Cruel Zinc Melodies

by Glen Cook

  “And Heather Soames?”

  Miss Soames is, truly, an interesting mix. Very nearly two people in one body.

  “Another one? Let’s fix her up with Barate Algarda. They could be their own extended family.”

  You find me in a charitable mood. I have been handed several worthy puzzles. So I will exercise my benevolence and stipulate that your observation included amusing elements.

  “Score one for Garrett. All right. Give me the gory details on Heather.”

  Miss Soames is determined to develop the soul of a serpent. But she cannot get shot of a soft spot for Manvil Gilbey. Whom she seems to have met the week she started tricking, at a tender age. Who has always treated her with respect, as an equal, not as what she was determined to be.

  “So Gilbey is a good guy.” No earth-rocking secret wriggling out of the sack, there. “And, hard as she tries, she can’t help liking him. And can’t make herself work evil on him.”

  In essence.

  Because she needed one anchor in the world outside. She had to have somebody out there to care about. And who she could let care about her.

  Been there. On the anchor end. For Belinda Contague, psychotic queen of TunFaire’s underworld.

  He understands. He is clever in the ways he manipulates Miss Soames. Refusing to let her slide under by placing less destructive alternatives in her path. In such a manner that she cannot refuse without worsening her own concept of who she is.

  “I’ve known Gilbey a long time. He wouldn’t waste the time if he didn’t see something worth saving.”

  Just so. And try as she may to trip herself into falling down the well of perdition, the thing Gilbey sees betrays the destructive urge. It compels the other Heather to respond and produce. She has found a passion for the idea of the World. She could be the finest theater manager working? if she steps off the road to hell long enough to give it an honest effort.

  Heather Soames would not be the first or even tenth person I’d met who came with a wounded personality, fitting a similar mold. There are droves of them. The cleverest and strongest have learned to hide it. “Why do so many people get that way?”

  In your species the most common cause is what the child must endure. Especially from their own families.

  “Huh?” More of that wit on the razor’s edge.

  It is the cruelest secret of your race, Garrett. I have seen dozens of generations of your people. I have seen the bleakness and darkness and despair haunting ten thousand human minds. It would amaze and horrify you to discover how many of your young are maltreated, how often, and how terribly.

  ? I’m not sure I can be amazed by human evil.” He was right, though. The exploitation of children isn’t uncommon. Nor is it illegal, except in the churchly, moral sense. For some faiths.

  I have no direct experience but I’ve known plenty who do. And suspect there are more who just can’t talk about it.

  That is true. You see only the surface reality. Exploitation is so common that your people shrug it off as part of growing up. Assuming the victims will forget. And many do, because so little is made of what was done to them. But the internal influence never ends.

  Now I was uncomfortable. I felt a crusader zeal beginning to bubble down deep inside him. And that was not a crusade I wanted to take on. The cure for that lay in the hands of fanatics like Deal Relway. People who saw in black and white exclusively and would act on what they saw. Change doesn’t come through persuasion. Not in a single lifetime.

  I could imagine numerous commonlaw and customary exceptions to any do-gooder law the Crown might hand down. Including the inarguable fact that before your thirteenth birthday you’re legally the property of your parents. Unless you have the stones to run away.

  There’s a timeless conflict between what’s right and what’s legal. Laws, most times, get handed down with good intentions. And immediately become cobblestones in the highway to hell. The instant the grand good purpose thuds down, unintended consequences start bubbling up around the edges.

  You are a cynical beast.

  “It’s the company I keep.”

  Indeed.

  Amazing how much sarcasm can be loaded into one supposedly neutral message.

  The perverse foibles of your species need not concern you now. Unless the children of the Faction turn out to be products of abuse. Which could well explain their penchant for sneaking around. Ah! Interesting.

  “What now?”

  Another of the company you keep is about to pass across the stage.

  “Huh?” Master of witty repartee. That’s Mom Garrett’s ever-lovin’ blue-eyed baby boy. “Tinnie came back?” I was in a mood for that. In a mood, lately, for having the redhead underfoot most of the time.

  Pular Singe, in damp street clothes, stuck her snoot through the doorway briefly. She didn’t say anything. She wore a chagrined look, near as a ratperson can. She went on, not in silence, raising an angry racket climbing the stairs.

  “Did I miss something?”

  No doubt. That is another of your master-level skills.

  At least he was awake at a time when his minds might come in handy.

  She spent last night away from home.

  “Ouch!” I turned into a worried father in two seconds flat.

  Again, you need not be concerned. She did nothing to worry you. She did nothing but disappoint herself. And be forcefully reminded that she is not human. And, therefore, less prone to be victimized by the vagaries of romance.

  “I'll take your word.” Provisionally. But that world out there is overrun with guys just like I used to be. Some might even be ratmen.

  Lucky for Singe, ratmen aren’t interested unless they’re close to a ratwoman in season. And a determined ratwoman can avoid that through judicious use of pharmaceuticals.

  Of course, a ratman of a mind also has the option of injudicious use of pharmaceuticals.

  Me and my baby girl maybe ought to have a talk about the kind of guys she’s going to run into now that she’s almost growed.

  Old Bones was over there trying not to laugh out loud.

  “I’m not ready to be daddy to a litter of ratpeople pups, Chuckles. Not to mention, Dean would quit on us if we had ratbrats underfoot.”

  But he does not mind cats.

  “No. The racialist. Well, species-ist, I guess.”

  I could feel him regretting being too dead to break out in belly-busting laughter.

  I went to have a look outside. Sourly.

  The weather had gone the direction opposite my mood.

  Good. I wouldn’t freeze completely once I got out there.

  35

  First stop I visited Mr. Jan. My family have bought clothing from him for generations. Half each of two different generations, anyway. Mr. Jan might fix me up with a new coat.

  I took my time getting there. People were watching. I didn’t want to add any excitement to their days.

  Mr. Jan had been issued to the tailoring trade from its First Chief Directorate of Stereotypes. He was a skinny little old guy whose war service must have happened in the first half of the last century. He shone on top, had bushy white on the sides, white mustaches but no beard. And a persistent accent that made me wonder if he might not have avoided the war altogether. Age hadn’t blunted his mind. He recognized me although I hadn’t been in since my move to Macunado Street.

  He asked what I’d been doing while he laid out choices in coat styles. I gave him the high points, none of which sent an eyebrow up a fraction of an inch. Nothing outside Mr. Jan’s world could be as dramatic as the tribulations of the tailoring trade. He did manage an occasional well-timed, unenthusiastic grunt to let me know he was listening.

  I wasn’t focused on old adventures, either. I was trying to figure out how to make my tails collide so I could watch the fur fly.

  Seeing me underwhelmed by the choices, Mr. Jan said, “You’re the man for a new kind of all-weather coat we’re thinking about doing. My son Brande brought back a sampl
e from a trading trip he made with friends from the war.” The old man cast furtive glances around. Brande and his Army buddies must have had the good fortune to have a few tons of surplus weaponry fall into the hold of a ship that they then quickly took beyond the reach of Karentine law. Where they could enjoy the benefit of a profit margin with a tiny underside.

  There’s a lot of that going around. The markup between wholesale and retail is just too seductive.

  Mr. Jan told me, “This example will be tight on a man with your shoulders. But you'll get the idea.” The coat he brought out looked like light brown tent canvas. “This would be the summer weight. Waterproof. There’s a button-in winter lining. They wear these in Kharé, where it rains all the time.”

  I recalled the name. Vaguely. From a long time ago. Stories about rain and fog.

  He was right about the fit. But I liked the coat after I saw it in a mirror. “You’ve sold me, Mr. Jan. When you make it, pretend I’m some kind of street magician.”

  “You want hidden pockets?”

  “Lots. Big and small. Put some in the liner, too.”

  “How long do you want it to hang? To the knee is the style in Kharé, but their weather isn’t as fierce as ours.”

  “Mr. Jan, you’re the coat maker. Use your own judgment.”

  “I'll need to take measurements.”

  “Do your worst, foul fiend. Oh, I need something temporary, too.”

  “I expect I'll have something used that will do,” he said. Ignoring my jest. After numerous measurements, carefully noted on reusable vellum, he asked, “How is your mother?” In a cautious, tentative way. My answer meant more than he wanted me to guess.

  “She’s gone, Mr. Jan. Some time ago. She had no will to go on after Mikey died.”

  The war with Venageta had been on for generations. People just assumed they would lose some of their male kinsmen. My mother lost her father, her husband, and two brothers. And remained unbroken. But she gave up after Mikey went down.

  That hurt. Secretly. I’ve never convinced myself that my death would have triggered as intense a response.

  “Sorry I brought it up.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “Goes to show how long it’s been.”

  “You make this coat as good as the last one...” I stopped. I didn’t want to suggest that I expected his product to outlive him.

  “I won’t see you again after you pick it up. I understand the commercial implications. There are coats out there that my grandfather made. And Jan trousers even older. We’re less about fashion than value and durability. There. That should do it.”

  “How’s business been since the war ended?”

  “We never depended on military sales. We have plenty of work.”

  “Good. Good. How long till the coat is ready?”

  “Ten days? Probably sooner. Check in after the weekend.” He went into the back, then brought out a hideous, multicolored rag I wouldn’t have been caught dead in if it weren’t for the weather. “This is the only thing I’ve got that’s big enough. Try to bring it back in one piece.”

  “Every crook in town will want to take it away from me.”

  Mr. Jan just stared. The First Chief Directorate doesn’t issue them with a sense of humor.

  “Look, once I leave you'll likely be visited by somebody who wants to know what I wanted. Whatever they want to know, go ahead and tell them.”

  That made the old man frown. Had we been out of touch so long that he didn’t know what I do?

  He’d get the idea soon enough.

  I left a generous deposit.

  36

  My whole life I’ve suffered from a compulsion to tug the king’s beard. The temptation has gotten to me more times than I care to recall.

  Natty as all hell, I left Mr. Jan’s place fighting an impulse to go throw an arm across the shoulder of one of the guys following me. Just to mess with him. And with any other watchers.

  I resisted. This time.

  I moved out slowly so everybody could keep up. I headed for The Palms. Which would amaze no one.

  I did not receive the usual hostile reception. I was suspicious immediately.

  Sarge seated me in a comfortable chair. Puddle brought tea. Quickly. In a silver tea service. My suspicions deepened. “What’s going on, Puddle?” It wasn’t like them to ignore such a stylish coat.

  “I told? me your head wouldn’t be turned by no tea.”

  “Nor by manners. That just makes me wonder where they’ve been for the last ten years.”

  Sarge said, “I don’t know about Morley, Garrett. But I ain’t known you dat long.”

  “The question stands. How come you’re being nice?”

  “Orders.”

  “I know Morley isn’t suffering a conscience attack over the way you guys usually act. So what’s the story?” I had a notion. Any time somebody is slimy nice to me it’s because they want a name moved up the waiting list for the three-wheels.

  “Da boss has got him a new girlfriend.”

  “Earthshaking news. What’s it been, days and days since the last one?”

  “A while, actually. Ever’time you turn around, here came another one a’dem sky elf women, wantin’ some a’ his special.”

  “They aren’t bothering him anymore? That would be disappointing.”

  Sarge looked a little shifty. “Don’t you figure you about got even by now?”

  “Hey. You’ve had the Goddamn Parrot here all winter. What do you think? Is a hundred years long enough to get even for that?”

  The big slob just laughed. “Dere ya go, overreactin’ agin. You oughta sign up wit’ one a’ dem actin’ companies. Ye’re so big on da drama.”

  So I’ve heard from a few folks. Who are just fooling themselves.

  Morley appeared. He had a big smile pasted on. Which just revealed the sharpness of his teeth.

  “Gee! You guys must want something real bad.”

  “Garrett, you have to be the most cynical human being I know.”

  “The key phrase being human being, of course. I can think of a whole list of folks more cynical and manipulative than me. But they’ve all got a little nonhuman in them somewhere.”

  He did not stop smiling. “What did you want?” Implying that I wouldn’t be seen around The Palms unless I wanted something.

  “Just putting you on the spot with the guys following me around.”

  His smile vanished. “We could put a sign out. Invite them in. Help build the business.”

  “So we’ve pranced around. Now what?”

  “You go first. What do you want?”

  “Just to put my dogs up. On the way down to the World. To find out why Alyx Weider insists it’s haunted when nobody else sees any ghosts.”

  “Going to bullshit a master bullshitter?”

  “How’s this, then? I want to leave a message for Saucerhead. He’s never home anymore. You’re likely to see him before I do.” I don’t know what it is with Tharpe. He’s no born-again vegetarian but he likes The Palms. “The Dead Man has work for him. He’s having trouble recalling who the senior partner is again.”

  “And?”

  “Where can I find me a gypsy necromancer? I could settle the ghost business in a minute with a professional.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “I thought that up on the spot. I was telling the truth about wanting to put my feet up. I haven’t been getting enough exercise.”

  “You never did.”

  “Your turn. How come the nice show? Give it to me straight. I can take it.”

  “It isn’t that big a thing.”

  It was that big a thing.

  “We want to borrow Singe. For a tracking job.”

  Aha. “Singe is a free agent. Go over to the house and ask if she wants the work.”

  “We were hoping you could intercede on our behalf.”

  “Of course you were.”

  “You know she won’t lift a paw if you don�
��t give her the go-ahead.”

  “Then when you go see her be sure to tell her I said it’s all right by me.” I struggled to keep a straight face.

  Morley gave me the fish-eye. Wondering if I realized that he didn’t want to talk to Singe where the Dead Man might take a gander at the circus inside his head. He decided I was smart enough to see it.

  I said, “Of course I am. It’s my only joy in life.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a major pain.”

  “You got that right.”

  “You thought of a gypsy necromancer?” He knows everybody on the underbelly of society. I know a few myself but am intellectually allergic to the region of the beast’s belly where the parasites practice the sorcery trades.

  “Belle Chimes.”

  I managed a credible impression of a bass out of water. Mouth moving but producing no sound till, “You’re kidding.”

  “Probably not a real name.”

  “You think?”

  “I’ve never met the guy. He’s way on the down low. He has a reputation like yours. Straight arrow in a sleazy racket. Better dressed, though.”

  “Thank you. I think. The coat’s a loaner.”

  “Of course it is. You’re Mr. Style.”

  “You saw what your guys did to my good coat.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. He said, “Go to a tavern called the Busted Dick.” He offered an approximate location in the Tenderloin. “Buy yourself a beer. Talk to a barkeep named Horace. Tell him you need to talk to Bill about last week’s D’Guni tournament. Buy yourself another beer. If they decide you don’t look like a bonebreaker from the Hill or a ringer on the Director’s payroll, they might hook you up.”

  “I’m not looking for a vampire.”

  “A vampire might be an easier find. They don’t have Hill folks wanting to exterminate them.”

  “I’m out of here, then.” Getting up and getting gone before he could nag me about Singe again.

  If he was desperate enough he’d turn up at the house, Dead Man or no.

  37

  Manvil Gilbey was outside the World when I got there. “Don’t see you roaming around much anymore.”

  His frown wasn’t encouraging. “Your efforts haven’t gotten things moving again.”