by Glen Cook
“It’s a club, Mr. Garrett. Kind of a gang. The Gang. Or, usually, the Faction. It’s for kids smart enough to spell their own names. There were six of us down there when you were there. You saw Kevans and Slump with me. Both seriously weird.”
Wow. If Kip Prose thought you were weird, it might be time to move yourself into the howling hall psycho ward at the Bledsoe.
“Berbach and Berbain weren’t there. They’re twins. They’ve been kind of fading out. Their mother is a Stormwarden. She never wanted kids in the first place. Zardoz is the one who loves bugs. Him and Teddy. I think they’re icky. But the rule is, we help each other with whatever excites our passion. Because nobody else will.”
Old Bones damned near laughed out loud. And him in his condition.
I said, “I can’t imagine why anybody would want to make giant bugs. And it does got to stop. It wasn’t just the Guard who had me in today. It was Director Relway himself. Not only is somebody on the Hill ragging him; somebody is curious enough to hire people to follow you around. If you kids don’t want your lives getting painfully complicated, find some new hobbies.”
“It’s just kids helping each other work things out, Mr. Garrett. We aren’t hurting anybody.”
I talked about the economic disruption already caused by giant bugs interfering with construction and scaring people away from the Tenderloin. “And that’s making some people cranky enough to crack skulls.”
Kip just sort of gaped.
I said, “It’s what they call the law of unintended consequences. Unexpected things that happen because of something you do.”
Kip stared at the floor, which wanted sweeping and mop-ping. Which reminded me that it had been bare earth when I bought the place.
Kip said, “I really should think about that. Shouldn’t I? I’ve been through this before.”
There were differences. The principle beneath was the same. “Yep. Do your pals know you? rethat Cypres Prose?”
Kyra took hold of Kip’s right hand when he started his mea culpa. Even Singe was startled.
Amusement.
Something else going on here.
Kip said, “Yeah. They know. But it don’t mean anything to them. That’s ancient history.”
“They’re not intrigued by those smoking-hot sky elf women?”
Kip’s cheeks reddened. Kyra gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
Something remarkably weird was going on. Which thought of mine stirred the Dead Man’s amusement yet again.
I tossed an inquiring thought his way. Was there really any need to hold the boy? The old lump had had plenty of time to paw through the clutter inside Kip’s head.
No need to keep him. But it might be useful to gather his friends here.
“All right, kids. I’ve heard what I needed to hear. Kip, really, you need to think about the impact of the stuff you do. You really didn’t realize that there’d be a big-ass stink if a hundred thousand giant bugs got loose?”
Singe said, “Stop that, Garrett. You’re not his father.”
That startled me. Then, “You’re right. And he is almost grown. He should be learning from his mistakes. And should see new ones coming.”
The slump started to go out of the boy’s shoulders.
We couldn’t let that happen. “But he hasn’t shown us he’s able to do that. Kip. The only thing else I'll say is, if this gets as hairy as it did with the sky elves, I'll ask your mother to keep you in a cage.”
“Garrett!” Singe said. “Stop that.”
“Yes, ma? am. Go on, guys. Kyra, take him back where you found him. And be nice.”
31
I shut the door behind the young people, not yet sure what we’d accomplished. I expected Old Bones would clue me in.
I settled into my chair. “Singe, you ready to take notes?”
She lowered her mug long enough to say, “I don’ think I can write so good right now.”
“Well, damn! What good are you, then?” I got back up to collect writing materials for myself.
“I have a cute tail. Dollar Dan Justice told me so.”
“Huh? Who’s Dollar Dan Justice?”
“One of John Stretch’s henchrats.”
“Oh. Listen to your father. Don’t trust him. They’re all out?”
“I trust him implicitly, Garrett. To be your basic standard-issue ratman. All dim-witted and wrong-headed, with bad attitude for spice.”
The Dead Man indulged in the psychic equivalent of a cough for attention. Those few minutes with the young people restored my faith in the nature of the human species.
“Two kids just sitting here?”
You saw only the obvious lack of confidence of the boy. And the brash mask of the female. Inside, both are confused, frightened, and hopeful. In different ways and for different reasons.
I was a teenager once. Back when thunder lizards walked the earth. Which they still do, just not in weather like what we’d been having lately. I vaguely recollect those days. Especially what it was like trying not to turn into a drooling idiot in front of a beautiful girl. Whose slightest frown could devastate me worse than the most ferocious natural disaster.
“I get you. Sort of. Maybe.”
Not at all.
“All... right, then. Show me where I’m wrong.”
Miss Kyra turned on the heat to baffle, confuse, and control the young man. By which means she got him here.
“That’s what they do. A tiger is gonna be a tiger. And a girl like Kyra is gonna be a girl like Kyra.”
Of course. She will lead Cypres Prose around like she has a ring in his nose. But Cypres Prose is Cypres Prose, too, and will be the Cypres Prose who invents things.
You can’t tell tone in Himself’s communications, generally. There was enough overburden on this, though, to suggest that he thought he’d made an important point.
Yes, Kip invents things. Three-wheels. One-wheels. Writing sticks. Priers. All because those sky elves did something to his head, back when.
“I’m all ears.”
Singe’s are bigger than mine but she was shutting down. She must have put away a lot of beer when I wasn’t looking. All she had to say was, “How come he was wearin’a wig?” Which question she couldn’t or wouldn’t explain.
No time for straight lines tonight.
Kip and his friends, the Faction, came together accidentally, accreting through the gravitational force of common inadequacy.
They are all bright, talented children with limited social skills. And, in several cases, have no interest in acquiring them. The boy who loves insects is obsessed with insects. He cares about nothing else.
“The point you’re dawdling toward is what?”
A question. What interests the normal teenage boy? Stipulating that normal is a set with extended boundaries. What are all boys interested in, whatever else grabs their fancy?
“In my case it was teenage girls.”
Right neighborhood. Defined by your own youthful inadequacies.
“Hey!”
Most boys are less selective than you were. For the majority, it is enough that the female be breathing.
An exaggeration, perhaps, but he got the spirit of the thing. “And?”
So Cypres Prose, being Cypres Prose, assumed there would be a technical answer to his shortcomings. Assisted by the rest of the Faction’s boy geniuses, he has created a means by which it is possible to determine, then improve, a woman’s level of interest. So to speak.
“Oh my! Really? He’s invented a make-horny device?”
More or less. With help from the rest of the Faction.
“Oh, heavens! You know what that would mean if he could mass-produce it? Besides making everybody who has anything to do with it richer than... Hell, I don’t know. There isn’t anything to compare richer than.”
Wealth untold, yes. But there is a fly in the ointment.
“There’d have to be, wouldn’t there? Something like that... it could shake things up worse than peace b
reaking out did.”
The boys of the Faction have discovered that while their magical device works, it does nothing to make them less inept or undesirable.
“Ha! Meaning they retain the power to quench the hottest fire by sheer force of personality.”
Exactly.
“They could still make millions. Hell, we’ve got a thousand god shouters raking in gelt by the hundredweight selling amulets, pendants, rosaries, statues, whatever, that nobody ever actually sees work. How much more useful is something like this? If it gave you an edge even part of the time?”
Shelve your residual youth, Garrett. Be content. For you, now, it is as good as it will ever get.
Right. Tinnie isn’t a gift horse only when I’m talking to guys like Scithe. After one giddy moment, I conceded the point.
Bloody hell! Had I turned into a grown-up when I wasn’t looking?
“I hate it when you’re so right.”
Singe began to snore.
The Faction are not the sort who give up after one setback. Nor are all of them as all for one and one for all as Cypres Prose. Naive boy.
“Meaning?”
The boy has seen signs, which he refuses to recognize, that the twins are distancing themselves in order to go into business for themselves.
“They mean to steal his idea?”
Yes.
“But, knowing Kip, he has a better idea.”
Essentially. From the consumer point of view.
“And that would be?”
A means of combining scents drawn from several insects? partially explaining the interest there, along with upsizing in order to produce larger quantities of the scent? sounds beyond ordinary hearing, and some small-time mind-fogging sorcery, all accompanied by advice to the consumer to avoid being his normal self.
“He was working it here tonight. With Kyra.”
Amusement. He was. As a field experiment. Testing the latest version. I doubt anything will come of it. He remains Cypres Prose.
Meaning he couldn’t help messing himself up.
The beer was taking its toll even though I’d slowed down before Singe had.
“So them having a secret hideout near the World, where they were doing their experiments, was why I ended up down there.”
Probably. I would guess there will be no more insect problem. In that area. Work can resume. Probably.
“Probably? Why only probably?”
You have not yet dealt with the ghosts.
“The ghosts? What ghosts? I couldn’t find anybody who said he’d seen one. I think it’s all urban legend stuff that can be explained by big bugs sneaking around making weird noises.”
Possibly. If you have not made sure, you have not fulfilled your commitment to the Weiders. Additionally, I would like to meet the rest of the Faction as soon as you can arrange that.
“Kyra has probably suffered as much of those types as she can stand.”
We have other resources.
With that he subsided into his reveries. I went back to the kitchen, drew myself a fresh mug. Singe continued snoring. I snuffed the lamps but left the bug candle burning. I went across to the small front room to get an idea what we would need to make it over for Singe to use.
She’d been in there already, scrubbing and polishing. Good old lye soap had been deployed liberally. Furnishings that hadn’t vanished had gotten shoved into the corner farthest from where the Goddamn Parrot’s perch used to stand.
The stench of that little monster was gone, leaving me nothing but sour memories.
32
Someone pounded on the front door. Dean must be too damned lazy to use his key. I went to answer.
There was no light in the hall so I wouldn’t give myself away by blocking it when I used the peephole.
There wasn’t much light outside, either, but there was enough. I didn’t know the man but I knew the type. All muscle, no brain. And this one had hair like a wild man. There must be a nest where they turn them out like a queen ant turns out workers. This one did what they all do when they don’t know about my partner.
He decided to let himself in. He hurled his right shoulder against the door.
He had a solid work ethic. He put everything into the effort. Twice.
The door is made to withstand a mature bull troll. It endured this bruno’s best without creaking.
He said, “Ah, shit!” after the second impact. I heard him distinctly. He staggered back, slipped on the slick surface, hit the porch rail, went on over. He landed on his back and slid into a pool of slush. His luck was in. The cold water wakened him before he drowned. It made a nasty mess in all that hair, where it started to freeze.
Bring him inside before the Guard’s watchers send collectors after him.
So. Chuckles wasn’t completely out of it. “How come?”
He may know something interesting. But his mind is too well shielded for casual exploration while he is being manhandled by the Guard.
“He might object.”
Which, I assume, is why you maintain a store of lead-weighted oaken arguments.
Well, maybe.
I keep a “store” because I lose them, forget where I left them, or have them taken away from me.
Trusting Old Bones to help, I took the headknocker hanging behind the door, opened up, went down after the man with the muscles. It had turned damned cold again. I really needed a new coat. As soon as it got warm enough to go looking. But then I wouldn’t need one anymore, so where was the point? “Let’s go, big boy. Somebody wants to see you.”
The big man got his feet under him. He reached out for support, wincing because his shoulder hurt. He didn’t grasp the actuality of his situation.
The Dead Man can do that to you.
Big Bruno and I were at the door when Dean’s voice asked, “What in the world?”
“You’re finally home?”
“I am. What’s this?”
“There have been developments. How was your day?”
“Marginally unpleasant. I spent it at a wake with relatives I loathe. But it could have been worse. This gentleman looks like a professional thug. Why are you fishing him out of a wet gutter?”
“He fell in after he bounced off the front door.”
“One of those.” With no excitement.
Some days it rains those guys around our place.
“One of those. With the added spice of being difficult for His Nibs to read.”
Dean must have sucked down some smart brew at that wake. He landed on it with both feet just as I got there myself. “Which would make him the running dog of someone on the Hill.”
“Look at you, getting all tooled up and working things out.”
“Nobody appreciates a smart-ass.” He held the door while I guided the failed door mauler inside. Wondering if Director Relway’s serfs had noted the occasion.
The thug was still dripping when we seated him in the Dead Man’s room. I left him in his street apparel. He had begun to melt.
Tomorrow I need you to find Mr. Tharpe. I should not have let him get away today.
“Easier said than done.”
Dean headed to the kitchen for a mop.
You are a professional of substance. Finding people is what you do.
Sarcastic old lump.
Your ambition deficit begins to concern me, Garrett.
He should talk.
Dean yelped in outrage. I heard him all the way from the kitchen. “What’s his problem?”
Did you and Singe clean up after yourselves?
Not me. I was busy answering doors and wrangling teenagers.
“What did she do?” Any problem couldn’t be my fault.
Do you suppose you can focus on something more significant?
“You’re not that attractive. Neither is Bruno, here.” But he has a beautiful mind. Once you penetrate the ugly surface.
I thought he was bantering, playing the snaps. But he was serious.
Indeed. This Barate Algarda
is a mixture of contrasts.
“He’s big. He’s ugly. Instead of one or the other.” If it barks like a dog and bites like a dog, I’m gonna say “Woof!” when I talk to it. Even if it plays the violin while it rips my leg off.
He is nearer being two people in one body than any I have yet seen.
That would be significant. We’re all two-faced, or more, and Chuckles has peeked behind a lot of masks. Still, he was amusing himself by trying to make me whine for details. “How about passing along a little substance?”
His already overstuffed ego puffed up like a bullfrog fixing to sing. Barate Algarda is a fixer, in your vernacular. By dint of circumstance rather than choice. Circumstance sometimes compels us to choose options we would otherwise disdain.
There had to be some subtle shot in that.
He is employed by the Windwalker, Furious Tide of Light.
“That’s a new one.”
To maintain the cosmic balance, I would suspect she has not heard of you, either. Or, sadder still, even of me. Yet.
All that is likely to change.
Again, no clear tone, but I got the impression he was uncomfortable.
The Windwalker is newly elevated. And young for one of her kind. Nor is she the sort usually found on the Hill. Barate Algarda is more than her operative. He is also her father.
“Whoa! Hang on a minute, Chuckles.”
You understood right, first time. This is an unusual family. Yet this is not an evil man. Nor stupid. He loves his children. He will do anything necessary to protect them.
“Does that include busting my door down in a snowstorm in the middle of the night? To protect them from somebody who never heard of them?”
Including that, and then doing you bodily harm with considerable enthusiasm once the door is out of the way. It is confusing. Several whys are missing or inaccessible.
“You said children. Since I’ve never hear of Furious Tide of Light, it would have to be someone else. Have I come into contact with another Algarda?” I’ve stopped being surprised that people I never heard of want to pound on me.
There is a name that seems to be Kevans. It is hard to reach.
“You'll find a way to get to it, though. Right?”
