Down These Strange Streets

by George R. R. Martin; Gardner Dozois

  “I hear you got lucky.” I flipped a thumb at the Dead Man.

  “The gods smiled. Just barely. There was no trail for the girl. That means sorcery. We followed the wounded creature. Those things were not with her. We were tracking them when we saw her come out of the Benbow.” The Benbow is a staid old inn in the shadow of the Hill, used by out-of-towners who have business with the sorcerers infesting that neighborhood. “I sent Penny in. She oozed some girl charm and found out that she had just missed her pal Kelly, who calls herself Eliza now. Eliza shares a third-floor suite with her aunt, Miss Grünstrasse. They arrived in TunFaire yesterday.”

  Penny joined us. “I had to check on Dean.”

  “Doctor says he’ll be fine. Anything to add?”

  “The manager is a little guy who looks like a squirrel. I put on some cute. He let me talk to people. Eliza came from Liefmold. There’s something not right about her. She doesn’t talk. Her aunt has a fierce accent. That’s when the squirrel got that I wasn’t really their friend. He sent somebody upstairs, probably with a warning, so I cleared out.”

  The Dead Man touched me lightly to let me know I had no need to know about how she had charmed the Benbow staff. He didn’t want me going all dad.

  “I pretended I didn’t know Singe or Dollar Dan when I left so they could see if anybody followed me.”

  “Good thinking.”

  Singe said, “A kitchen boy tried. Dollar Dan scared him so bad he wet himself.”

  “He’s not useless after all.”

  Singe glowered. She wasn’t ready to concede that. And Penny . . .

  Aha! The kitchen boy’s interest hadn’t been his employer’s idea.

  Come here. All of you.

  The Dead Man can tease out memories you don’t know you have. He’ll put his several minds to work sniffing along several distinct trails and tie everything together in startling ways.

  There is nothing beyond the obvious. Our victim, Recide Skedrin, interested at least two parties enough to involve them in murder. It is likely that he was a red herring himself.

  How did he know all that, suddenly?

  Penny, please stand in for Dean while he recovers. Garrett and Singe will assist where necessary.

  Someone had forgotten who was senior executive.

  Go open the door, Garrett.

  THE MAN ON THE STOOP WAS SHORT, FLABBY, AND NERVOUS. HE HAD LARGE, wet, brown doggie eyes. He felt like a guy who had lived a life of sorrow. His clothing was threadbare and dated, twenty-years-ago chic. My appearance startled him.

  He had been trying to decide whether to knock. He squeaked, “Who are you?” He had a lazy, girly voice and an accent so heavy you needed a machete to cut through it.

  To Singe’s office, please.

  The newbie did not know about the Dead Man, who reeked of wicked glee. This twitch must be an easy read.

  “How come you’re camped on my stoop, little fellow?”

  “Uh . . .”

  He would be the source of the Dead Man’s unexpected knowledge.

  He invested a few seconds in wondering if he should go with the lies he had rehearsed. While he strategized, Singe arranged papers so she could take notes. She was amused.

  I don’t care if they lie. The Dead Man can burgle their minds while they’re exercising their capacity for invention.

  Our visitor asked, “With whom am I speaking?”

  He came without knowing? “Name’s Garrett. The most handsome blueeyed ex-Marine you’re ever likely to meet. This is my place. You sure you got the right one?”

  He is, in the sense that he believes this is where he may find the object of his quest.

  “Mr. Garrett, I represent the Council of Ryzna.” He spoke Karentine like he had a mouth full of pudding and acorns. Lucky me, I had a partner who could pass on not only what the man wanted me to know but also what he was thinking.

  He realized recently that he is mostly under his own supervision. He has developed personal ambitions as a consequence.

  Little man clicked his heels and bowed slightly, a habit they have in his part of the world. “Rock Truck, Rose Purple, at your command, sir,” is what I heard. I shrugged. I’d heard stranger names. He made sure I knew his father was a player back in the old country. His family had been exploiting the masses for centuries.

  I listened. If the silence lasted long enough he might fill it with something interesting.

  “Recide Skedrin came to see you.” He pronounced it Ray-see-day Skaydrene . Very Venageti.

  The one who died.

  I knew that. I am a trained observer. “I don’t know that name.”

  “That does not surprise me. He was no one. Mate on a tramp freight carrier trafficking between TunFaire and Liefmold. A wicked young woman, Ingra Mah, recently deceased, seduced him and persuaded him to smuggle a Ryznan national treasure from Liefmold here for her. She hoped to auction the item on your Hill.”

  Well. That would make it a sorcerer’s toy, likely with major oomph. People wouldn’t be dying, elsewise.

  He is telling the truth and your reasoning is sound. However, the full story also has a political aspect. The Dead Man added some visuals he had shoplifted.

  I’d have to work out the man’s name later. They don’t put them together our way, down south. It sounded like he had done some translating. There might be a job title in there, too.

  Little man produced a dagger. He said, “I am going to search . . .”

  Singe said, “Really, Mr. Rock. Such bad manners.”

  He seemed startled to see her. The Dead Man had blinded him.

  I took his dagger, careful not to touch the blade. That bore streaks in several colors, none obviously dried blood.

  It went briskly. The Dead Man did not reveal himself. Singe did not leave her desk. Rock squeaked when I put him in a chair. He pouted and massaged his twisted wrist. He had extra water in his eyes.

  “We’ll have no more of that. Why are you haunting us?”

  “I am here, at the behest of the Council, to recover the Shadow.”

  “The Shadow.” You could pick up the capital without a hint from the Dead Man.

  “What do you know about Ryzna, Mr. Garrett?”

  “It’s a town in Venageta with a nasty reputation.”

  “Sir! Ryzna is Venageti by compulsion, only because someone let besiegers into the city under cover of a bright, cloudless noonday sun, whilst all men of substance were . . .” He burbled history more than a century old.

  His ancestors were the traitors. The Venageti failed to reward them to their satisfaction. They see an opportunity to turn the tables in the theft of this Shadow.

  All right. I never let the fact that I don’t know what’s going on get in the way of getting on with getting on. “What’s this Shadow gimcrack? And why look for it here?”

  Any chance there was something in that box after all?

  No. This would be something so powerful that any of us would have sensed it. The genuine box is lined with iron, lead, and silver. The Shadow is an aggregation of the souls of Ryzna’s departed sorcerers. Their powers combined, without the personalities. Its importance to Ryzna and Mr. Rock is narrowly envisioned. The universal ambition there is to use it to control Ryzna. The deceased thief, however, realized that it could be a potent tool useful to any sorcerer anywhere.

  She must have lacked wizardly talents herself. She would be busy trying to take over the world if she had some.

  Exactly. Mr. Rock sees the Shadow as something abidingly dark and strong. He is in love with the potential.

  So. To review. A freelance socialist decided to redistribute the wealth by purloining the Shadow of Ryzna. Rock got conscripted to bring it back because he was considered too dumb to see the personal opportunities. He’d been sandbagging. He’d decided that no one deserved to use that toy more than sweet old Rock Truck, Rose Purple, his own self.

  Rock wasn’t my kind of guy but he was, for sure, a type I run into a lot.

  “
The Shadow is . . . No. To you what it is matters not. What does matter is that it belongs to the people of Ryzna and we must have it back. I am prepared to pay four thousand silver nobles for its return.”

  That got my attention. And Singe would have grinned if rat people had something to grin with.

  I said, “That’s good.” Four thousand would make me a nice dowry.

  “That is very good.” Then he went stupid, like I might have forgotten the original thief’s reason for sending her plunder to TunFaire. “The Shadow is no good to anyone outside the Ryzna Council.”

  Not even true in Ryzna. The Venageti held Ryzna down with the Shadow until a sloppy guard too young to think with his head let the Ingra woman get to it.

  Ingra Mah sounded like a talent. Too bad she let somebody get behind her.

  “Let us be exact, Mr. Rock. What do you want? We don’t have your Shadow. But we could look for it. That’s what we do here.”

  “Recide brought you a box.”

  “It was empty. And he didn’t live long enough to explain.”

  The creatures pursuing Mr. Recide were associated with Mr. Rock. There were five, assigned by the Ryzna Council to assist Mr. Rock and to keep him walking the line. They were not responsible for Mr. Recide’s death.

  Five. Two hurt. One of those in the hoosegow. Rock’s keepers as well as consorts. Good to know. And the original thief? Was she really dead? Had she been slick enough to break her trail by faking her own demise?

  “Oddly enough, I believe you, Mr. Garrett.”

  At the same time, Old Bones sent, He believes she is dead. He sent a picture from the little man’s mind.

  Ingra Mah had gone the way of Recide Skedrin. Rock had arrived on scene soon after the process began. The Dead Man assured me that, though Rock was a thorough villain and fully capable, he was not responsible.

  Truck continued, “Recide and his ship’s master moonlighted as transporters of questionable goods.”

  “They were smugglers.”

  “Bluntly put, yes.”

  “Why come to my house?”

  “I can only guess, Mr. Garrett. Either he was directed to do so before he left Liefmold or he made inquiries on arriving and thought you met his requirements. My inquiries suggest that you have important contacts on the Hill. On the other hand—and this is the way I see it—he may just have wanted to lay down a false trail while his ship’s master delivered the actual Shadow elsewhere.”

  “Say I find your gimcrack. How do I collect my four thousand?”

  “I have taken rooms at the Falcon’s Roost. You may contact me there.”

  Ugh. The Roost is a downscale sleaze pit not far from the Benbow. You don’t have to fight off the hookers and grifters to get in or out, but its main clientele are ticks on the belly of society who perform unsavory services for those who shine from the Hill.

  A man with more than four thousand nobles would be able to afford better.

  Rock indicated his dagger, now resident on the edge of Singe’s desk. “May I?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  He collected the blade, moved past me as though to leave, then turned and said, “I am going to search . . .”

  Penny hit him from behind with a pot. “Supper’s ready, guys.”

  I told her, “Keep your wrists a little looser. You don’t want to end up with a serious sprain.”

  She gave me the fisheye but joined Singe in helping me go through Rock’s pockets. We didn’t find anything, so we chunked him out on the stoop, minus one deadly knife.

  That became a trophy on the same shelf as the cherrywood box.

  Then we convened in the kitchen.

  I SETTLED AT THE TABLE AGAIN. SINGE ASKED, “WHO WAS AT THE DOOR?”

  “Scithe. He thought we should know the prisoner died without talking. And wondered a lot about how a home invader ended up with a quarrel in his forehead.”

  “A good man. Has a sense of justice. Are you surprised about that thing dying?”

  “He was lucky to hang on as long as he did.”

  Penny asked, “What next? How about we go back to the Benbow? After Dan scared Bottle . . .”

  “You got his name?”

  “He was cute.”

  “Don’t I have worries enough?”

  Singe snickered. Penny ignored all annoying parentish behavior. “How’s the soup, old man?”

  A little spicy. “Excellent. You paid attention when Dean showed you how.”

  “Thank you.” She managed to sound surly while looking pleased.

  Singe said, “My turn,” and pushed back from the table.

  Penny grumbled, “That’s just sick spooky, the way she hears and smells stuff.”

  Singe came back with a folded letter closed with wax and a Benbow seal. “That was the blond child. Still with very little scent.”

  Nor any detectable presence. Though I felt unsettled. Vertiginous. Almost nauseated.

  The letter was addressed to Mr. Garrett in a bold hand. “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. She handed that over and walked. She can’t be human.”

  I chewed some air, thinking. “Was there a clay smell? Anything like that?”

  “No. But I will consider the implications.”

  “What is it?” Penny asked, being the only one who couldn’t read over my shoulder.

  “A request that I join a Miss Grünstrasse for a late dinner and a bottle of TunFaire Gold.” Which is the city’s finest vintage.

  Penny asked, “Do I have time to clean up?”

  I didn’t get to explain that the invitation was just for me.

  Penny, this is one of those times when you should have Garrett and Singe assist you.

  There was going to be a revolution around here. Or maybe a counterrevolution.

  SAILOR RECIDE SKEDRIN HAD BEEN A JUNIOR PARTNER IN A VESSEL RUMORED to be a smuggler. His ship and crew deserved a look. But, “I was too honest with Scithe. He’ll have Specials poking every shadow on the waterfront.”

  Your appointment at the Benbow is of more immediate import. Lieutenant Scithe will begin making rounds of the public houses soon.

  We were about to go, even Penny surreptitiously armed. She suddenly decided to head upstairs.

  Singe dealt with the waterfront angle already.

  She said, “My brother let me send Dollar Dan. Dan won’t be noticed down there.”

  A rat on the wharves? Not hardly. He wouldn’t draw a second glance.

  “We set? Penny! Come on!”

  Do find out why people feel free to commit murder inside our house.

  “Gah! I just came here to relax!”

  Singe swung the door open but didn’t step out.

  It was raining. Hard.

  Penny thundered downstairs with umbrellas, hats, and canvas coats.

  THE BENBOW HAS BEEN THERE FOR AGES. IT PUT ME IN MIND OF A CHERRYCHEEKED, dumpy little grandmother of a sort I’d once had myself. It was warm, smelled of hardwood smoke and ages of cookery in which somebody particularly favored garlic. It had settled comfortably into itself. It was a good place occasionally disgraced by the custom of a bad person.

  The right side, coming in from the street, was a dining area, not large, empty now. Most guests preferred taking their meals in their rooms. To the left stood a fleet of saggy, comfortable old chairs and divans escorted by shopworn side tables. Three old men took up space on three sides of a table there, two playing chess while the third grunted unwanted advice. There was no bar. Management preferred not to draw custom from the street.

  The stair to the guest rooms lay straight ahead, guarded by a persnicketylooking little man with rodentlike front teeth. His hair had migrated to the sides of his head. His appearance begged for him to be called Bunny or Squirrel.

  He rose from beside a small, cluttered table, gulping when Penny took off through the dining area.

  His voice proved to be a high squeak.

  Penny paid no attention.

  Bunny sputtered. T
hen he recognized Singe for what she was. His sputter went liquid.

  I presented my invitation.

  “Oh. Of course. I didn’t actually expect you.” He threw a despairing glance after Penny, then another at Singe. It pained him to say, “Please come with me.” There is a lot of prejudice against ratfolk.

  Miss Grünstrasse occupied a suite taking up the west half of the third floor. I huffed and puffed and wondered if I was too old to start exercising. Bunny got his workout by knocking.

  The blonde opened up. She stepped aside. For all the warmth she showed she could have been baked from clay. Her eyes seemed infinitely empty.

  Singe went first. I followed. The door shut in Bunny’s face. The girl threw the bolt, moved to the left side of the sitting room. She stood at parade rest, but with hands folded in front. She wore a different outfit without the coat. Her sense of style had not changed.

  “Ah. Mr. Garrett. I was not sure you would respond. I do appreciate the courtesy. Indeed, I do.”

  I did a double take.

  “Sir? Is something wrong?” Fury smoldered in the glance she cast Singe’s way.

  “Sorry. Just startled.” In low light she resembled my prospective grandmother-in-law, one of the most unpleasant women alive.

  This one was huge and ugly and smelled bad, too.

  The smell was a result of diet and questionable personal habits.

  Her accent was heavier than Rock’s, with a different meter.

  “Come, Mr. Garrett. Be comfortable. Let us chat while Squattle prepares dinner.” She spoke slowly. Each word, though individually mangled, could be understood from context.

  I sat. Singe remained standing. There were no suitable chairs. Neither did she shed her coat, which was psychological warfare directed at the niece. The blonde adjusted her position after I settled.

  “Now, then, Mr. Garrett. The Rock Truck, Rose Purple, visited you today. He was, without doubt, a fount of fabrication. He will have laid his own crimes off on others.”

  Rock was my client, in his own mind. I volunteered nothing.

  “So. Very well, then, sir. Very well. Eliza and I have come to your marvelous city to reclaim a precious relic.”