Old Tin Sorrows gf-4

by Glen Cook

  No reason not to tell the truth. "Some of Bradon's paintings. I saved them from the fire."

  They wanted to see. They hadn't seen Bradon's work before. The man never had shown it.

  "Yech!" Kaid said after a couple of war scenes. "That's sick."

  "It's good," Wayne said. "That's how it felt."

  "But it doesn't look like—"

  "I know. It's how it felt."

  "Man," Peters said. "He didn't like Jennifer much, did he?"

  Somehow I'd managed to save four portraits, the blonde and three Jennifers. Just as well I hadn't salvaged any of these guys. They wouldn't have appreciated them. I'd gotten more than one Jennifer by accident. It had gotten hurried toward the end.

  Peters lined the portraits up against the fountain. The third and probably most recent Jennifer I hadn't seen before. It was the ugliest. Jennifer was radiant yet something horrible about her made you doubt the artist's sanity.

  Kaid said, "He was crazier than we thought. Garrett, don't ever let Miss Jennifer see these. That would be too cruel."

  "I won't. I took them by accident more than anything. I was just grabbing. But the blonde, now. I took that one on purpose. That's the woman I've been seeing. Who is she?"

  They looked at me, at the painting, at me again. Their studied blandness said they were unsure about my sanity. They thought I'd let my imagination attach itself to the first thing handy.

  Peters played it straight. "I don't know, Garrett. Never seen her before. You men?"

  Wayne and Kaid shook their heads. Wayne said, "There's something familiar about her, though."

  That seemed to cue something in Kaid's head. He frowned, moved a step closer. I asked, "You know something, Kaid?"

  "No. For a second... No. Just my imagination."

  I wasn't going to argue with them till I could produce physical evidence. "Let's get these tucked away, Morley."

  We started gathering the paintings. Now Peters was frowning at the blonde, something perking in the back of his head. He was a little pale and a whole lot puzzled.

  He didn't say anything, though. We collected the paintings and headed for the stairs.

  Maybe intuition nudged me. When I reached the fourth floor I went to the rail. Peters and Kaid had their heads together, yakking away. They kept their voices down but were intense.

  Morley's ears are better than mine. He told me, "Whatever they're talking about, they're determined to convince each other it's impossible."

  "They recognized her?"

  "They think she looks like somebody she couldn't be. I think."

  I didn't like the sound of that.

  36

  Morley perched the mystery woman on the mantle in my sitting room, contemplated her intently. I misread his interest. I seldom do that because his interest in the female tribe is definite. "Can't have her, boy. She's taken."

  "Be quiet," he told me. "Sit down and look at the painting."

  He wouldn't be sharp if it wasn't important. I planted myself. I stared.

  I began to feel like I was part of the scene.

  Morley got up and snuffed a few lamps, halving the light in the room. Then he threw the curtains open, apparently so we'd get the full benefit of the storm. He settled and resumed staring.

  That woman came more and more to life, grabbed more and more of my being. I felt I could take her hand and pull her out, away from the thing that pursued her.

  The storm outside intensified what was going on in the painting's background. That damned Snake Bradon was a sorcerer. The painting, once you looked at it awhile, was more potent than the swampscape with hanged man. But this one was more subtle.

  I could almost hear her begging for help.

  Morley muttered, "Damn her. She's too intense. Got to block her out of there."

  "What?"

  "There's something else there. But the woman pulls your attention away."

  He'd lost me. The rest of the painting was decoration to me. Or arrows pointing out the crucial object.

  Morley got paper from my writing table, spent ten minutes using a small knife to trim pieces to cover the blonde. "You damage that thing, I'll carve you up," I told him. I had a notion where it ought to be displayed. There was a big bare spot on the wall of my office at home.

  "I'd cut my own throat first, Garrett. The man was crazy but he was a genius."

  Curious, Morley calling him crazy without having met him.

  Morley killed another lamp. He hung his cutouts over the canvas.

  "I'll be damned." The painting was almost as intense without the woman. But now the eye could rove.

  Morley grunted. "Let your mind go blank. Just let it sink in."

  I tried.

  The storm carried on outside. Thunder galloped. Swords of lightning flailed. The flashes played with the flashes in the painting. The shadow seemed to move like a thunderhead boiling. "What?"

  It was there for just a second. I couldn't get it back. I tried too hard.

  "Did you see the face?" Morley asked. "In the shadow?"

  "Yeah. For a second. I can't get it back."

  "Neither can I." He removed the cutouts, settled again. "She's running from somebody, not something."

  "She's reaching out. You think Bradon has her reaching for somebody particular?"

  "Running from somebody to somebody?" he asked.

  "Maybe."

  "Him?"

  "Maybe." I shrugged.

  "You? You're the one who—"

  "You said you saw her."

  "I saw somebody. Just a glimpse. The more I stare at this, the more I think it could have been the other one."

  "Jennifer?"

  "Yes. They look a lot alike."

  I hadn't seen that. I tried to see Jennifer in the blonde. "I don't know. There's a lot of Stantnor in Jennifer and none in this one."

  I guess I squeaked. He asked, "What?"

  "That face in the background. There was a lot of Stantnor in it."

  "Jennifer? Bradon did her bad."

  "I don't think so. I got the feeling it was male."

  "Around thirty and stark raving mad."

  The lightning had fits outside. I shuddered, jumped up, started lighting lamps. I couldn't shake the chill. "I'm spooked," I confessed.

  "Yes. The more I look, the creepier it gets."

  The chill stayed with me. I wondered if we were being watched. "Think I'll start a fire."

  "Whoa! What did you say?"

  "I'll start a fire. I'm freezing my—"

  "You're a genius, Garrett."

  "Nice of you to notice." What did I genius? It went right by me.

  "Fire in the stable. You figured right, too. Not for you at all. For something Bradon had hidden. What did you find hidden? The paintings." He gestured at the blonde. "The painting."

  "I don't know—"

  "I do. What were the others? Crazy stuff. But people we've seen and places in the Cantard."

  So I looked at the painting again.

  Morley said, "There's the key to your killer. That's why Bradon died. There's why the stable burned. That's your killer." He laughed. It was a crazy noise. Hell. Everything was crazy in this place. "And you slept with her." He started to say something else, caught himself, reflected. "Oh, man." He came and put a hand on my shoulder.

  He could have slept with a mass murderer and thought nothing of it. Maybe he'd have smiled and cut her throat afterward. A lovable rogue most of the time, but there's a cold subterranean stream inside him.

  He knew how it would hit me before it hit. He was there when I started to rattle.

  It wasn't as bad as I feared, but the idea did shake me. "I've got to pace."

  He let me get up and try to walk it off. That didn't do much good. The whoopee-making noises outside didn't help. The thunder ripped at my nerves like cats howling at midnight.

  Then I recalled promising Jennifer I'd see her later. The old mind fixed on that, telling me I could clean out a whole bird's nest with one ston
e.

  "Where you going?" Morley demanded.

  "Something to do. Promises to keep. Almost forgot." I got out before he pressed me, sudden as that, not quite sure I was thinking right.

  37

  I glanced over the rail. Kaid and Wayne were seated on opposite sides of the fountain, not talking. They'd cleaned up Chain. Peters had gone. I wondered why they bothered. Maybe they couldn't sleep. I couldn't see me getting much sleep despite exhaustion and hurting everywhere.

  I made it to the loft, crossed, slipped down to the third floor without attracting attention. It was a great house for sneaking. I tiptoed to Jennifer's door. I tapped. She didn't answer. I shouldn't have expected her to, as long as it had been. I tried the door. Locked.

  Only reasonable. Any fool would have taken that precaution. I tapped again and still got no response.

  "So much for that idea." I started for home.

  And stopped. And without understanding why I turned back and went to work on the lock. I had it undone in moments.

  Jennifer didn't like the darkness. Half a dozen lamps burned in a sitting room identical to her father's. Not knowing the layout of these end suites, I decided the best place to find her would be behind the same door the old man used to make his entrances. I locked the hall door and headed that way.

  I don't know what you'd call the room beyond. It wasn't a bedroom. It was more a small, informal sitting room with only a few pieces of furniture and one big window facing west. It was gloomy, lighted by a single candle. Jennifer was there, in a chair facing the window. The drapes were open wide. She'd fallen asleep despite the excitement outside. I doubted she'd have heard my knock had she been awake.

  Now what, bright boy? Make the wrong move and they'll turn you into a eunuch.

  Hell. It'd been tried before. I shook her shoulder. "Jenny. Wake up."

  She shrieked and jumped and stumbled away and... The gods were kind. One of those barrages of thunder absorbed her cry. She recognized me and got herself under control—more or less.

  She held her hands over her heart and panted. "You scared me to death. What're you doing here, Garrett?"

  I fibbed a little. "I told you I'd come by. I knocked. You didn't answer. I got worried. I fiddled the lock and came to see if you were all right. You looked so pale I just reached out to shake your shoulder. I didn't mean to scare you."

  Did I sound sincere? I poured it on. I do sincere pretty good. Been studying Morley's technique. She relaxed some, moved a little closer.

  "Gods. I hope I didn't wake the whole house yelling like that."

  I apologized some more. Then it seemed only natural to hug her to comfort her. A minute after that, when she'd stopped shaking so bad, she found a little girl voice and asked, "You're going to ravish me now, aren't you?"

  For me it was the perfect thing for her to say at the moment. I busted out laughing. It took the built-up pressure out of me. It took almost too much. I had to fight it to control it.

  "What's so damned funny?"

  Her feelings were bruised. "No. Jenny. Honey. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at me. Honest. I really am. No. I'm not here to ravish you. The condition I'm in, after today I couldn't ravish a chipmunk. I've been burned, bludgeoned, and kicked half to death. I hurt all over. I'm so tired I could pass out on the spot. And I'm totally upset about Chain. If there's anything I'd want from a woman now, it would be for her to comfort me, not for me to ravish her."

  You slick talker. Pay attention. Talk like that, it's eight to five you'll wind up getting comforted by a vestal virgin. Just be harmless, helpless, and in need of mothering, and pour on the sincere.

  Well, what with one thing and another, I talked myself right into something without consciously planning it. Fifteen minutes later we were in her bed. Fifteen minutes after that I was trying hard to stay harmless, helpless, and in need of comfort.

  There's something reassuring about just lying around holding somebody after you've been bruised and abused and treated like a wolf treats a fox that isn't fast on its feet. But there's also something about being comforted by somebody put together like Jennifer that makes you forget they shoved you through the meat grinder sideways—hide, hooves, and all.

  We'd been whispering, mostly just talk, innocent enough but she couldn't he still. She was relaxed enough now, considering. She moved, seemed startled, asked, "Is that what I think it is?"

  Body pressure left no doubt what she meant. "Yeah. Sorry. Can't help it. Maybe I'd better go." I didn't make any move to leave, though. Not me.

  "I can't believe it. No. It's impossible."

  It wasn't impossible at all.

  For a while I forgot the painting, the storm, all my aches and pains. I even got to sleep some. Though that was more like catnaps between tests of the limits of possibility.

  I knew I was going to hate myself in the morning.

  It was just my body that hated myself in the morning. It felt about a hundred and two years old. My head was fine, not counting my cold. I kissed Jennifer on the forehead, nose, and chin, headed for my own quarters while it was still early enough that I might not be noticed.

  Wayne and Kaid were on duty still. Sort of. Kaid was nodding. Wayne was sprawled on the fountain surround, snoring. Cook was in the kitchen cursing. I heard her all the way to the fourth floor. I wondered what was bothering her. I was sure we'd all know before long, what with her closed-mouth, stoic ways.

  I went up, through the loft, down. I glanced across as I started into my hallway. The blonde stared at me from the hall to the General's suite. I waved feebly. She didn't respond. "Oh, boy." I headed for my door.

  For a second I thought she'd gotten there before me. Then I realized it was the painting. It seemed so creepy, I turned it to face the wall.

  "You have a nice time?"

  Morley was in a big overstuffed chair. He looked like he'd been asleep.

  "Ghastly."

  "That's what puts that smug look on your face. I'll remember that. Get cleaned up. It's almost time for breakfast."

  Him eager for one of Cook's breakfasts? "I'll give it a skip and take a nap instead."

  "You're working, Garrett. You don't take time off to nap whenever you feel like it, do you?"

  "That's the beauty of being your own boss." He was right. More right than he knew, really. I could go get some sleep, sure. And if somebody got killed while I did, I'd be haunted for years. "Yeah. All right."

  Now he looked smug. Bastard. He knew right where to poke me. I went into the dressing room, threw some water on my face, mixed up some lather, hacked and slashed. Morley planted himself in the doorway. He watched the show awhile, then said, "I'd better move on the cook fast. Or you'll have every woman in the place wrapped up."

  "You're out of luck. She was my first conquest."

  He snorted.

  I said, "I had to move fast because I knew you'd head for her like a moth to a candle." I wiped my face. "On the other hand, I won't stand in your way. She's definitely your type. I'll sing at your wedding."

  "Don't think you can provoke me into a battle of wits with an unarmed man."

  "Huh."

  "I know it's your diet talking. Maybe I ought to talk to the cook about that. Dietary improvements could do your General more good than squadrons of doctors and witches."

  "Got you on the run already?"

  "What?"

  "Last recourse, old buddy. You start talking about red meat and celery juice and boiled weeds."

  "Boiled weeds? You ever actually buy a meal at my place? I mean, pay for it out of your own pocket?"

  I was tired enough to forget how well he does sincere. I made the mistake of offering an honest answer. "I don't recall doing that. Every time it's been on the house." And not that bad, but who was going to admit that?

  "And you complain about free meals. You know how much it costs to gather those ‘weeds'? They're rare. They grow wild. They aren't cultivated commercially." He put on a lot of sincere. I wasn't sure if he was
yanking my leg or not. I know it isn't cheap to eat at his place. But I'd always figured that was part of the ambience. Make his customers think they were buying class.

  "We're getting too serious," I said, by way of ducking possible issues. "Let's go see how she'll poison us today."

  "Not the best choice of words, Garrett, but let's."

  38

  Sometime back a hundred years ago, Cook whumped up one big breakfast and she'd been re-warming leftovers ever since. The same old greasy meats and biscuits and gravy and all that, so heavy it would founder a galleon. Your basic country breakfast. Morley was in pain.

  He concentrated on biscuits and muttered, "At least the storm passed."

  It was quiet out. The rain had fallen off to a drizzly mist. The wind had died down. It was getting colder, which I didn't interpret as a positive omen. I figured it meant the snow would be back.

  Jennifer didn't show, which I didn't find mysterious and nobody else mentioned, so it must not be unusual. But Wayne wasn't around either and he wasn't the kind who missed his meals. "Where's Wayne?" I asked Peters, who looked groggy, crabby, and like he still hurt plenty.

  He gave me the answer I was afraid I'd hear. "He pulled out. Soon as there was enough light, just like he said. Kaid said he had his stuff all packed and at the front door. He was raring to go."

  I looked at Kaid. Kaid looked like I felt. He nodded, which seemed to take all the energy he had. I muttered, "And then there were three."

  Peters said, "And I'm having a hard time talking myself into sticking."

  Cook rumbled, "What are you boys on about now?" I realized she probably hadn't heard. I told her about Chain. And when I thought about Chain I wished I hadn't, because Wayne the gravedigger was gone and that meant either Peters or I or both of us would have to hike over to the graveyard and wallow in the mud till we got Art Chain planted. I knew Morley wouldn't do it. He hadn't hired on for that, as he'd remind me with a shit-eating grin while he kibbitzed my digging style.

  Eight hundred and some thousands apiece now. And all the survivors improbable suspects.

  I thought about burning my copy of the will right there. But what good would that do if they didn't know it was the last copy? Then I had a terrible thought. "Was the will registered?" You can do that to keep your heirs from squabbling. It means filing a copy of the document. If Stantnor's was registered, then the villain did not have to worry about my copy or about the General having torched his.