe what I am recovering from this villain. It is not my custom to meddle in civil affairs. However, my rudimentary sense of social obligation compels me to provide this information to Colonel Block and Director Relway. This man is intimate with the darkest and most secret machinery of the underworld. Much more so than Mr. Dotes. Or even Miss Contague. This man knows where the bodies are buried because he buried most of them. He knows which officials are corrupt. He has a good notion which people on his own side could be suborned by Director Relway. In a mundane manner of describing it, Mr. Merry Sculdyte is the pot at the end of the information rainbow.
“Excellent. We’re in the money. Have you noticed Saucerhead’s guest?”
Brother Brittigarn wasn’t so wasted that he failed to notice that I wasn’t talking to Morley. He wasn’t so wasted that he failed to recognize me in the light. “Oh, shit. Man. ’Head, you jobbed me.”
I am aware. I will start on him once you begin writing.
Brittigarn decided to make a break for it. He managed a step and a half before he froze. Then he turned and walked to my usual chair. Mechanically. He sat, rested his palms on his thighs, stared at infinity. And dripped.
Dean peeked in. “Is there anything more you need from me? It’s past my bedtime.”
“Some rags for this clown to drip on. Where’d Singe get to?”
“She’s in the kitchen trying to tap the new keg.”
“That should be amusing.”
I went over to my office, where I could be comfortable while I wrote.
It was around sixteen o’clock. My hand was an aching claw. I couldn’t go on.
Get some sleep. We will continue later.
“How much more is there?”
The man is a bottomless well of wicked memoirs.
What I’d already recorded would be invaluable to Colonel Block and Belinda both. And any number of Combine second-stringers like Teacher White scheduled for involuntary retirement after Rory Sculdyte helped himself to his patrimony.
“How’re you doing with BB?”
The man has an intriguing mind. Get some sleep.
I pried myself out of my office chair, joints creaking and popping. I need more exercise. My body is beginning to show wear and tear.
I stuck my head into the Dead Man’s room. People were all over, sleeping. Singe was nowhere to be seen.
46
This time the old slug thug himself dragged me out at a criminal hour. He was eager to go on. Excited, even. He borrowed a colloquialism when I protested the absurdity of the hour. Paybacks are a bitch.
I didn’t get it until I was halfway through my second mug of black tea. When he started na
gging me about dragging my feet.
He was getting even for all the times I’d dragged him out of his little naps, just so he could earn his keep.
“Life’s a bitch.”
How is your breathing?
I hadn’t paid attention. It was working. What did I care?
He withdrew. It wasn’t me making it work. I wasn’t back on automatic yet.
“I still have to think about it. Maybe the stuff Teacher brought isn’t the real antidote.”
Possibly not. He was not deeply concerned about an antidote when he purchased the samsom weed.
“Typical of the breed.”
I let Dean serve me breakfast. Singe came in. She’d been outside. I felt the cold roll off her fur. She said, “You need to take a look out there before it all goes away.”
I finished my mug, went and looked.
The world was glass. Or crystal. Actually, all coated with ice. So much ice that the weight had broken limbs off trees and pulled gutters off buildings. A kitten thought about going out with me but changed up as soon as he laid paws on ice. He jumped back, shook each paw in turn, indignant. “Don’t blame me. You’re the one who wanted out.”
I surveyed my neighborhood. Nothing moved but a family of mountain dwarfs trudging up Macunado like this was just a brisk morning in the hills back home. It had been an age since I’d seen TunFaire this quiet.
I retreated from the cold. “You’re right, Singe. It’s fairy-tale beautiful. And now it’s starting to snow.” Which would make the ice even more treacherous by masking its wicked face.
Dean met me at the door to the Dead Man’s room. He’d brought more tea. “You’ll need this.”
I accepted and went inside.
The faces in the crowd remained the same. Saucerhead was sprawled on his back, taking up a vast amount of floor space, snoring. Brittigarn and Merry Sculdyte were in chairs, limp, under mental sedation. Morley was awake. But he’s the sort of pervert who doesn’t mind being in that state when the sun comes up.
“You still here?”
“You brought a blast of cold air in with you. Meaning you just looked outside.”
“It’s pretty out there.”
“Pretty isn’t a problem for you. You’re already home.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I’m nimble. But not nimble enough to make it to The Palms without breaking something.”
“I saw a family of dwarfs out front. They were managing.”
“This is skinny-dipping weather where they come from. And you said there aren’t any dwarfs around anymore.”
“I said you don’t see many. I just caught the not many on the move.”
“You may have to give up beer.”
“That’s a zig when I expected you to zag. What brought that on?”
“Singe.”
“Oh.” It would be a problem if she became too dedicated to barley soup. “You don’t suppose all that smoke out there is because Sarge and Puddle burned your place down?”
“I have an abiding suspicion that people are firing up their fireplaces.”
“It isn’t winter yet.” The sharp, softly bitter smell of woodsmoke is a sure sign of winter. More than snow is. People fire up their fireplaces only when they’re sure that the cold has arrived for real.
Fuel is dear. Most of it is barged in from way upriver.
I noted the presence of several kittens. One had homesteaded Saucerhead’s chest. Another had set up housekeeping in Merry Sculdyte’s lap. The Dead Man didn’t intimidate them anymore. They avoided BB, though. Despite his snoring. Morley observed, “It won’t be Sarge and Puddle who do me in. Neither one of them is smart enough to start a fire. The ones who worry me are the ones who think they’re smart enough.”
The Dead Man didn’t acknowledge my arrival until then. How is your hand this morning? Are you ready to resume?
I noted that I was favoring my left. “It’s stiff. I won’t be able to do much.”
Find a trustworthy professional letter writer.
“Have you paid any attention to me and Morley?”
I try not to indulge in frivolity.
“The weather situation isn’t frivolous.”
Oh, my.
He did seem surprised. The season sneaked up on me.
I felt him recalculating how long he’d been asleep. “It’s unseasonable. But severe.”
It is snowing heavily now. Once several inches accumulate, the footing will become less of a problem.
“Hell, there’s an old pair of skates down in the basement somewhere. I could dig them out. I could fix them up, sharpen them up, refurbish them up, put them on Morley…”
Morley said, “Morley don’t skate.”
“Oh?”
“I tried it once. See this scar? In my eyebrow? That’s what hit the ice first. Split me right open. Why are you grinning?”
“Nothing, really.” I was just delighted to discover that I could do something he couldn’t, well and with style.
We will make do until the footing improves.
I noted a twinkle from under BB’s brows. He was awake but pretending not to be.
Old Bones noticed, too. Our friend from Ymber is producing some interesting information.
“So give me all the gory details. Unless all that needs to be written down, too.”
Some will have to be, eventually. The man is a charlatan. A successful charlatan, to be sure, but a charlatan nonetheless. He was not born in Ymber. He migrated there before the religious squabbles turned bloody. One of his recent ancestors was not human. He has a touch of what he sells as psychic power. His religion he cobbled together himself. It went over well in Ymber because many people were tired of the feud between A-Lat and A-Laf.
“I thought open warfare was something recent.”
Yes. It would be instructive to compare Penny Dreadful’s recollections with those of Mr. Brittigarn. His are entirely self-serving.
Old Bones fed me the tale of a con man whose scam had worked well until it caught the attention of A-Laf’s deacons and sextons after a fundamentalist, activist faction seized control of A-Laf’s cult. They sharpened their teeth on BB’s followers. The survivors fled to TunFaire, where they failed to support their pastor in the style to which he wanted to be accustomed. The sin pots of the big city picked them off.
Now that the battle between A-Lat and A-Laf had immigrated, it didn’t seem likely that Brother Brittigarn would enjoy the Dream Quarter much longer.
“How about my roc’s egg?”
He did not bring that with him. Mr. Tharpe received no instructions concerning it. So the stone is still in the temple of Eis and Igory.
“But he did switch it out and then not fling it in the river?”
The stone is much too precious to be thrown away.
“No!”
Sarcasm does not become you.
“No. But I do tend to get sarcastic when you say something that obvious.”
He is reconsidering making a run for it.
“Then stop him. How hard is that to figure?”
It may not be that simple if he realizes what natural tools he possesses.
“Use your standard tactic. Baffle him with bullshit. Why does he want the stone?”
Proof that Old Bones hadn’t lavished much attention on BB then surfaced. He didn’t yet know why. He had to go pearl diving in a mind naturally indisposed to surrender its treasures.
This will take a while. He appears to have been of several minds concerning the stone. Though each of those focused on wringing the biggest profit possible from the windfall.
Classic crook-think. Calling a theft a windfall. “Why?”
I felt a little prickle in my mind. He was checking to see what I meant. Instead of asking.
“You’re awfully impatient this time, Old Bones.”
There is so much going on. And I am so excited.
“You’ve become sarcasm incarnate. How is the egg important? Why is it valuable?”
Because he may have told the truth about how dangerous the rock is. Even though it might not have been stolen from the nest of a fabulous bird. He wants to auction the egg on the Hill for enough to get out of the priest racket. The stone does rate description as “rare as rocs’ eggs.”
“I’m confused.”
I am surprised that you would notice.
He has a bite like a saber-toothed toad.
“Have Singe do your transcription. She needs the practice. And it’ll keep her out of the beer.”
He offered the mental equivalent of a harrumph.
“So. About the stone?”
It can be used to start fires.
“Is that so?” I sensed that he didn’t know anything else, in any concrete way, but was chock-full of speculation.
I have Miss Winger working an angle that may tell us something useful.
Which he wouldn’t share right now, of course, because he doesn’t like to speculate or brainstorm- except among his own minds. He doesn’t like being wrong. But I could guess what he was thinking. I’d considered it myself and decided the idea was too farfetched. You should have mentioned the stone to Mr. Thorpe.
Saucerhead groaned. He sat up, clapped his hands to his temples, swore, and lied, “I’ll never do that again.”
“What is that?”
He realized he hadn’t taken on his career as a cat mattress by indulging in too many adult beverages. “What happened?”
Morley told him, “It was too nasty for you to go home last night.”
“What time is it? Oh, gods! I shoulda been over to… she’s gonna kill me!” He tugged at his clothes, retied his shoes, hoisted himself to his feet, and headed for the front door. I tagged along so his misery would have company once he looked outside.
Saucerhead took his look. “Holy shit! What did you do?”
“Man, you can’t blame the weather on me.”
“Sure, I can. No law says I got to be logical.” He showed me his biggest shit-eating grin. He stuck his head back outside, retreated again. “I blame it on the peace.”
“What? You blame what on the peace?”
“The weather, man. When we had us a war going we never had no weather like this. Not this early.”
“What the hell are you babbling about?”
