by Glen Cook
I dragged the remnants on over top of the tattered beast I wore already.
29
The snow had eased up. What had fallen was too wet to drift. The wind had weakened, too. Excellent, considering the state of my winter apparel.
I hit the World. Men were working. I approached the carpenter in-laws. “Any trouble today?”
“Nope.” The surly one wasn’t, this time. He pointed. “There’s your only bug today. That sulfur brought them up good.”
A dead roach, lacking a couple legs, lay fifteen feet away. Interesting. “I didn’t think it would do any good. But I paid for the stuff so I used it. So. I heard there were all kinds of bugs last night.”
“Right after you burned that sulfur, eh?”
Yikes! It really was my fault the Tenderloin had gone into a recession? “The other thing. Ghosts. My boss says I got to ask about ghosts.”
The in-laws traded glances. Their faces went blank. Formerly Sullen said, “I don’t know where that came from. Except them bugs could make enough noise to get your imagination going. And this place gets plenty spooky if you’re in here by yourself.”
I gave him the hard fish-eye. No way he was being straight. But he didn’t smell like a guy being maliciously evasive, either. There was something these guys didn’t want to talk about. Like it might be embarrassing, not some heinous crime.
The carpenter who had done no talking got a sudden case of the big eyes. I turned around. The foreman was headed our way, past what looked like a momentary heat shimmer. Could have been. It was hot in there.
The foreman, Luther something, wanted to know if there wasn’t some way I could do my job without keeping his people from doing theirs. “I got six guys showed up today. Outta thirty-two. I’m falling behind fast.”
So I talked to him. Being management, he had nothing constructive to do.
He hadn’t seen any ghosts. It was his considered opinion that the ghost stuff was all bullshit from workmen who wanted an excuse to lie out for a day or two. There were no days off on this project.
The weather continued to improve. I was almost comfortable walking over to the ruin where those kids had made their bugs.
The structure remained uninhabited. I’d thought its notoriety would draw squatters.
I climbed the wobbly steps. I went through the doorless doorway, triggering spells meant to discourage trespassers. The first was subtle but powerful. It made me think that I was about to lose control of my bowels. I didn’t, but they churned. Another sliding step on the creaky floor and I started seeing shapes move in the corners of my eyes. Were the ghosts at the World a spillover? If ghosts indeed there were?
There were other spells, all with a similar feel. Meaning they’d been set by the same caster, someone powerful but not polished. A professional would have been less obvious. I shouldn’t have noticed that I was being manipulated.
I strolled on. Carefully. That floor was treacherous.
The spells worsened. When had they been cast? Anything there the day before yesterday should have broken down when the mob rushed in.
The floor creaked and sank. Likewise, the steep stair down into a fresh set of discouragement spells, one of which added violent wind to my tummy troubles. Looked like the point was to make an intruder flee his own exhaust.
I discover a less rickety stair to a cellar below the cellar. The floor down there was wooden but camouflaged by dirt so it would be taken as the bottom level. I knew better. I hadn’t seen anything interesting yet.
Not much natural light made it down there. There had to be a handy source. Those kids wouldn’t have come down blind.
It was easy. They trusted their spells too much. But Kip would be the only one of the crew who had ever stood chin to chin with somebody really bad.
I felt around till I got hold of something like cold cobwebs. I shuddered. Something went ker-chunk! A tiny flame, from a tiny lamp, fixed to a reservoir that would keep it burning for weeks, came alive in a little eye-high alcove. Its weak light revealed an iron ring only partly hidden in the dirt at my feet.
There were more cellars, three in all, below that. The lowest had to be below river level but was no more damp than those above it. It was a place where mildew would feel at home.
Curious. Not once did I see evidence of any actual explosion. Had that been an illusion? Or something that happened on the same psychic level as the Dead Man’s communications? Or just some very clever fireworks, meant to scare off potential invaders?
Lighting was always the same, a weak little lamp fixed in an alcove. Enough once your eyes adapted but you wouldn’t be reading many books.
So. No more down. The last steep stair ended in the middle of a stone floor. The overhead was just high enough that I didn’t have to stoop. The whole was eight feet to a side. The weeping walls were stone. Each had a wooden door in the middle, none of those showing more use than the others. None of them looked new.
Everything seen so far had been there a long time. Excepting the spells.
How had the kids found the place?
When in doubt, trust your right hand. I went to the door to my right as I left the stair. It wasn’t locked. The darkness beyond fled when I stepped forward.
A dozen lamps came alive. An interesting bit of witchcraft. Which could have lots of commercial applications.
The lamplight revealed a square room twenty feet to a side and just like what I’d expect a rich kids? hideout to look like. There was furniture, nice but slightly worn. There were carpets. There were games, a couple in progress. There were books. There were toys. There was a three-wheel in a corner. I got the serial number. Overall, the evidence suggested that there were more kids in the group than I’d thought.
There was even a keg of beer from one of those snooty boutiques that serve only the lords on the Hill. I’d never tasted it. I gave it a try.
I'll spare Max. But it was better than Weider Dark Select. I was tempted to enjoy another. And another. But dedicated operative Garrett resisted temptation.
Beer reminded me that Singe had mentioned a strong wort odor. I’d caught the edge of that myself. There was none of that now. Basic cellar smells, fairly light, and something remote that had a touch of animal den to it. But no birth of the beer.
I found a hand-painted bamboo fan. I snapped it open. Well. Kip Prose might not be wasting time and money in the Tenderloin, but somebody was. That fan had been shoplifted from one of the sporting houses.
In the best houses management leaves the fans where the marks can swipe them for souvenirs. A form of advertisement. And a cute gimmick since a guy? or occasional gal? who brings in ten fans not only gets amnesty for the thefts; he wins a free visit.
Free enterprise at its fiercest.
A detailed look round turned up more fans, no two from the same house. Each came from a high-end establishment.
Somebody had money to throw in the river.
The search for fans turned up the fact that the furnishings all came from the same source. Mungero Farkas. I knew the name, vaguely. Farkas was a secondhand man. An honest one, not a fence, specializing in quality merchandise. I’d seen the Farkas shop in passing. It was about a quarter mile away, in the better part of the Tenderloin.
Nothing else interesting turned up. But I did begin to get a creepy feeling. Like I wasn’t alone and the person I couldn’t see was distinctly unfriendly.
I figured I’d tripped another spell.
Back to the foot of the stair. The door behind the stair looked intriguing. I opened it and stepped inside. A single lamp came to life.
The room was six feet by eight. It featured an unmade bed and a nightstand. Its purpose was obvious. The door could be locked from inside.
So. A little something going on between members of the group.
The feeling that I was being watched grew stronger. The air felt damper and heavier.
I tried the door facing the foot of the stair, expecting another small chamber like the trysting room
. It might have been. Or it might have been the antechamber to infinite space. I wasn’t about to go find out. The darkness in there was absolute and alive.
I slammed the door. My heart hammered. I panted like I’d run a mile.
One more door.
I stalled. Behind this one would be the place where the bugs had been created.
The feeling of presence was so strong I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder. Must be some sort of scare spell that kept getting stronger if you ignored it. Definitely clever work.
I found the wort smell when I opened up. It wasn’t strong. I didn’t charge ahead. I didn’t get the chance. A half dozen very large bugs raced past me, headed for the light. As something that felt like a dead, wet hand caressed the back of my neck.
My next clear thought came with me leaning against a wall across the street from the ruin, hacking and gasping as I fought for air. A handful of big bugs stumbled out behind me, into the chill world of their doom. I was pretty sure they were the last adult insects.
I caught my breath. I wouldn’t be bragging about this one any time soon.
Garrett don’t panic. Garrett don’t run away from things he can’t even see.
Four blocks to the Mungero Farkas establishment. I could get my courage back by bullying the secondhand man.
I caught a whiff of body odor from the spot where Tinnie had spied Lurking Felhske. Felhske wasn’t there now, lurking or otherwise. But somebody had been, recently. Today’s snow had been trampled.
Watching me? Or watching the place?
I seemed unlikely. But news of me visiting the place might be of interest. To someone.
Mungero Farkas was open. I got the impression he meant to stay open till the evening crowd faded from the Tenderloin. Business did not appear to be good.
Farkas was a basic, ordinary middle-aged white guy who spent way too much money on professional grooming. A human Morley twenty-five years down the road. He was cooperative. He wanted company.
He recalled every item I mentioned. “That was a good several days. I moved a lot of stuff.” But he had sold it in a half dozen lots over four days, two lots to a young couple who seemed to be just starting out and the rest to a man he could not describe other than to say he looked like he belonged in servant’s livery. “I really don’t even remember the color of his hair.”
“He did have hair?”
Frown. “Oh. I get it. Yes. A full head. Graying around the temples, now I think about it. So it must have been dark. I got the feeling his employer would be someone whose fortunes were in decline. He was a little evasive but his money was good. I thought it deserved a home with me. Oh. And that guy? He had one droopy eye.” Farkas pulled the corner of his right eye down and sideways. “Like this.”
I thanked him. I took a few minutes to examine his inventory. He had some intriguing pieces but I didn’t need anything.
I considered backtracking the fans I’d found. But where was the point? The people from whom they had been collected wouldn’t remember anything. And wouldn’t tell me if they did.
Time to go home.
30
“Oh, is it getting treacherous out,” I told Singe when she let me in.
“What happened to your coat?”
“Tinnie’s good intentions. Dean back yet?”
“No. We’re on our own for supper.”
That meant Garrett would boil some sausages. He might even get experimental and toss in a couple potatoes.
She asked, “So how was your day?”
“Damn, we’re getting domestic. I spent most of it in the Al-Khar. Then I got dragged over to The Palms, where Morley had a seizure when I mentioned Lurking Felhske. That after Director Relway nearly volunteered me for the rack when I mentioned the same name.”
“That strange-smelling man who was watching us yesterday?”
“He was watching. But the consensus is, not us. The very one, though. Apparently unpopular with a lot of people.”
We were in the kitchen, banging the pots and pans. Singe drew us a couple of beers.
“No wonder, stinking that way,” she said.
“You didn’t mention an unusual odor before.”
“It is not unusual. It is just potent. Body odor.”
In a city where most people consider bathing unhealthy or an effete affectation, full-bodied personal auras aren’t exactly rare.
Singe said, “It is more than failure to bathe. It is unusual diet. Or disease.”
Not uncommon, especially amongst old folks. But what disease leaves a man looking like an orangutan?
I told her about the rest of my day, including the whiff I’d caught heading over to see Farkas.
Singe refilled our mugs. “You must have just missed him. Odor wouldn’t stay around strong enough for a human nose in weather this windy.”
The pot was hot enough. I filled it with smoked sausages and two large potatoes, quartered. “How the hell did I survive before I bought this place and hired Dean?”
“You ate out.”
“Pretty much. Yeah. I didn’t amount to much then.”
“You are fortunate that Dean is not here to hear you admit that.”
“He’d get in a shot. Yeah. What’s with Himself? I haven’t heard a peep.” Though I was sure he’d helped himself to my day’s adventures already.
“That child priestess was here. She brought some puzzles. He has been playing with those.”
“Grrr! Even when Dean’s away. How much did she eat? What did she steal?”
“You are too young to be a cranky old man.” She refilled our mugs. “Maybe you should go visit your uncle Medford. Remind yourself how pleasant it is to be around crabby old men.”
Medford Shale is my only living relative. He’s a miserable grouch. “No, thank you, thank you. Swear to all the gods, these potatoes are going to take forever.”
“You want to get that, then?”
I took a long drink of beer, set my mug down where she could top it off. “Get what?”
“The door. Someone is knocking.”
It would behoove you to move swiftly, Garrett. The glamour on the boy’s mind is fraying.
With no idea what that meant, I headed up front, muttering, “Go behoove yourself.” Brew in hand, I used the peephole.
An uncomfortable Cypres Prose, well decorated with giant snowflakes, shared my stoop with a lethal creature from the Tate clan, Kyra, a sixteen-year-old uncut version of Tinnie.
Sometime tonight, Garrett.
“Why don’t you grab him by the brain and drag him on in there?” I didn’t ask. Not out loud.
He didn’t respond. Meaning he had a whole lot of head tied up doing something else.
I popped the door open.
Both kids jumped like they’d gotten caught doing something they shouldn’t. Kip had some definite thoughts obvious on his face, too.
You couldn’t blame the boy. Kyra Tate was Tinnie in the raw, before she’d gotten it under control. Tinnie without polish or restraint. But maybe she’d started to understand. She looked guilty about something.
How had she manipulated Kip to get him here?
“Kip. Kyra. Welcome. Singe. Find some refreshments.” I led the young folks into the Dead Man’s room.
Old Butterbutt had enough mind space free to be amused.
Kyra apparently found Kip interesting? despite himself.
There is new meaning to my existence, Old Bones sent me. Privately. I will not leave this sorry vale before this plays out.
I couldn’t ask because he was intent on convincing the kids that he was asleep.
But visitors in the knowalways assume he’s awake and prying.
Kyra’s freckled cheeks seemed redder than could be explained by the cold outside. And she couldn’t keep her eyes off Kip.
That was as weird as having bugs the size of tomcats underfoot.
Kip was for sure a catch, in the “someday he’s gonna be filthy rich” sense. He wasn’t the guy girls get involve
d with for the adventure. That guy goes by the name of Morley Dotes and has enjoyed a career of making me whine in envy.
The Dead Man read me as I speculated, observed, and felt sorry for myself. His amusement grew.
I helped them with their coats, hats, and whatnot. And asked Kip, “What happened to your hair?” There seemed to be about twice as much as there had been in front of the World and it was flying away everywhere.
Kyra said, “I like it that way. It gives him a rebel look.”
There you go. Good enough.
Singe brought the tea service, along with my beer mug, filled, and my share of the sausage and potatoes. I relaxed. I didn’t have to be entertaining to teenagers. I was too busy eating. They relaxed, too, building and working their cups of tea.
Singe had found a cache of Dean’s sugar cookies. He can’t hide anything from her magic nose for long. He keeps trying, though. He doesn’t want to believe in her kind of magic.
“Here we go, kids,” around a big bite of sausage. “I need you to explain some things.”
“Sir?”
“You know where you are, Kip. There’s no point trying to fudge. You and some other boys have been doing something weird and probably illegal under that empty house down on the edge of the Tenderloin. I was down there because the Weiders have been having trouble with giant bugs at their construction site. And, lo! Right off I find you and your pals and some big boy bugs all snuggled up.”
He is concerned that his mother will find out what he has been doing.
Leverage!
Indeed. But reserve the fact that you have been into that house.
“I’m not looking to hassle you guys. I just want my client to be able to build his theater. So his daughter and Kyra’s aunt have a venue to show off their acting skills. Or lack thereof. But somebody’s been breaking some Hill-type rules. I’ve got the Guard on me because they’re getting grief from somebody on the Hill. What’s going on?”
Kip gnawed a cookie, slurped tea, and avoided my gaze. Kyra lapsed into the traditional pout of a Tate woman who suspects she may be off the bull? s-eye when it comes to being the center of attention.
