Down These Strange Streets

by George R. R. Martin; Gardner Dozois

  One ugly was just plain determined to take the big man home with him. The other scrabbled after a wooden box said fellow must have dropped. I made sure my feet were solidly arranged on my downhill end and waded in.

  I gagged. The guy on top of Dean, though breathing, had begun to rot.

  My partner quit daydreaming and got into the game at last.

  One ugly responded by voiding his bowels. He grabbed Singe’s victim by an ankle and headed out. I whapped his pal till he gave up on the box, then stomped on the ally his buddy had given up dragging as he went through the doorway. Despite the bolt in his forehead, that one retained the ability to groan.

  With generous assistance from a wall I launched my pursuit, but ended it leaning on the rail of the stoop.

  Singe bustled out beside me, anger smoking off her. She pointed her weapon. Her bolt ripped right through one creature’s shoulder. The impact spun him and knocked him down. “Whoa! This sumbitch has some kick! I think I just sprained my wrist.” She watched the uglies trundle up Macunado Street. “I will go reload, then we can get after them.”

  Besides her genius for figures and finance, Pular Singe is the best damned tracker in TunFaire.

  “The Dead Man couldn’t control those guys.”

  “You are correct. That is not good.” Singe eyed the fetid mess blanketing Dean. The big man had ceased to resemble a human being. His sailor’s rags had begun to drift out of the mess.

  Nothing mortal ought to decay that fast.

  “I’m sure the Dead Man will tell us all about it.” Which was a subtle test to see if my partner was paying attention.

  A little blonde watched us from across the street, so motionless she didn’t seem to be breathing. She clutched the string handles of a small yellow bag in front of her. She wore a floppy blue hat somewhere between a beret and a chef’s cap. Her hair hung to just above her shoulders, cut evenly all the way round. A wisp of bang peeped out from under the hat. She wore an unseasonably heavy coat made up of sizable patches in various shades of red, gold, and brown. Its hem hovered at her knees. Quite daring, that, as her legs were bare. Her eyes were big, blue, and solemn. She met my gaze briefly, then turned and walked uphill slowly, goose-stepping, never moving her hands. I guessed her to be in the age range large nine to small eleven.

  Singe said, “She has no scent.”

  Nor any presence except in the eyes of you two. Most unnatural.

  That was my partner, the Dead Man.

  A sleepy voice said, “I see her, too. I’ll follow her.”

  Penny Dreadful, human, girl, teenager (a terrible combination), the Dead Man’s pet, and the final member of this strange household, had decided to drag herself out of bed and see what the racket was all about.

  As Penny pushed in between us, Singe turned a blank face my way that was all too expressive. I was in no position to grumble about anyone lying in bed since it usually takes divine intervention to roust me out before the crack of noon.

  Penny is fourteen, shy around me but brash toward everyone else. She used to be the last priestess of a screwball rural cult. She lives with us because we stashed her once for her protection and she never got around to leaving. The Dead Man is fond of her inquiring mind.

  “Let’s deal with this mess before we do anything else. Penny, get the field cot set up in my office. We’ll put Dean in there.”

  She grumbled. That’s what teens do when they’re told to do something. All life is an imposition. But she went. She liked Dean.

  Singe said, “Let us shut the door before the second wave shows up.”

  She helped drag the injured raider. The door needed no major repairs. The damage was all cosmetic. I was pleased.

  Dean and Singe’s victim were less encouraging. Dean was unconscious and covered with yuck. I worried that he had internal injuries. “I’ll get Dr. Harmer in a few minutes.”

  No need, my partner sent. The solution to several problems is at hand.

  I stood up, bemused, though this was not the first time my stoop had hosted a raft of violent idiots. I was bemused because my telepathic sidekick was bemused. He was bemused because he had been unable to get past the surface thoughts of the raiders.

  The door resounded to a tap.

  Singe’s head whipped round. She pushed me out of her way, cracked the peephole for form’s sake, then opened up for her half-brother, the ratman gangster John Stretch. Behind him loomed his lieutenant, Dollar Dan Justice, the biggest ratman in town. All five feet three of him. More henchrat types lurked in the street.

  John Stretch said, “We heard there was trouble.” His whiskers wiggled as he sniffed out the story. He was a colorful dresser, wearing a yellow shirt, striped red-and-white trousers, and high-top black boots. Dollar Dan, though, was clad plain as dirt.

  Singe babbled.

  John Stretch patted her shoulder. “Two of them? With poisoned bolts? No? Too bad. What can we do?”

  The Dead Man asked for someone to hustle a message to Dr. Harmer. And could someone please track the ones that got away? The wounded one had left a generous blood trail. I said, “I could use some help moving Dean. And some cleaning specialists to clear the mess.” Meaning the rotting remains.

  John Stretch said, “I hope my women can stand that.”

  Which said a lot about the pong. Ratfolks find most smells I don’t like to be lovely fragrances.

  Dollar Dan got busy lieutenanting while his boss and I chewed the fat. The crowd in the street broke up. One ratman headed downhill to get the doctor. The nastiest bunch headed the other direction, never asking what they should do if they caught up. Two more sniffed around the spot whence the blonde had watched. They couldn’t find a scent.

  Singe said, “I will take that once we finish here.”

  Her brother didn’t argue so I didn’t. He said, “I will ask Dollar Dan to go along. No one will look out for you better, Singe,” he added when she gave him the fisheye. “So let me be selfish.”

  Garrett. Please bring that box in to me.

  “Box?” What box?

  The box that may be the reason for all the excitement.

  “Oh. That box.”

  That bit of art in cherrywood, coated with mush, lay snuggled up to the wall beside the umbrella stand.

  “It’s all nasty.”

  Limit your contact with the filth.

  “Crap. Not good. We might have to redo the floor.” I scooted into the kitchen, filled a bucket with water, rounded up some cleaning rags, got back out into the hall. I found brother and sister rat people in a heated debate about Dollar Dan.

  I said, “Singe, let them look out for you. It won’t hurt. It’s not a sign of weakness. And it’ll keep your brother and Dan and me all happy.”

  She gave me an exasperated look but abandoned the argument.

  Do not be an idiot, Garrett!

  “What?” I have an old reputation as a master of repartee.

  Do not open the box!

  Oh. Yeah. Might be demons were willing to kill for it. It must contain something special. Maybe something dangerous.

  “Right. I was distracted. Wondering why we haven’t heard from the tin whistles yet.”

  An excellent question.

  The red tops, the tin whistles, the Civil Guard, jump onto any excitement like a cat onto a herd of mice.

  Be confident we will hear from them soon. Meantime, please bring the box so that I may make a more intimate examination.

  Singe said, “Put it where they won’t think that it might have something to do with the attack.”

  Yes. Of course.

  “I should start my track before they get here. Otherwise, it could be tomorrow before I can get away.”

  Good point. The red tops, with the Specials even worse, can be intrusive and obstructive.

  John Stretch said, “Hide your weapon. They see that, they will lock everyone up.”

  For sure. Our protectors don’t want us able to fight back.

  SINGE AND DOLLAR DA
N, WITH PENNY TAGGING ALONG, DID GET GONE before the Civil Guard arrived. I wasn’t thrilled about Penny going, but the Dead Man backed her up. I couldn’t argue with that.

  John Stretch and I made tea, hovered over Dean, and waited. I asked, “How come you turned up so fast?”

  “We keep an eye on the place.”

  “You do?”

  “Dollar Dan does, mostly. But there is always someone.”

  “He’s wasting the emotion.”

  “You know. I know. Even Dan knows. But I will not stick my nose in.”

  “Probably best we don’t.”

  “So Dan was watching when you showed up, which was a sure sign that something was about to happen.”

  “Hey!”

  “Does anything happen when you are not here?”

  “Purely circumstantial.”

  “No. Purely Singe. She sensibly sticks to high-margin, nontoxic projects like looking for lost pets and missing wives, and forensic accounting. She does not get tangled up with the undead, mad gods, or crazed sorcerers until you come around.”

  He might have some basis for his argument. But it’s not like I go looking for weird. Bizarro comes looking for me.

  The Guard are here and Doctor Harmer is approaching.

  “And there you go,” the ratman said. “You picked a family physician named Harmer.”

  “I did not. Singe did because he’ll treat rat people, too.”

  “I will wait in the kitchen while you handle the Guard.”

  “Thank you.”

  The minions of the law would be excessively intrigued by the presence of a senior crime boss.

  Be polite.

  I was headed for the door. “I’m always polite.”

  You are always confrontational.

  “They start it.”

  I do not deal well with authority. The Civil Guard is self-righteously authoritarian in the extreme.

  I will spank you if you are rude.

  Wow! He sounded like my mother when I was eight.

  THERE WERE TWO TIN WHISTLES ON THE STOOP AND A PLATOON IN THE street. John Stretch’s henchrats had turned invisible.

  Dr. Harmer was just dismounting from his pretty little buggy. His driver, his gorgeous half-elf wife, stuck with the rig in case somebody tried to kype it among all the red tops.

  “Lieutenant Scithe. How are you? How’s the missus? Have you lost weight?”

  “I was living a good, boring life in a tame district. Then you swooped down off the Hill.”

  Scithe was a tall, thin man in a big, bad mood and an ill-fitting blue uniform to match. He didn’t talk about his wife. He didn’t ask about my fiancée.

  My whole damned life works this way. Anything happens, whatever it is, it gets blamed on Ma Garrett’s oldest boy.

  My partner gave me a mental head slap before my mouth started running.

  Dr. Harmer shoved through the press, a thin, dark character with merry brown eyes, unnaturally white teeth, and a devilish goatee. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  “Dean is in my office. He got smushed under this thing and a guy even bigger who turned into that pile of goop.”

  That pile was getting smaller. Some was evaporating. Some was seeping through the floor, where it could lie in the cellar and make the house stink forever.

  The doctor snorted. “I’ll look at Dean first.” He eased along the hallway, stepping carefully.

  Scithe said, “We should have been here sooner. If we’d known you were back we’d have had somebody watching. And I had to ask the Al-Khar about special instructions.” The Al-Khar being Guard headquarters.

  The Dead Man laid a mental hand on my shoulder.

  “The Director said we didn’t need the Specials.”

  Oh, good. The secret police would let me skate. For now. They’re so nice.

  “How thoughtful.”

  The Dead Man squeezed, just hard enough.

  Scithe asked, “So what’s the story?”

  “Same old, same old.”

  “Meaning you’ll claim you don’t know a thing.”

  “Not quite.” I told it like it happened, every detail, forgetting only the cherrywood box, Singe’s artillery, and John Stretch, who was probably devouring everything in my larder while he waited.

  Scithe squatted beside the thing with the bolt in its forehead. “Still breathing, here.” He tapped the nock of the quarrel. “I could use a better light.”

  The tin whistle who had come in with him said, “The wagon just rolled up, boss. I’ll get a lantern.”

  A big brown box had pulled in behind the doctor’s rig. It had crowns, keys, nooses, and whatnots painted on to proclaim it a property of the Civil Guard supported by a royal subsidy.

  Scithe asked, “Any theories, Garrett?”

  “Only what’s obvious. He probably wanted to see the Dead Man. Somebody didn’t think he should.”

  “They got their wish. What does the Dead Man think?”

  The Dead Man is frustrated. He could not penetrate the minds of any of the attackers. Not even that one who is wounded and unconscious. Yet. That is a him, is it not?

  I replied, “More or less.” Mostly a whole lot more.

  Scithe said, “I see ogre and troll and bits of other races.”

  “Trolls and ogres don’t mix.”

  Scithe shrugged. “I see what I see. Which is that somebody with a huge ugly stick whaled on all his ancestors for five generations back. Then he fell in a barrel of ugly and drank his way back to the top.”

  Trolls will cross with pygmy giants on occasion. However, a more likely explanation would involve rogue researchers and illegal experiments.

  The three strains of rat people exist because of old-time experimental sorcery.

  That stuff is worse than murder. You can get away with murder if you make a good case for the son of a bitch needing killing.

  Scithe’s man came back. His lantern flung out a blinding blue-white light. Scithe got busy. He used chopsticks to poke, prod, probe, and dig into pockets. Nothing useful surfaced. He moved on to the stench pile. “Check this out.”

  He held up what looked like a two-inch lead slug three-eighths of an inch in diameter, pointed at one end. It had four lengthwise channels beginning just behind the ogive. The channels contained traces of brown.

  “A missile?”

  “Maybe. Definitely poisonous. But delivered how?” By whom, and why, were out there floating, too.

  Dean’s delivery has arrived.

  I stepped outside.

  Jerry the beer guy had pulled up in front of the doctor’s rig. He was making conversation with the delectable Mrs. Harmer. He noticed me, said something to a couple red tops hating him for knowing the beautiful lady well enough to gossip with, and got them to volunteer to show off by helping carry kegs.

  They brought in three ponies of froufrou girlie beers. Jerry indicated the crowd outside and the mess in the hallway. “You’re back.”

  “What does that mean? Never mind. Just drop those by the kitchen door.” I didn’t want anyone to see John Stretch.

  “They keep better if they stay cool.”

  “Put them in with the Dead Man, then.”

  Jerry and his helpers tiptoed around the mess and entered the demesne of the Dead Man.

  I said, “Anywhere out of the way.” I glanced at the cherrywood box, on a shelf with mementos from old cases. “What’re they for, anyway?”

  “Dean wanted to test some varietals for your reception.”

  “Well. That sneaky old fart.”

  A tin whistle pointed. “Is that him?” He’d gone as pale as paper.

  My partner is a quarter ton of defunct nonhuman permanently established in a custom-built oak chair. First thing you notice, after his sheer bulk, is his resemblance to a baby mammoth with a midget trunk only a quarter the length you might expect.

  Most visitors don’t look close. They’re petrified by the fact that he can read minds.

  One red top fingered the wh
istle on the cord around his neck. The talisman didn’t help. “Too cold in here, brothers.” He beat a retreat. His pal trampled on his heels.

  Jerry didn’t get left behind.

  The Dead Man is a Loghyr. They are exceedingly rare and exceedingly deliberate about giving up the ghost. This one has been procrastinating since he was murdered more than four hundred years ago.

  DR. HARMER TRIED SMELLING SALTS. THE CHARACTER IN THE HALLWAY didn’t respond. Scithe finally had a flatbed haul him off to Guard headquarters after Harmer slapped a patch on his forehead leak. The bolt stayed where it was.

  Scithe left us a promise to share information, worth the paper he never wrote it on. Jerry left a real receipt. I found it a home on Singe’s desk, snuggled up with Dr. Harmer’s bill.

  The doctor went away, too, leaving Dean in a drugged sleep.

  I let John Stretch know it was safe to come out.

  Ratwomen cleaning specialists turned up fast. They had been waiting on the tin whistles. They had nothing flattering to say about the mess. They wrapped their faces with damp cloth and misted the fetid air with something that smelled like the spice in hot peppers. They used garden tools to scoop goop into pails they covered securely before sending them to be chunked in the river. They avoided contact with the goop.

  John Stretch and I visited the Dead Man.

  “Too cold in here,” the ratman complained.

  “Singe’s fault. She claims the colder we keep him the longer he’ll last. And he don’t feel it.”

  “I am sure she knows what she is talking about.”

  “She knows everything about everything. So, what’s in the precious box?”

  Air.

  “Excuse me? Nothing? A guy died. Two more got hurt.”

  It is a red herring. The real box is somewhere else.

  “You came up with that, how?”

  With great effort and stubborn determination, reasoned out from what little I retrieved from the creature Lieutenant Scithe took away.

  The Dead Man likes his strokes. “That was some good work, then.”

  The ladies are returning. It would appear that they enjoyed a limited success.

  I let them in. Penny scooted past me and the cleaning women. Singe joined me in the chill.