Cruel Zinc Melodies

by Glen Cook

  Luther consulted his troops. They were sullen and rebellious. I joined the group. Saucerhead followed. Just in case. I said, “Before you guys make a decision that could shape the rest of your lives, answer me this. Have any of you gotten hurt by what’s going on in there? You? You? You? No? And you don’t know anyone who got hurt, either. Do you? So what it adds up to is, you’re running away from your own imaginations. Your own guilty consciences. Eh?”

  Every word I spoke was true. Every man listening knew it.

  Fear squeezed them, even so.

  Part of the human pattern predisposes us to bend the knee to a supernatural power, however improbable. Or even ridiculous, to an outsider or atheist.

  “So what will it be? Go looking for work? Or suck it up and carry on? I'll be working on making the spooky stuff stop.”

  It was easy to pick out the single guys. They were the ones who thought twice before clenching their jaws and heading back to work.

  56

  “Here comes Winger,” Tharpe told me.

  Conditioned by an age of disappointments involving that woman, I turned, expecting a whole new set of problems.

  Well...

  Winger had a family of dwarves in tow. Mom and Pop, adolescent son and prepubescent daughter. All readable only because they’d all gone native.

  In the normal scheme sexing a dwarf is something only a dwarf can manage without getting closer than I want to imagine. Male and female, they come with immense crops of hair, arsenals sure to include at least one huge ax and an amazing variety of supplemental cutlery, and a lot of attitude. In general, dress consists of a chain-mail shirt not tucked in, an iron hat, and a leather apron something like a kilt. The more pockets on the apron, the higher the status of the dwarf.

  Got to be a joke in there somewhere.

  The mom in this crew wore a paisley apron that started life as a carpet. Her helmet was a feminine little pillbox in blackened steel, without horns or other appurtenance. Dad wore a stylish pullover made from burlap bags, hiding most of his mail.

  The younger dwarves, almost human in apparel, seemed painfully embarrassed to be seen in the company of parents. Definitely a custom borrowed from humans.

  Winger boomed, “This here is Garrett. Runs things at this end. Garrett, this is Rindt Grinblatt.”

  Papa Dwarf offered the slightest of bows. It was the kind dwarves deploy when confronted by lesser beings in superior numbers.

  “Good to meet you,” I lied. And turned to Winger for an explanation.

  “The Dead Man hired them to poke around under that abandoned house. They have all the information they need.”

  The little one whined, “Daddy made me go in the house with the creepy thing! It messed around inside my head.”

  Rindt Grinblatt? a name either made up or adopted because it wasn’t traditional dwarfish? admitted it. “I wasn’t gonna go in dere wit’ dat t’ing. I don’t need my mind swept. Mindie don’t got no secrets to give away.”

  Fathers. You got to love them.

  Generally, dwarves are inscrutable. Mindie was not. Her expression said her father didn’t have a clue what he was blathering about.

  Winger told me, “The Dead Man said to tell you he put a map of the underground into her head.”

  Dwarves being folks who live in caves and tunnels in the wild, this bunch should have no trouble if the map they’d gotten was the one Old Bones based on my recollections of those cellars.

  “My partner told you what he wanted done?” Since this was all a surprise to me.

  “We got it,” Rindt Grinblatt grumbled.

  “The Dead Man told me. I explained,” Winger said. “In case Mindie gets distracted.”

  Rindt grumbled, “You just show us where the house is.”

  Grinblatt was not in a bad temper. He was being upbeat. For a dwarf. He had a paying job.

  I looked to Winger for further illumination. She told me, “You take them to the abandoned house. And turn them loose.”

  “Follow me,” I grumbled, cheerful as an employed dwarf. Snowflakes had begun to swirl. I wasn’t looking forward to manning a shovel. I wondered if Max and Gilbey would notice the charge if I hired a stand-in shoveler.

  I led. Grinblatts followed, none with any enthusiasm. They were working only in response to the supreme motivator, hunger.

  Very upbeat. For dwarves.

  Winger brought up the rear.

  We hadn’t gone half a block before a brace of flying thunder lizards wheeled through the random snowflakes overhead, hitting something on the roof of the World. The lead flyer flapped back up with a pair of struggling beetles, one neatly mounted atop the other. The bottom bug fell. It crunched into the cobblestones a dozen yards away, the fall instantly fatal.

  The dwarves surrounded the beetle. Its limbs continued to twitch. Rindt Grinblatt said, “I didn’t believe it. But dere it is. You cain’t argue wit’dat.”

  I explained, “They’re big but not dangerous. They haven’t?”

  “I know dat. We’re supposed ta find out where dey’re comin’ from. An’git rid a’ any a’dem we runs inta.”

  Looking at those four, with all the mail and armament, I decided the Dead Man had been very clever indeed. Dwarves were perfect exterminators for these vermin. They were used to tight places, underground. And they were unlikely to be hurt by the bugs. The darkness, smells, and spells wouldn’t bother them, either.

  I visited Dwarf Fort once, a long time ago, warrens where dwarves who won’t acculturate live once they come to the big city. The perfume of countless never-washed dwarf bodies, in tight quarters, while potent enough to water the eyes of a maggot, go unremarked by the denizens of the place.

  “Here we are,” I said when we arrived. The abandoned house looked bleaker than ever. “I can’t tell you much. I went in there once myself but I didn’t get very far. Be careful on the stairs.”

  Grinblatt rumbled, “We'll let you know what we find.” He and his tribe had gone native, but he wasn’t going to let some mere human get too friendly.

  “I'll be back at the World when you want me.”

  Clan Grinblatt unlimbered axes and tromped up the shaky steps. They vanished into the abandoned house.

  Winger and I headed for the theater. I observed, “Joyful bunch.”

  She responded with a Grinblatt grunt, then asked, “You got any idea what Pilsuds is up to?”

  “Who?” It took a moment. “Oh. The Remora. I forgot that was his real name. No. I don’t.” I dared not tell her that the Dead Man was more interested in enlisting Jon Salvation than her.

  “Why can’t you just call him by the name that he wants, Garrett?”

  “Because Jon Salvation is ridiculous. And you just called him Pilsuds.”

  Winger is no addict of consistency. She ignored me. “Jon Salvation is gonna be famous. He already finished his second play. He read it to me. It’s really good.”

  Winger is no fan of the arts. Nor has ever been. Unless she can find someone willing to buy it, off the books.

  She said, “The little shit drives me nuts when he’s around. He’s so damned clingy. And needy. And horny. But now that he hasn’t been underfoot for a few hours, I’m missing him.”

  She’d be nervous about the constituents of the crowd who meant to perform Jon Salvation’s plays. Alyx. Bobbi. Lindy. Cassie Doap, who had yet to show her primo self. Even Heather Soames. Every one definitely worth considering a threat.

  I was nervous about the redhead of the set. Though not that a wannabe playwright would carry her off. I was afraid that someday she’d go away because old Garrett couldn’t help going right on being Garrett.

  There have been rare moments when I haven’t been the most lovable guy roaming these mean streets.

  57

  A train of wagons had appeared outside the World. Saucerhead was directing traffic, moving them on to park farther along once they unloaded.

  Curious bystanders had begun to turn out. We had giant bugs, flying thunde
r lizards, and now, ratpeople by the wagonload. That’s entertainment.

  Morley and his crew continued working rentable buildings nearby.

  The wagons spilled ratmen and cages full of cranky rats. More than ever before. I spotted John Stretch. He must have been preparing for the callback for days. I headed his way. “Thought you’d had enough of this place.”

  “I do not like it, Mr. Garrett. It is a bad place. But it could make me rich.”

  “And me poor. The Dead Man hired you?”

  “Yes. He wants one more offensive against the bugs from down below.”

  “They’re so big now, your best rats may not be able to hold their own.”

  “This could be the last time this approach is possible. Rats are not smart. They are cunning. But they do learn. And they pass their learning along. By the time today’s game is played out, it may be impossible to gather any significant number of feral rats willing to be used here.”

  “Ratpeople could take over.”

  “You are mad.”

  “It’s completely safe. Hell, there’s a family of dwarves down there poking around right now.”

  “There are ghosts.”

  “That only bother humans.”

  “Till now.”

  John Stretch was well on into an extended graphic description of what I could do with my idea about sending ratmen down when an unexpected visitor interrupted.

  “Rocky? Hey!” It was the midget troll who made deliveries for a living. “What’re you up to?”

  Rocky is a blazing fast talker. For a troll. He’s had too much exposure to human beings. It took him only ten seconds to get going on an answer. “It is my day off. Playmate told me you might could use some help. I could use a little extra money.”

  “Playmate had a good idea.” I sure could use Rocky. Nothing much will dent a troll, let alone do serious damage. Plus, Rocky was small enough to get around in the same kinds of places dwarves can go. While being a dozen times stronger.

  Hell, this was an idea so great it was embarrassing that it took a preacher man to think it up.

  There was a problem, though. Trolls and dwarves are not an inert mix. No way could I send Rocky down to help Rindt Grinblatt. The Grinblatts would, almost certainly, attempt to test to destruction Rocky’s natural invulnerability.

  “Here’s what you do to start. John Stretch!” I beckoned the ratman. “John Stretch, this is Rocky. He’s going to go inside with you. He'll handle any physical challenges that come up.” I told Rocky what we were up against and how he could protect the ratmen.

  He said, “I hope it’s warmer inside there, Garrett. This cold really slows me down.”

  “Warm won’t be a problem.” John Stretch’s people were complaining about the heat. And ratfolk like it hot.

  Rocky went off with John Stretch.

  Luther planted himself in front of me. Before he started, I said, “Work around them.”

  “There’s ghosts already. They don’t usually come out this early.”

  “We’re trying to deal with that. Remember, they’re harmless. They just manipulate your emotions.”

  “Yeah. I know. But knowing and believing are two whole different buckets of monkey piss.”

  That was hard to argue. I’d seen it too often. Fear has its own logic. Too often, there isn’t a dread of physical harm driving it. “All right. If you must, take breaks. That’s all right. As long as I see everybody challenging their courage.” I leaned in, whispered, “We don’t want no ratmen making us look bad, do we?”

  During Snoots? visit I’d gotten the notion that Luther didn’t disdain rightsist ideals.

  Luther was surprised. For an instant. Then puzzled. Then satisfied enough to smile. “Right. Got you.”

  Which left me feeling unclean. But not a lot. That’s management. Tell them what they need to hear to get them through the day. Tomorrow can take care of itself.

  I screwed up my courage, went inside to see how the ratfolk were doing. Wondering why Singe hadn’t come to stick her nose in.

  The heat was amazing. I ordered every doorway propped open. Why hadn’t anybody done that? And there were vents up top, there to let the heat out when the World filled up with playgoers. Those were shut, too.

  Might the thing down below be like a snake or thunder lizard? Or troll? Would a good chill slow it down?

  The ratmen were staying out of the way of the workmen. Who weren’t being too unpleasant to them. John Stretch had set up down on the cellar level. That helped.

  Ghosts wandered everywhere. At least a dozen of them, all just milky shimmers. The ratmen saw them but weren’t impressed. The tradesmen weren’t bothered, either. None coalesced into anything anyone found frightening. Too many minds, too many ghosts, too many distractions.

  A lot of people doing a lot of stuff might just be the perfect workaround.

  Luther, making a circuit of his troops, paused to shoot me a thumbs-up.

  58

  Morley Dotes invited himself in to tour the monster destined to be the talk of high society. My first hint of his presence was him saying, “I’m impressed, Garrett.”

  Startled, I stopped watching Rocky crunch bugs. The midget troll wasn’t fast but didn’t have to be. He’d found the hole that the biggest insects used to get into the cellar. He let them come to him. The rats had gone down by lesser ways and were driving the bugs toward him.

  Morley twitched as I turned. A ghost had bumped him from behind. He looked back, didn’t see anything, but twitched again when the ghost touched him again.

  Interesting. I hadn’t seen a ghost touch anyone before.

  “What the devil?” Morley said. “You have practical joke spells floating around in here?”

  “No joke.” I explained. “You really don’t see anything?”

  “No. But I feel it. It’s like being touched by cold, wet hands.” He twitched, turned quickly. Several times.

  “We need to get you out of here. You’re drawing them like you might be good to eat.” Six were in touching distance. The rest were drifting our way.

  The Dead Man should find that interesting.

  We ran into Belle Chimes at the door. He didn’t recognize Morley. Nor Morley, him, either. I didn’t bother with introductions. I told Bill my best friend seemed to attract ghosts but couldn’t see them.

  “He might be psychic,” Bill suggested. “Which would make him more obvious to them than the rest of you are.”

  “Why can’t he see them?”

  Bill shrugged. “Garrett, I’m just a guy who lives over top of a third-rate bar.”

  “But...”

  “Not my field of expertise. What’s his problem?” He pointed.

  I looked.

  Morley hadn’t stopped twitching just because we’d gone outside.

  “The spooks came out with him. A couple of them.” By squinting, cocking my head, and looking slightly to one side, I could detect them. But they were fading. “Morley. Scoot your ass on across the street. See if they can stay with you.”

  My best pal said unflattering things. He wasn’t sure what was happening. He didn’t like it. But he did what I said.

  “Try getting into shadows,” I told him. “The spooks are easier to spot when they’re not in the light.”

  “They’re gone.” He’d moved only a few steps into the street.

  “You sure? How do you know?”

  “I know because there’s nobody painting me with cold porridge fingers anymore.” He came toward me, a step at a time. And defined the range of the spooks in seconds. “Three steps make all the difference.”

  I wasn’t happy. I’d just found out that the ghosts could come outside a good ten yards. Would their range increase again tomorrow?

  About the time Saucerhead was set to christen his sudden new guard shack, we discovered that Morley’s escape marked a supernatural high water. The ghosts? range dwindled fast, afterward. Possibly because of the chill winter air flooding the World.

  John
Stretch told me, “We do not like this cold. But the rats definitely like what it is doing to the bugs down under.”

  “Good?”

  “Good. This time we may get them all.”

  “You'll need to find their eggs,” Belle Chimes told us. “Otherwise they'll just keep coming.”

  “That’s true,” I said. And thought about the Grinblatts.

  I’d heard nothing from the dwarves.

  I worried. There should’ve been something, if only a “Screw you very much!”” Hey, Rocky. I’ve got a mission for you.”

  “More fun than squashing bugs?” His outside was covered with insect insides.

  “I can’t tell you a lie. No. It could even turn unpleasant. I’ve got some dwarves that might’ve got themselves into a tight spot.”

  Troll faces aren’t especially expressive. But Rocky managed to betray his thoughts without saying that tight spots are right where dwarves belong. The tighter the better. A pine box, eight feet down, being ideal. Or maybe farther than that, just to be sure they didn’t claw their way out.

  “They love you, too. We'll make it a compromise. You go check, see if they’re all right. That’s all you got to do. Just come back and tell me. Anything that needs doing I'll take care of myself.”

  Rocky glowered. Volcanic rumbles started up inside him. Digestive distress? I hoped.

  “And all this will pay exactly the same as having fun. Right?”

  “Exactly.” I wasn’t going to hand out a bonus because an employee did what he was told. “Come on.”

  I took Rocky to the abandoned house. I explained again. Rocky grunted, muttered something about if a man wanted a job done he ought to have the stones - snicker - to get in there and do it his own self.

  He didn’t understand. I was management. Management don’t get its hands dirty. Management concentrates on making conflicting decisions and issuing orders with no obvious rationale behind them.

  I’d make a fine manager. I had the example of my partner to emulate.

  Rocky was gone long enough to get me worrying. But he did turn up eventually.

  “Your dwarves ain’t lost. You’re wasting your time worrying about them.”