Gilded Latten Bones

by Glen Cook

  Oh, my. My new ally, who might become a special new friend, could end up an enemy because the thing she feared most might turn out to be true.

  Alibis can be manufactured, before and after the fact.

  I had no trouble imagining Kevans dealing with resurrection men, either. I’d never gotten to know her well but I recalled a sociopathic personality. Yet that had been true of most of the Faction. And she had not been the worst.

  That might be an angle worth pursuit.

  So. Maybe Kevans had been living in that warehouse up north, making new men out of the best pieces of the old.

  Where would she get money to pay the resurrection men?

  Kip?

  I rested my right hand on Strafa’s where hers lay on the back of my chair. “She can’t afford it.”

  “What?”

  “Think. Where would Kevans get enough money to set up what you saw on the north side?”

  Kyra became intensely interested in my hands and dialog. No doubt Tinnie would get a detailed report.

  And I, being Garrett the wonder fool, had to ease Strafa’s dreads by saying, “Kevans could never look as good in black leather as...”

  Maybe. Maybe not. When I knew her Kevans had been pretending to be a boy. If she took after her mom she could make that leather smolder. Taking a wild shot at making Strafa feel better because her kid was weirdly built was one of those special moments that make me uniquely me.

  An instant after it was too late to avoid getting shoe leather caught between my teeth I had no trouble imagining a dozen voices telling me what an insensitive dumbass I was.

  One was not imaginary. It came from the Thing Across the Hall and was heavy with exasperation. But that morphed into a vague apology. If I understood right he was taking out on me frustrations developed while conversing with the redhead. Tinnie had shown complete disdain for reality.

  I was amazed. He had lost patience and pushed her out, a tactical error for sure. Even today’s more difficult Tinnie is amenable to reason if you put in some time. You do need to be patient, to avoid preaching and rational argument. You need to be intense while you present your position. Worried or scared works best. Then you should shut up and go away. You need to have it end up looking like her agreeing with you was her idea.

  Which is more work than most guys are willing to do. It’s been getting a lot like involuntary overtime for me, too, lately.

  Old Bones thought facts and figures should trump emotion. He was a little out of touch with the raw intensity of the living, yet could get irked by a stubborn woman. He wasn’t fond of that sex to begin with. It had taken him an age to warm to Tinnie as much as he ever did. It had taken him time to get used to Singe but they were at peace now.

  He’d never had a problem with Penny Dreadful, maybe because Penny came to us before puberty came to her. He had few reservations about Strafa Algarda, who was, for sure, simmering, past puberty.

  His ability to be amused by my obsessions and angst remained undiminished.

  I heard Tinnie talking in the hallway, presumably to Morley. She wouldn’t know DeeDee or Mike. Her tone wasn’t hostile.

  I was able to exhaust her reserves of venom.

  Too many eyes were watching. I couldn’t get into a conversation. Old Bones found that amusing, too, because half the current population of the house thought he was snoozing.

  I focused on Kyra, though Uncle Oswald and Artifice might be more trouble. And, while I obsessed about Tates, never-so-drunk-as-he-pretended Westman Block committed every nuance to memory. Singe and her brother exchanged significant glances. And Crush went on being every man’s sweet young fantasy, pretending to be oblivious while she appreciated Singe’s literary treasures.

  Kyra and Strafa continued to measure one another.

  I grumbled, “What can we toss into this to add a little flavor? How about some hot spice?”

  Hot spice debuted, her advent entirely civil.

  I wore her down.

  One quick glance told me that nobody but Ma Garrett’s ever-loving, blue-eyed baby boy was intimidated.

  Tinnie stopped in the doorway. She eyed each individual, recognizing everyone but Crush. Crush didn’t do her the honor of turning to see who had come in. Tinnie frowned when she looked at Strafa, whom she had seen briefly before.

  She was impressed. In one room she had found the commander of the police forces of the greatest city in the world, the chieftain of a major underworld operation, a major player off the Hill, and me.

  Clever Strafa had relaxed the intimacy of the distance between us before Tinnie arrived, though not by much.

  After visiting the Dead Man and Morley, Tinnie could not help but understand that what was going on here was not just a conspiracy to inconvenience her.

  She is starting to get it. Take her out on the stoop and explain it.

  I hoisted myself out of my chair. Mug in hand. With murmured encouragement from the Windwalker.

  And, for the gods’ sake, do not make yourself a sacrificial victim on the altar of let us all just get along.

  What did he mean by that?

  I mean do not just give her her way because you do not like arguing. This is important.

  There followed a psychic echo of a kitten crying, then the crack of a whip.

  Hey!

  He showed me letting myself be bullied by persons of the female persuasion, all the way back to my mother, but specializing in incidents that gave a certain redhead the hold she had gained over the course of our relationship.

  Well.

  You are standing there with a dumb look on your face, practically drooling, while a dozen people stare and start to wonder.

  Oh. Right.

  Old Bones was staging plays inside my noggin. I wondered if he was doing the same thing inside hers. I did hope.

  I said, “Let’s you and me go out on the stoop where we can talk.”

  61

  It was a quiet night. The sky was clear. The moon would not be up for a while. There were a trillion stars. In some parts of the sky there was more silver dust than darkness. None of the watchers in the shadows made themselves obvious. The men who had accompanied Block had gone to find a tavern. We had the night to ourselves.

  Neither of us said anything till a shooting star blazed across the firmament, headed west in a hurry. Then it exploded. For an instant TunFaire was bathed in pallid light.

  “This may be the most important night in our lives, Tinnie.”

  She responded with an inarticulate sound that seemed weighted down with sorrow. She pushed against me like she was cold. She was shivering.

  I told her, “We’ve known each other for a long time. I can’t imagine my life without you in it. But I can’t go on the way we’ve been. I can’t be what you want. Those people in there are important in my life, too.”

  The last light of the dying star glistened off a tear. She said nothing.

  My heart sank. Old Bones had failed. She would remain stubborn till the end.

  Proceed gently, Garrett. All is not lost. Even though he liked Strafa Algarda better than this woman whom he knew so much better.

  Tinnie said, “Garrett, I love you. You know that. I have forever. I could say something corny like you complete me. I can’t imagine myself with any other man. Whatever I said, however I behaved, whatever else happened in our lives, that’s been true since I was a kid and you used to come around to see Denny. Ever since then I’ve tried hard to understand the Garrett who operates outside the closed field of you and me. But I can’t, anymore. I know I shouldn’t be so selfish. I know I’m twisting away into a darkness that some people might consider insanity. But I’m obsessed. I can’t share you anymore. I can’t. The monster inside wants to push it to the point where there is no one but you and me. No work. No distractions. Just us. I know that’s crazy. But I can’t stop it.”

  Now she had me scared.

  What she says is true but right now she is trying to manipulate you through exaggeration. Neve
rtheless, that exaggeration is being built on a truth from a level so deep it has never emerged before.

  “Can you help?” Tinnie was a major part of my life. I had loved her, maybe too often from a distance, almost as long as she said she had loved me. But I was not obsessed. I had been in love before. The rational side of my mind told me I would survive — if the pain insisted on coming.

  The adventure called Strafa Algarda waited on the other side. I knew that. Strafa offered a chance for an adult, cooperative relationship.

  I looked at Tinnie and wondered how she had gotten to this point.

  She said, “The Dead Man has been inside my head, trying to show me things. He says you’re part of a network of friendships and obligations. He says there is a fine woman who wants to be important to you but you still look only toward me...”

  What game was Old Bones playing?

  Tinnie surrendered to wracking sobs.

  The problem here is that a part of her mind does remain fully rational. That fraction knows she is crazy. It knows that obsession drives her. But it has no control. It remains a prisoner inside the growing obsession.

  “I can’t believe it. How could it happen? Could Kolda come up with an herb? Can you do some kind of surgery?”

  I might be able. But you will need to convince Miss Tate that she wants to have the corrective work done. And there is the further question of the strength of your own emotional commitment.

  I ignored Strafa, thought a question about working Tinnie and this case in parallel.

  That might be possible. Assuming she agreed.

  “Curses.”

  I would have to search her mind memory by memory and hurt by hurt to find tipping points in need of adjustment or cauterization. Each such tipping point will have affected every other that followed. It is a three-dimensional problem. The surgery would be far more subtle than an abuse victim like Miss Algarda needs. She is content with the life she has lived. And there would be no guarantees.

  Tinnie said, “You and him are talking about me, aren’t you?”

  “We are.” I pulled her into my arms. As always, she felt exactly right, being there. Designed to fit. She cried. I cried. I told her, “We can work this out. If you let it work out. If you let Old Bones make some minor adjustments... I’m going to let him work on me.”

  That was off the top of my head and next to a bald-faced lie. Any refinements my mind needed he would have made already, without mentioning it. Maybe.

  Scary thought, that.

  Nobody wants to be told that they need fixing. Even when they know it themselves. Tinnie’s natural first reaction was rejection. I kept on holding her tight. I said nothing. Talk would not help. What could be talked about had been talked about.

  Changes in us would lead to changes in the conversation.

  I thought there was a chance. I thought we could find a way.

  Uncle Oswald opened the door, checking up. He had a mug in hand. The rosy glow in his cheeks said he was hard at it, enjoying my hospitality. He didn’t see any guts strewn about so he grunted and shut the door.

  The clinch went on. Tinnie relaxed slowly, surrendering to need. We had to go on. She had to fight the obsession that would make it impossible to do so.

  I was confused, for sure. I had this, familiar and mostly comfortable though always freighted with emotion and drama. I had Strafa in the background, exercising a surprisingly powerful pull — not the way it used to be with any female between seven and seventy. That draw was there, too, absolutely. But there was more to it. An intellectual intrigue and a certainty that Strafa Algarda would involve a lot less drama.

  Thou foul beast, Temptation!

  I felt the amusement of the invisible observer.

  It was a classic tough situation.

  Tinnie had the lead by a furlong, at the moment. She was as comfortable as an old shoe once she relaxed against me. But Strafa could pull even, or push ahead, with very little effort, if Tinnie wasn’t there to rattle my reason.

  The invisible observer suggested, It is time to come inside. Something is moving in the darkness. You do not want to be out there should it come this way.

  62

  The Dead Man’s big party rolled on. I led Tinnie into his lair. The temperature had risen there. The air had begun to smell because of the crowd. Penny and the Bird worked on their art. Jimmy Two Steps and Butch’s little brother occupied a couple of folding chairs, out of the way, eyes closed, maybe unconscious. Old Bones might be picking their brains.

  There is not much there to pick. In any sense.

  The lighting was better than usual, on behalf of the artists. The lamps contributed to the rise in temperature.

  Playmate’s color had improved. It had more depth and sheen. Still, he would be a long-term project, and would demand a lot from the Dead Man at a time when all the rest of this was going on.

  Old Bones was a miracle in defunct flesh but he did have limits.

  When would he have time to work on Tinnie?

  A complication that I am pleased you recognized before I had to bring it up myself. A scheduling problem I will be happy to leave in your keeping.

  “Meaning?” I looked over Penny’s shoulder. She had several sketches going, all of a very attractive girl. She was doing a sheet of full-body images in different orientations and hairdos. I could say nothing but, “Wow!”

  Tinnie failed to poke me. She just looked astonished, and envious.

  You are allowing imagination and expectation to carry you away. It is the daring choice of costume that makes the woman so striking. Miss Tate and her niece would appear equally impressive in that apparel.

  I said nothing but thought the younger Miss Tate might have an edge on the elder.

  Amusement.

  “I’m not dead. I notice things.”

  I watched Penny work. She was talented and quick and had no trouble being close to me while she used charcoal and a variety of Amalgamated’s writing sticks to shape her squad of fantasy girls.

  The Bird had a color portrait going. It made an ugly, lazy-eyed son of a bitch look like he was about to bark, lean forward, and take a bite.

  Tinnie seemed at a loss. I caught the edge as the Dead Man asked her to step back and stay out of the way.

  I asked, “Who is this wad?”

  A composite of details from many minds. I am not certain but he may be the boss of the resurrection men.

  “How did we get to that?”

  Mr. Bird, under my direction, is creating a portrait composed of bits taken from the minds of everyone who has come into range since I awakened. Resurrection men are part of what is going on and an angle going unexplored. They gather the bodies that get reengineered. This man could be of special interest. If we can find him.

  He was right. It was an approach that had not occurred to me.

  Most of our visitors never heard of him. A few have, under the singleton name Nathan. None of our friends, or anyone else, know that they have actually met him but some may have done so without realizing it.

  And that, with his wondrous ability to make unlikely connections click, was why the Dead Man was so valuable. I said, “He looks a little like Barate Algarda.”

  It felt like the warmth went out of the room. His Nibs took a seat behind my eyes, studied the painting through my prejudices.

  Not Barate Algarda. The eye. The nose. The scar. The man had a burn scar on the right side of his head, including part of his ear. Ask the Windwalker to come in here.

  Tinnie started to follow me. She stumbled, stopped, turned, found a folding chair that she opened and carried back into the shadows.

  Damn! Maybe I could get Old Bones to teach me that trick.

  Strafa stared at the Bird’s masterpiece. The artist himself was on break, nursing a bottle of spirits. Strafa said, “I don’t know him. He does look familiar.” Unaware that green eyes smoldered in the darkness behind us, she held on to my left arm with both of her hands. Those were shaky.

 
“I thought he looked like Barate Algarda.” I could not call the man her father.

  She started. She squeezed harder. “He does, a little! That’s weird.” She let go. She moved to view the painting from different angles.

  I have what I need. You may take her back, now.

  I asked Strafa, “So what do you think?”

  “I think it’s weird.”

  “Too bad. Well, that’s all we needed.” Crossing the hallway, I asked, “Do you know anyone who calls himself Nathan?”

  “No.” Two steps. “Wait! I think Dad’s grandfather’s name was Nathan. He died when I was four. I remember pulling myself up by the edge of his coffin so I could look.” In the doorway to Singe’s office, she added, “He didn’t have a burn scar.”

  “Thanks.”

  Back in the Dead Man’s room, I asked, “Any chance this guy could be a vampire?”

  Miss Algarda was truthful. She does not know him. I doubt that he is a vampire. His face does resemble that of the man Miss Algarda saw in a coffin when she was a child, though.

  Vampires did not last around TunFaire. Their suspected presence will unite classes and races like nothing else. Just a suspicion could lead to a frenzied hunt.

  This situation has the potential to turn as ugly as a vampire hunt. Which argument may lie behind the Hill’s go-easy attitude.

  Vampire hunts always got out of hand. Innocents ended up with chopsticks through their hearts. The last full-blown vampire hunt had happened when I was nine. It had done more damage than any natural disaster since.

  “Let me ask the General about that.”

  Ask him to come view the painting.

  Block did not recognize the villain. He did concede that dread of an outbreak of mass hysteria might be the motive behind the hands-off orders being passed around. Might be.

  He was, innately, almost as suspicious as Deal Relway.

  Block having returned to his firewater, the Dead Man mused, We need to see Barate Algarda and his daughter, here. That is a task the Windwalker will have to undertake.

  “That might be a tough sell.”

  Hardly. She will be compliant to any request so long as you are a gentleman when you present it and you explain the reason for it.