by Glen Cook
Saucerhead came to see what I was up to. "I'm going out for a while. Shouldn't be long." I scowled at the closed door to the small front room. "Tell Dean that if that cat's still here when I get back, they both go out in the rain."
I went to see a friend. His name was Playmate. He was nine feet tall and black as coal, big enough to make Saucerhead nervous. But he was as gentle as a lamb and religious to boot. He was in the stable business. He owed me. Early in both our careers I'd saved him from human sharks.
He never ceased to amaze me. No matter what time I showed, no matter how inconvenient my appearance, he was always glad to see me. This time was no exception. "Garrett!" he boomed when I strolled into his stable. He dropped a curry comb and bounded toward me, swept me up in a ferocious hug. He turned me loose only after I started squawking like a bagpipe.
"Damn, Playmate, sometimes I wish you was a woman. Nobody else is excited to see me."
"Your own fault. Come around more often. Maybe you wear out your welcome."
"Yeah. It's been a rough year. I've been neglecting my friends."
" 'Specially that little bit, Maya."
I forgot my mission momentarily. "You've seen Maya? I thought she left town."
"Been a while, come to think. She used to come around, help out some, just 'cause she liked the horses."
"I knew there had to be something wrong with her."
The look he gave me told me more than he could have said in words. Maya had cried on his shoulder. I couldn't really look him in the eye. He said, "You've been having troubles all the way around, I hear. Miss Tinnie. Somebody named Winger."
He was implying it, so I said it. "Yeah. I have a way with the girls. The wrong way."
"Come over here and sit. I have a pony keg I've been nursing. Should be a sip or two left."
Which was all right by me, except it would be warm brew. Playmate liked his beer warm. I prefer mine just about ready to turn to chunks. But he was offering beer. Right then I had an inclination to surround several gallons. I settled on an old saddle, accepted a big pewter mug. Playmate plopped his behind on a sawhorse.
"Trouble is," he told me, "those gals all been growing up, getting interested in something besides fun."
"I know." It's hell, getting older.
"Don't mind me. It's the preacher getting out."
I knew that too. Back when I saved his bacon, he'd been thinking of getting into the religion racket on his own. He'd have done good but wouldn't have gotten very big. TunFaire has a thousand cults. Always there are plenty of disenchanted would-be believers eager to sign on with the thousand-and-oneth. Playmate had taken a look around, decided that he was insufficiently cynical and dishonest to make a real go of it. He may be religious personally, but he's practical.
"The preacher is right, Playmate. And it's maybe him I need to talk to."
"Problem?"
"Yeah."
"Thought so, soon as I saw you."
What a genius. With Playmate I commit the same sin as with Morley. I don't go around unless I need help.
I resolved to do better in the future.
Right, Garrett. Duck! Here comes a low-flying pig.
I laid it out for Playmate. I didn't hold back. My story upset him so badly I was sorry I hadn't softened it some. "Who'd want to go and do something like that, Garrett? Killing little girls."
They hadn't been little, but that was beside the point. "I don't know. I mean to find out. That's where I thought you might help. That coach outside Morley's wasn't any junker or rental. I don't think there's another like it. Nearest I've ever seen is Chodo Contague's coach. And it didn't have the gaudy silver brightwork."
Playmate frowned at every mention of Morley Dotes. He didn't approve of Morley. He frowned again when I mentioned Chodo. If Playmate was the kind to keep a little list, the first name on his would be Chodo Contague. He sees Chodo as a cause of social ills rather than as an effect.
"Custom coach?"
"I'd guess so."
"And similar to Chodo Contague's."
"A little bigger and even fancier. Silver trim and a lot of carving. Tell you anything? Know whose it is?"
"Don't know that, but I can make a good guess who built it. If it was built in TunFaire."
Bingo! I almost let out a whoop. Maybe I did let out a whoop. Playmate looked at me oddly for a moment, then grinned shyly. "Helped some?"
"As soon as you tell me that coachmaker's name."
"Atwood. Linden Atwood."
That name meant nothing to me. At my income level I don't buy many custom-built coaches. I don't hang out with those who do. "Where would I find Mr. Linden Atwood, coachmaker?"
"Tinkery Row."
Excellent. That narrowed it right down to a whole neighborhood where potters potted, tinkers linked, and at least one wainwright wrighted wains. The neighborhood lies south of the Tenderloin and north of the brewery district, stretching east to west beginning a few blocks in from the river, and parallels a street called Tinker's Lane. That is one of the oldest parts of town. Some artisan families have been established there for centuries.
Playmate glanced toward the stable door. "Going to be getting dark soon. You figure on going down there right away?"
"Yes."
"That's not a nighttime neighborhood. Pretty soon they'll all close up, have supper, then the menfolk will head for the corner tavern."
"So it's late. It's already too late for five women. The Dead Man thinks this guy won't kill again for another eleven or twelve days, but I don't count on it."
Playmate nodded, conceding the point. "I'll walk with you."
"You don't need to do that. Just tell me where—"
"Trouble follows you. I better go with you. Takes a certain touch to deal with Atwood, anyway."
"You've done enough." I didn't want to put Playmate at risk. He didn't deserve it. "My job is dealing with people."
"Your style is maybe a touch too direct and forceful for Atwood. I'll walk you down."
Arguing with Playmate is like arguing with a horse. Don't get you anywhere and just irritates the horse.
Maybe if he would get into another line I'd visit more often. Any line where there weren't so many horses around. I don't get along with those monsters. Their whole tribe is out to get me.
"I'll get my hat and cloak," he said, knowing he'd won before I conceded. I looked around, wondering where he'd hidden the circus tent he'd wear. I spied a horse eyeballing me. It looked like it was thinking about kicking its stall down so it could trot over and dance a flamenco on my tired bones.
"Don't waste time. The devils have spotted me. They're cooking something up."
Playmate chuckled. He has one big blind spot. He thinks my problem with horses is a joke. Boy, do they have him fooled.
15
We stopped to have supper, my treat. Which strained my budget severely. Playmate ate like a horse, but not cheap hay. "You're on expenses, Garrett."
"I was just figuring on cleaning the Watch out of pocket change, not driving them into bankruptcy."
He got a good laugh out of that one. Simple pleasures for simple minds.
Tinkery Row is all light industry, single-family operations that produce goods without producing much smoke. The nastier stuff is down south, the nastiest across the river. The air gets chunky and takes on flavor when the wind is from the east, past the smelters and mills. Their stench can make you long for the heavy wood and coal smoke of winter or the rotten garbage of summer.
Tinkery Row is four blocks wide and eight blocks long, approximately, measuring by normal city blocks. There aren't many of those in TunFaire. There never has been any planning applied to the city's growth. Maybe we need a good fire to burn it all down so we can start over and do it right.
Playmate insisted on sticking with me. He said he knew the neighborhood and knew Linden Atwood. I gave up. I needed to spend some time with somebody who wasn't going to give me a lot of hassle.
I let him lead but insist
ed on setting the pace myself. My legs weren't long enough to match his prodigious stride. He strolled. I scampered. Once we got into Tinkery Row he chatted up people who still had their doors open hoping for a late sale. I huffed and puffed. Tinkery Row is a safe neighborhood. The villains stay away because the natives have this habit of ganging up. Justice is quick and informal and applied with considerable enthusiasm.
Everyone seemed to know Playmate. Nobody knew me, but my feelings weren't hurt. That's a plus in my line. I puffed out, "You spend a lot of time down here?"
"Grew up here. One street over. Pop made tack." Which explained the interest in horses, maybe. "But I changed in the war. Came back too nervous, just couldn't fit in. Kind of slow and timeless around here. People don't change. Get fixed in their ways. I could probably tell you who is where doing what right now, though I haven't been around for months. Right now Linden Atwood is having supper with his missus at home. His sons are having supper with their families, and his apprentices are eating bread and cheese while they clean the shop. About a half-hour from now they'll start drifting into the Bicks and Kittle. Each one will buy a pint of dark. They'll all go into a corner and nurse their pints for an hour, then somebody will say he'd better get on home and get to bed 'cause he has to make an early start in the morning. Old Linden will tell him to stay, have another on him, and he'll buy the round. They'll all sit another hour, find the bottoms of their mugs at the same time, then they'll get up and go home."
A thrill a minute, life in Tinkery Row.
It was the longest speech I'd ever heard from Playmate. While he made it he led me to and into the corner tavern with the name I found unfathomable. Most taverns do have odd names, like Rose and Dolphin, but that's because most people can't read. A sign with a couple of symbols will hang over the door, serving as both name and address. Bicks and Kittle didn't have a sign, and when I finally asked Playmate about the name, he told me those were the families who ran the place.
Some mysteries just aren't worth unraveling.
Playmate studied the layout. The place wasn't crowded. He held me back while he chose a table. "We don't want to trespass on the regulars." Apparently they became disturbed when casual trade usurped their traditional tables. Playmate chose a small one in the middle of the small room. It appeared less shopworn than most.
Playmate ordered but I paid. He asked for the dark beer. "You can get any beer you want as long as you're willing to go down the street for your pale or lager."
"Real set in their ways." I do like the occasional dark beer, though. And this proved to be a fine brew with a strong malt flavor. I like to taste the malt more than the hops.
"Hardheaded. Atwood comes in, let me pick the time and do the talking."
I nodded. Made sense.
The place began filling. Young and old, they were all cut from one bolt. I wondered if there would be a problem, what with Playmate's being the only dark face in the place. Nope. Soon guys started dropping by to exchange a few words of greeting while eyeing me sidelong, curiously, but with manners too steady to express that curiosity aloud.
Playmate identified the apprentice coachmakers when they arrived. "Atwood never took apprentices till a few years ago. The war's fault. He lost a couple sons, then none of his grandsons made it back. Has three still doing their five years, though. Maybe they'll get lucky."
The apprentices were old for that. Middle twenties. "In Atwood's place I'd take kids, educate them so they could avoid the line units. Supply outfits always need wainwrights."
Playmate looked at me like I'd missed the point of everything he'd said tonight. "Where would he find kids? Any Tinkery family with kids would bring them up in the family trade."
All right. I did miss that, sort of.
The surviving sons appeared, then Linden Atwood himself. Linden Atwood was that rare creature, a man who fitted his name and looked like a coachmaker. In my preconceptions. He was a skinny little dink, old, with leathery skin, all his own hair, intelligent eyes, and plenty of bounce. His hands were hands that still did their share of work. He stood like he had a board nailed to his back, seemed confident of his place in the world. He and his crew were one big happy family. He was no aloof patriarch. He, his three sons, and four apprentices got into a spirited argument about whether or not the King's Rules were turning TunFaire's football players into gangs of whining candyassed wimps.
Now there was something worth arguing about. King's Rules went into effect before I was born.
Karentine football, or rugger, is so rough now I wouldn't want my enemies playing. In Old Style football I think the only rule was: no edged weapons.
"I take it football is popular down here."
"Serious business. Best players come out of Tinkery. Every block has a team. Kids start out as soon as they can walk."
Not only hardheaded but not very bright. But I kept that thought to myself. "Not very tolerant" goes along with the other two, most places.
"Played some myself when I was younger," Playmate told me.
"Why am I not surprised?" He'd have made a team all by himself.
Playmate was slick. He managed to insinuate an opinion into an argument so old it was obvious ritual, elicited a response because, apparently, in his olden days he'd been a star. Before I understood what was happening, he and I were part of Atwood's crowd. I pursued Playmate's advice diligently. The Dead Man would have been impressed by how long I kept my mouth shut.
In time the Atwoods veered from the tried and true long enough to betray polite curiosity concerning Playmate's presence. Playmate gave them a big grin, like he was mocking himself for taking anything seriously. "My pal Garrett and me, we're on sort of a crusade."
Those guys understood a crusade. They were religious. Real salt of the earth and backbone of the nation. Hadn't had an original thought in generations.
Pardon. I do get overly critical at times.
Curiosity levels rose. Playmate played with them a minute, then said, "I better let Garrett tell it. He's the one been closest to it. I'm just trying to lend a hand."
I pictured Block exploding if he heard I was hanging out his dirty laundry all over town, grinned, told the story of the dead girls. The Atwoods were properly horrified. I played to that, noted the old man paying closer attention than the others, who just wanted to be entertained.
I said, "So right now it looks like the only way to trace this monster is through his coach."
Everybody got it then. The whole gang got quiet and grim. All eyes turned to the old man. He considered me neutrally. "You suspect that coach came from my shop, Mr. Garrett?"
"I have no idea, Mr. Atwood. Playmate says you're the premier coachmaker in TunFaire. If it was built here, according to him, you're the only man with the talent to have built it."
"I expect so. Describe it again."
I did, recalling every possible detail.
The sons were less skilled than he at concealing their thoughts. I knew that coach had been built by Linden Atwood. The question was, would the man expose his buyer?
He would. "We delivered that coach, built to strict and exacting specifications, about three years back, Mr. Garrett. I do not believe in false humility. It was the finest coach ever built in TunFaire. I will accept responsibility for that, but I refuse any blame."
"Excuse me?"
One son muttered, "Damn thing's jinxed."
The old man glared. "Madame Tallia Lethe, wife and mother of the Icemasters Direfear, commissioned it. Three months after she took delivery, there was an accident. She fell. A wheel rolled over her head."
Oh, boy. "I knew we could get some big-time sorcerers into this." Karentine wizards mainly belong to the Elemental Schools: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. The Windmasters and Storm Wardens of the Air school are common, Firelords more so. There may be Earth schoolers elsewhere in Karenta, but none in TunFaire. Water-school types are almost as rare. "I didn't know we had any Icemasters here."
"We don't," the old man said. "The wom
an lived here. The Icemasters are dead, anyway. Crossbones Bight."
Ah. The big naval battle of the War. We got our Karentine asses kicked. Unfortunately for the Venageti, a naval triumph hadn't meant much strategically. "I see," I said, not seeing at all.
"Madame had no heirs. The estate passed to the Crown. The Crown agents auctioned everything. Lord Hellsbreath bought the coach."
There was a name to conjure nightmares.
The only Hellsbreath I recalled was no healthier than Madame Lethe. "He had some bad luck himself, right?"
"He was murdered. The assassin got away."
"He was in the coach when it happened," a son volunteered.
"Crossbow bolt right in the eye," another said. He demonstrated with enthusiastic gestures and sound effects.
"Then who got the coach?"
"Duchess of Suhnerkhan. Lady Hamilton."
I knew that one. "Does seem like it was unlucky." The King's great-aunt, Lady Hamilton, had decided to visit the family estate at Okcok. She hadn't bothered with an escort, though there'd been a full moon out. Werewolves had given her a fatal set of hickeys.
Linden Atwood grunted but conceded nothing.
"That was a year and a half ago. I guess it's changed hands a few more times?"
"No. Crown Prince Rupert brought it back to town and stored it in the coachhouse behind Lady Hamilton's town house. Far as I know, it hasn't been out since." The old man produced a pipe and pipeweed. He filled up, lit up, leaned back, closed his eyes, puffed, and thought. The clan waited quietly. I followed their lead. Playmate signaled for another round of the dark. On me, naturally.
The beer's arrival wakened Atwood. He tilted forward, drained half his mug, wiped foam with the back of a hand, belched, said, "I don't put no stock in this jinx stuff, Garrett." We were pals now. I'd bought him a beer. "But was I you, I'd be careful. Seems like everybody that gets near that coach gets dead." He frowned.
He didn't like that at all. What if word got out? What if people started thinking it was the coachmaker's fault?
