by Glen Cook
Singe asked, “Is there an alpha with those things?”
I did not understand, nor did Moonblight.
Dollar Dan, that clever fellow, did. “Most flying thunder lizards do not show gang behavior. Flock behavior? Those up there feature a red-and-blue crested helmet growth. I believe that makes them a carrion-eating breed.”
I was lost. But he was right about what looked like big tumors on top of their heads. They were buzzards that would kill something when nature’s rhythm let them down.
I was big on thunder lizards as a kid. You saw more of them back then. I thought I knew all about them. Now I knew that I didn’t.
Singe explained, “I believe they hunt singly but call each other when they find a carcass, cooperating to fend off competitors. My question is, in a group situation does one animal take the lead? If so, we should capture that one and have Dan take it to the Dead Man.”
“Good thinking, Singe!” Truly excellent. Scary excellent. Though Dollar Dan wasn’t excited about the role she had chosen for him. He didn’t argue with the logic, though.
While we convened our committee, the gargoyles got on with business, the main feature of which was a massed plunge straight down.
Moonblight’s centipede bought us precious seconds by wrecking the foremost monster and rattling the others.
I produced the lead-weighted oaken head knocker I supposedly always carry, and actually had remembered this time. It was my favorite instrument of applied mayhem. This time it didn’t give me the reach I wanted. Those things had wingspans of five to eight feet, the widest I’d ever seen inside the wall. Plus, they had plenty of claws and thickets of teeth that stuck out at seven different angles. I thought Dollar Dan might have been optimistic about them being carrion eaters.
Dan produced a truncheon similar to mine. He would be in serious trouble if the tin whistles caught him carrying that. Not that he was breaking any formal law.
The common law, the unwritten law, the law that says humans get to make it up as they go along where the Other Races are concerned-especially with artificials like rat people-was being badly abused here. Nobody wanted to see a rat man armed with anything resembling an actual weapon.
A rat man with a nightstick might get the idea that he could hit somebody back, or even whack somebody just for being an asshole.
Singe, however, had that staff that would cause less comment, she being a girl, and it had some real reach. Plus, as instantly became obvious, she had snuck in some training in the art of fighting with big-ass sticks. She destroyed three of those ugly turkeys in about that many seconds, stepping, grunting, twisting, thrusting, and thumping like she was working her way through a floor exercise.
The rest of us would have backed off to watch, mouths agape for flies to nest in, if those gargoyles not yet demolished hadn’t decided to get the hell gone.
A particularly bold monster, the one who had gone to scout the nuns, stayed to watch from the flock’s original perch.
A tin whistle whose uniform had shrunk in the wash arrived. There were no longer any weapons in evidence. Dan and I were cleaning cuts and whining. Singe was leaning on her staff looking dreamy. Moonblight was poking fallen gargoyles and rifling pockets in the weird net vests they wore strung between their long necks and the hips of their stubby legs. The fat red top was too winded and stressed to grab witnesses who might not tell him the same lies we would. He puffed, hands on knees, staring in disbelief at the scattered beasts. A widening circle of emptiness developed as potential witnesses made themselves scarce.
Folks just didn’t want to spend their afternoon telling red tops something the tin whistles didn’t want to hear.
Moonblight drew the fat man’s attention by bringing in her centipede. That made clear what she was. “None of these creatures is dead, Officer, but they’re all broken. There’s another one up there.”
I thought she meant the watcher but then noticed bits of ragged brown felt hanging off the edge of the roof. Her centipede had gotten one more as the gargoyles made their getaway.
She added, “I can have it brought down if you like.”
“No, ma’am. That is entirely unnecessary.” She being what she was, he was eager to please and to avoid inconvenience. He didn’t give a rat’s patootie about the rest of us. We must be servants. She was between us and him, anyway. “Other Guards will arrive soon, I’m sure. They will clean up and see what the witnesses say. How may we get in touch if it becomes necessary that my superiors disturb you?”
I had trouble keeping a straight face. I almost lost it when Moonblight gave him her sister’s name. I got an ugly look for that.
The moment the fat red top turned to greet the next tin whistle, Dollar Dan asked, “Does this mean that it is too late to take one-”
Moonblight silenced him. “We didn’t get the right one.”
We looked up.
The remaining gargoyle wilted slightly, then concluded that it might have a brighter future elsewhere. A demonic centipede might be sent to visit if it stayed here. It launched itself in a frenzy of flapping.
“Did you see?” Singe asked. She was staring up at the building beside the limestone ugly, a redbrick pile almost as hideous. It stood some taller with its sloping roof and whatever was above that.
“I did not. What? I was engrossed in the gargoyle’s getaway. I was hoping it would smack into that half-timbered place over there. What did you see?” I figured she’d seen some other exotic from outside the wall, meaning maybe we ought to get braced for another adventure.
“There was a little girl up there. Just standing on the slate. Dressed too heavy for the season. A nice blue coat. She went away walking with nothing underneath her feet.”
“I see.”
Tara Chayne nodded thoughtfully. “Hmm.” But she kept looking in the direction the gargoyle had fled. “It might behoove us to fade away before someone with more status, nerve, and initiative, who doesn’t care who we are, turns up.”
Yes. Some Guards wouldn’t be afraid to hold us up all day for having committed the sin of making them work.
Tara Chayne gestured at Singe and Dollar Dan, got them moving, then me and my mare, then moved out herself, walking rearguard.
We hadn’t gone fifty feet before I found myself swarmed by dogs.
They had vanished while gargoyle weather loomed. They crowded in close now, not confident of the threat’s end.
I suspected that they might have some dark collective memories of deadly hunger from the sky.
We nearly made a clean getaway, but the dreaded somebody with the exaggerated sense of self-importance did turn up and start hollering for us to hold it right there. He had a big, shiny Specials badge on his beret.
“Nonsense,” Moonblight said. “Turn into that alley.”
Dollar Dan did so. Singe followed. Garrett and pack, with pony, chugged along behind, neither arguing nor questioning. Surprised, Singe asked, “Are you feeling all right?”
“No need to be a wiseass,” I snapped, and kept moving, thinking I knew what Moonblight intended. And she did it, putting up a visual barrier that would make it look like we had dashed into that alley and off the face of the earth.
She was in a generous mood. She left no booby traps, humorous, humiliating, or dangerous. She caught up. “A shift in plans. I want to see Barate before we go after my sister.”
“That will cost time. They could move her.”
“I understand that. I’m trusting your associate to live up to her reputation.”
Singe preened.
“We can. Home it is, then.”
72
We were near where Strafa died when I realized that I had called her mansion home. Well. Wasn’t that interesting?
Barate wasn’t there. I hadn’t expected him to be, but it made sense to check and not have to backtrack. Now we had to hope that he was at his mother’s place. We didn’t have time to hunt him down. If he wasn’t at Shadowslinger’s, I’d agitate for forgetting him.<
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We found Race and Dex in the kitchen. They lacked sufficient work. They were mildly pickled and had yet to think about starting their suppers. We warned them to look out for unfamiliar visitors. Tara Chayne told them to take our horses back to the stable where she had hired them.
We grabbed some small loaves of hard bread and traveled on.
Singe warned me, “The dogs are getting worn out.”
“So are mine.”
The joke didn’t work. Mine seldom do. My sense of humor doesn’t work for anybody but me. “They can drop out whenever they want. They can stay here, go back to the last place, or head for Macunado Street. Or they can even go back to the cemetery. Nobody is making them follow me.”
Tara Chayne blew out a couple of gallons of air in otherwise unregistered derision.
I tried to ask why, but she wasn’t inclined to be conversational. I had disappointed her. And we had reached Shadowslinger’s door.
Singe and Dollar Dan had to stay with the dogs but weren’t resentful. They were all allowed inside the entry foyer. Tara Chayne and I went to see the sorceress. I was anxious to move on along. It looked like it could rain later. Singe can have problems tracking in the wet.
Barate and Dr. Ted were in with Shadowslinger, who looked as awful as ever even in a coma. Both men seemed worn down but in good spirits. Barate volunteered, “She’s showing progress. She’s moving fingers and toes. She even opened her eyes once.”
Ted said, “She wasn’t seeing anything, though. Her pupils responded to light, but she didn’t track.”
Tara Chayne said, “You’re wasting too much worry on her, Barate. She’s indestructible. She’ll be back making us all miserable long before we’re ready. Probably by the weekend.”
“Harsh, but I hope you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’m always right. The only time I’m not right is when people don’t agree that I’m right. I’m still right then. I just lose an argument to a fool who isn’t. Garrett wants to tell you about our day.”
Not really, but I did so anyway, in detail, same as I would have with the Dead Man.
Barate announced, “I’m getting curious about that little girl. Tell me more about her.”
“There isn’t anything more to tell. Ted. Can Constance hear us?”
He shrugged. “I can’t get a response. But that might only mean that she can’t respond. Why?”
“Just curious.” Then I did try to tell Barate something else about the little girl, but I didn’t really have anything.
He mused, “That all sort of rings a bell somehow. I don’t know why. Windwalkers don’t go active that young. Strafa was precocious but she showed no promise till she hit menarche.” He grinned at Ted.
Ted said, “Look at you, using fancy words like you know what they mean.”
“He’s always had a knack for faking things.”
We all turned, startled.
Richt Hauser stood in the doorway, but he hadn’t spoken. Kyoga Stornes had, from behind him. Kyoga looked decidedly grim.
Barate asked, “Did something happen?”
Bonegrinder said, “We’ve been standing here listening.”
Both men came in. The room was getting tight. It threatened to get tighter. Mashego stood in the hallway, ready to do servant stuff if needed.
Then Tara Chayne said, “Those kids last night! Oh! Richt, I’m so sorry!”
So there I was, totally lost. Bonegrinder wasn’t married. I hadn’t heard about any illegitimate kids.
He was generous enough to explain. “The twins were my sister Margete’s grandchildren. We all doted on them.”
I hadn’t paid close attention but thought I’d heard that an allergy to marriage ran in the family.
Once again it appeared that failure to marry was no guarantee against catching parenthood.
Bonegrinder muttered, “Their mother will lose it. There’ll be hell to pay now.”
He didn’t explain. I didn’t understand but didn’t get a chance to ask.
Satisfied that I had gotten friends and family updated, Tara Chayne said, “I was hoping you would come with us when we go get Mariska, Barate. Kyoga, Richt, you’re welcome to join us. Kyoga? Are you all right?”
Pale, Barate’s friend had settled onto a chest. He sat there hunched over like a man suffering grievous stomach pains. He did not respond the first time Tara Chayne spoke to him.
“Kyoga Stornes.” She employed a distinct Hill lord’s voice, arrogantly certain of its power and rights. “Speak to us.”
“Uh. . Uh. .” He was struggling with some huge conflict. “I don’t get it. It isn’t possible. I’ve got to be wrong. But what if I’m not? I can’t let Meyness. .” The battle was leaking now. It made no sense even with him trying to articulate it. Even Barate couldn’t guess what the hell his problem was.
Tara Chayne said, “Barate, I’ll defer to you. You’re the polished Kyoga-with-the-vapors wrangler. Do something.”
He had these fits all the time?
Sighing, Barate stepped over. He clapped a sympathetic hand on my right shoulder as he passed. We were now comrades in tragedy.
Ted eased closer to Shadowslinger. I did so, too, feeling slightly odd. Not that long ago I’d spent days that seemed like months sitting watch over Morley while he was in a coma. Now my grandmother-in-law was roaming the twilight between here and the other side. Another creature, in a similar state, lay in the house on Macunado, in the very room where Morley had begun his recovery.
Too many people I knew were hanging around death’s doorstep lately, after too many others had gone on through already.
Barate gripped Kyoga’s shoulder the way he had mine. He squeezed hard.
Kyoga barked, “Hey! Barate! What the hell?”
“Come back to the land of the living. Let us in on the secret.”
“Secret?”
“What the drama stylings are all about.”
Kyoga looked around like he was suspicious about finding himself with all of us.
“What was that all about?”
“You didn’t get it? You really didn’t feel it? Tara Chayne. . Didn’t you have a thing with my father when you were Feder’s age? About the time when you were involved in your own Tournament of Swords?”
This was the first I’d heard about that. She denied it. “That was Mariska. She’s had round heels since she was twelve. . Oh. Oh my God!” Her eyes grew improbably huge, or so it seemed because normally she tended to squint. “No way! That’s just plain freaking impossible! Meyness died in the Cantard!”
Dr. Ted looked as lost as I felt. Barate and Bonegrinder looked stricken numb, and, watching from outside the doorway, Mashego definitely looked bewildered.
“You’re right.” Tara Chayne shuddered dramatically. “It was him! It is him! Why didn’t I see that?”
“Maybe because he’s forty-some years older and everybody knows he’s napping six feet down a thousand miles away from here?”
Tara Chayne went on working it out for herself. “They never sent a body back, but we all knew he was dead! And yeah, he is an old man now. And a priest. But the wen. . Gross. It should have made me think. But back then it wasn’t much more than a birthmark and he kept it covered with his hair or a hat.”
All right. I saw the shocker now. We all did. Our pal Magister Bezma could be Kyoga’s missing papa, Meyness Bismar Stornes.
Bonegrinder blurted, “The priest who warned you off the tournament because he has Mariska. . He’s Meyness?”
Kyoga launched the perfectly reasonable and critical question, “If that priest really is my dad. . why the hell hasn’t he been in touch?”
Moonblight assured him, “We’ll ask him about that, Kyoga.” She went silent. We all did. Constance made some kind of weird noise. It might have been her stomach commenting. Moonblight moved to where she could stare down at Shadowslinger, thoughtfully. “I wonder. . No. Can’t worry about that now. Let’s go get my sister. That would be the biggest inconvenie
nce we could offer the Operators.” She shoved through the crowd. “Garrett. Come on. Who else is with us?”
Everybody, initially. Even Dr. Ted, after tarrying to instruct Mash and Bash, both of whom had collected in the hallway outside Constance’s bedroom.
73
When we left Shadowslinger’s hovel, we hustled straight to Moonblight’s place. She wanted to pick up some tools that might come in handy if we ran into supernatural trouble.
That took only a minute, but during that minute Kyoga and Bonegrinder had a change of heart and deserted us. I’m not sure why. A second minute went to Tara Chayne giving Denvers special instructions. Then it was a quick trek southeast, Dollar Dan leading, essentially reversing the route we would have taken had we come straight from Chattaree to the Machtkess house. The place where Moonslight was supposed to be was barely five blocks from Prince Guelfo Square and the home of Frenklejean’s porkly magic. The area featured masonry operations and those who prepared the brick and stone that masons used. Too, there was a place that produced tombstones and one that burned specialty cements for mortars. The neighborhood had a distinctive odor after a productive day. In among the shops and storage buildings and manufactories were the homes of the owners and a few tenements that offered housing for workers. It was a glum and dusty neighborhood on the best of days.
It was late enough that most places had shut down for the day. Dusk threatened. A glance skyward left me suspecting that we would be getting wet again soon.
Dollar Dan’s arrival spontaneously generated rat men. He and they chatted. They were nervous because of the human crowd. They were awed, too, because Dan could hang with notable humans and Pular Singe, too. They were afraid to get close to Singe. She was next to royalty among ratkind. She should not be troubled by peasants.
I had no difficulty considering her royalty. There never was a rat person like her. Only John Stretch came close. She was a celebrity. She was a heroine. She might become a saint.
She was a huge source of pride to all ratkind and better known there than her dim-candle sidekick, me.
