by Glen Cook
As Singe and I climbed the stoop a sleepy-angry tittering broke out somewhere up under the eaves. Something as fast as a hummingbird dropped down and circled us several times too swiftly to be seen clearly.
My front door opened. Dean must’ve been alerted by the Dead Man. He stood there in his nightshirt, scowling, holding a lamp above his head, disapproving of birth, death, and most everything in between.
“Early night?” I asked. The nightshirt was for commentary only. It wasn’t yet time for him to retire. He doesn’t change until he’s ready to slide into bed. Unless he wants to make some point that will remain obscure to everyone but him.
He grunted and rewarded me with an even blacker scowl.
“What’s with the gang of pixies up there?” I expected their presence would keep us arguing like pixies for weeks.
“Ask the thing. He’s the one who decided to adopt them.”
Ah. Live and learn. And discover the real root of Dean’s bad temper. The Dead Man had done something to offend his sense of rectitude.
Dean was aggrieved further because I’d been all set to blame him. Because that’s the kind of thing he’s likely to do. Every time I turn around he’s trying to take in another stray.
This might require some untangling.
“I’ll talk to him,” I promised. I wasn’t really happy, either.
Living near pixies is like setting up housekeeping inside a colony of sparrows. The squabbling never stops. And this bunch was making themselves at home right above my bedroom window.
None of that would bother Old Bones. He’s dead. He doesn’t have to listen to the racket.
Darkly, I added, “Failing him seeing reason, I know where I can come up with a nest of bumblebees.” Bumblebees and the smallest of the little people were feuding before the appearance of the first men. If you credit the legends of the wee folk.
Dean growled something about, “Then how do we get rid of the bumblebees?”
He grows ever more pessimistic as he ages.
“One step at a time, brother. One step at a time. Right now we’ve got trouble on a grander scale. I lost the boy who came here looking for help today. In circumstances surpassing strange. Make some tea, slap together some sandwiches, bring everything in with His Nibs, and I’ll fill you in.”
The old man headed for the kitchen. I’d triggered his concern for the lost and the hopeless. Earlier he’d been ready to stuff Kip into a gunnysack with a couple boulders so the boy could have a close-up look at the lost treasures on the bottom of the river somewhere off the Landing.
Singe watched while I took the Goddamn Parrot to his perch in the small front room. The Dead Man had withdrawn his control and inhibiting influence. The feathered weasel was returning to normal. He muttered like a stevedore but his big interest at the moment was food, not obnoxious chatter meant to get his owner crucified. He let Singe stroke his feathers as long as she didn’t interfere with his dining.
Singe was pleased. Normally that jungle buzzard is less kind to her than he is to me. She looked up at me and tried to smile.
“Wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“Am I doing it wrong?”
“No. But you’re not people. Be content to be the brightest and best ratwoman who ever lived. Be true to yourself.” I felt like somebody’s dad, spouting clichés. Then, of course, I felt really awful because I was old enough to understand what the clichés were all about. Embarrassment followed that as I remembered the cocksure boys we’d been when we were getting showered with the stupid stuff that turned out to be Joe Everyman’s way of trying to pass along his accumulated wisdom.
She is young, Garrett. And she has only just escaped a state closely approximating slavery. She will need time and numerous opportunities to shore up her belief in herself.
Old Bones has a soft spot for Singe, too. Though he’d never admit that if it were suggested aloud. He’d never confess to any form of emotional vulnerability or sentimental weakness.
I kept thinking about old men and clichés. And I kept trying to avoid considering how often the Dean Man threw those things my way. Because I resented his advice almost as much as I’d resented advice from men of my father’s generation when I was fifteen. I guess neither the old men nor the young men ever learn, but they keep on trying.
Dean nearly beat us to the Dead Man’s room with the refreshments. I got a lamp going. Singe dragged in a special chair I’d had made that let her sit without having to worry about her troublesome tail. In moments she and I were hard at work. On the tea and sandwiches.
“Damn!” I woofed around a glob of bread and ham. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. The effects of that knockout spell must be all the way worn off now.”
Singe grunted. She didn’t have time for anything else. Once she gulped down everything Dean didn’t nibble and I didn’t devour, she looked around like she hoped there was still a whole roast pig she’d overlooked. I knew a reinforced battalion of young women who’d gladly kill, and who’d certainly hate Singe, for her ability to eat and eat and never gain an inappropriate ounce.
There are no fat ratpeople.
The Dead Man had me tell my story first.
I have a knack for accurate recollection. I provided the details I believed were necessary for an understanding of events while the Dead Man observed those events as memories drifting across the surface of my mind. He asked only a handful of questions, waiting until I was finished talking to go to the first. He seemed particularly interested in even the most minute details of the silver elves’ sorceries.
At first blush I would have to agree with Mr. Dotes’ assessment that those people are not elves, Garrett. Perhaps they belong to a single family of unusual breeding. A mixture of human and kef sidhe sounds plausible, considering their descriptions. Though their apparel seems most unusual. Let us examine the materials you managed to recover at your last contact site. All three of you, please. So that I may have the benefit of three divergent viewpoints and minds and sets of eyes.
Once scattered atop the little table that is one of the few pieces of furniture in the Dead Man’s room my plunder did not appear especially exciting. Because he was able to see the inside of my head, anyway, I admitted, “It seems to be mostly trash.”
Having contemplated the take through our several viewpoints, Old Bones responded, You are correct, Garrett. The silver people did abandon what they considered to be waste.
How did he know?
Through exactly the same process you used to come to that identical conclusion, supplemented by experience and unlimited intellect. It is a pity, however, that neither of you can recall the exact circumstances of the kidnappers’ final escape.
“A huge pity,” I grumped. My headache remained on duty, totally devoted. Singe, though smitten harder at the time, had recovered completely already.
The Dead Man must’ve been more interested in events than he let on. When I started feeling sorry for myself and lusting after a beer he interfered with nature. He reached inside my head and did something that made the pain fade away. Some. Enough. Though a reminder remained in the background, eager to come back.
What can we tell from the kidnappers’ trash? the Dead Man asked.
I couldn’t tell a thing other than that they were no more fastidious than any other Karentine subject.
Singe sniffed each item yet again before carefully showing us her best imitation human shrug. From its look she’d practiced a lot. Ratpeople don’t move like that normally.
She said, “This all smells very cold. Very sterile. There is no soul in it. There is no magic.”
That was an interesting observation, considering what we’d seen and suffered. But I kept my thoughts to myself. Singe needed her confidence. And for all I really knew, she was right on the mark.
She might be indeed, Garrett.
I scowled his way. He was not supposed to eavesdrop on the inside of my head when I wasn’t reporting.
I am not prying into your mind. I
just know how you think. I believe that it is now time to interview Mr. Bic Gonlit. His place in all this appears to be anomalous. Though I do have several hypotheses about what could be transpiring. His testimony should tell me which of those I can reasonably discard.
“Why do I get the feeling that I’m going to do all the work, inviting him in?”
Perhaps because you are irrationally pessimistic. Your part will require very little work, Garrett. I will be the one forced to stretch himself to his limits after you have invested just a few minutes in rounding him up and bringing him here. Be sure you take your convincing stick.
“Never leave home without one.” That’s my partner. Like some kind of priest or professor, his vegetating is hard and honorable work. All my sweat and agony is barely worth a mention because what I do involves occasionally engaging a muscle.
17
Bic Gonlit had no intention of cooperating. Bic Gonlit could pick his dogs up and put them down when he was scared. Who’d have thought a little round guy with chubby, stubby legs could lead me on such a long chase?
Not me. Not before I lived it.
After several blocks I was glad the Dead Man had insisted on sending the Goddamn Parrot out to scout for me. By then it was obvious that Bic Gonlit could see in the dark. And I could not, which wasn’t a major news flash. And the people of my neighborhood aren’t rich enough to maintain adequate streetlamps.
The multicolored chicken did his part. He kept up a running lot of howling and cursing, some evidently adapted from the cant of old-time formal hunts. Highbrow and embarrassing. And, likely, everybody he woke up would assume that it was all my fault.
There’d be complaints. There’d be angry presentations. There’d be intemperate talk about chasing me out of the neighborhood. That would be followed by calmer heads appealing for reason. The older residents all know I share my place with a cranky dead Loghyr. An irritated cranky dead Loghyr can make life a lot more unpleasant for a lot of people for a long time. Why go looking for trouble?
I needed to stop playing around. I needed to put on a burst of speed that would nail the fat man.
I should’ve planned for this phase before I let everybody go home.
Just off the Arsenal High Street, a little my way from the brewery district, is a small remnant of old-time imperial TunFaire that wasn’t consumed in the Great Fire. It’s known as Prune Tastity for reasons nobody recalls anymore. Prune Tastity is a sort of museum of ancient times, all cramped-together buildings and covered alleyways barely wide enough to let the air circulate. Following the fire wider alleys and streets were mandated by law.
There is less disease in areas where the buildings are farther apart, too.
The wonder buzzard’s shrieks told me my quarry was going to try to lose us both by ducking into Prune Tastity’s tangle of covered alleyways.
I’ve been in there a few times. The place is a maze, at times rising five stories high. What Gonlit apparently didn’t realize was that I was familiar enough with Prune Tastity to know that there’re only a handful of entrances to the maze. He’d gone in the far side hoping I’d follow and get lost. If he meant to leave without running into me again he’d have to come out not far from where I stood listening to the Goddamn Parrot’s progress report.
I got myself into position with minutes to spare. I used every second to get more wind back into my lungs. I needed my breathing under control if Gonlit wasn’t going to hear me puffing for a block before he arrived.
I needn’t have worried. Bic was puffing so hard himself that he couldn’t have heard the ringing of the bell that’s supposed to announce the end of the world. His head was down, his arms and legs were pumping, and he wasn’t even making a fast walk anymore. But he was still moving. He sounded like he was going to expire if he didn’t take a break and concentrate on his breathing.
I timed my move, caught his collar as he shuffled past. He made one feeble attempt to get away, then gave up. And I mean gave up completety. He just folded up on the street and refused to do anything but gasp for air.
Ten minutes later he was still curled up like a pillbug, daring me to make him do anything he didn’t want to do. He seemed confident he knew enough about me to be sure I wouldn’t kill him for being uncooperative.
Morley is right. I need to become less predictable. And I need to develop a more savage reputation.
Because of the Dead Man’s reminder I had not left the house without my convincing stick, eighteen inches of oak with a pound of lead in its active end. It proved useful on this unfriendly night.
I tapped my new friend just below the kneecap on each leg, not hard enough to break anything. Just hard enough to turn his legs to water temporarily. I didn’t want him able to put up much of a fight when I took his precious boots.
He understood before I got the first boot off. He started yelping. He called for help. He begged for mercy. The Goddamn Parrot came down and chimed in, carrying on loudly in several obviously nonhuman voices. Not that any witnesses were likely to drop their street sense in order to jump in and rescue any of us. That was not the way of the city.
“You sonofabitch, you want to keep your pretty boots, you’d better get real cooperative real sudden.” I thumped Mr. Gonlit once atop each shoulder, briskly, not far from the sides of his neck.
Instantly, Bic began to have trouble lifting his arms.
The little man was tough in his way. He never stopped struggling — until I dragged the second boot off him. Then he went limp again. Without volunteering to make my life any easier.
“Bic, I’m gonna take your shoes home with me. Maybe give me a good shine.” It had been my intention to drag him along with me, too, but I’d just heard a troubling sound, one I’d honestly never expected to hear. But rumors had been circulating for weeks so I recognized it in plenty of time.
The sound was a whistle. Rather like the shrill of a boat-swain’s pipe. Somebody from the guard’s foot patrol wasn’t far away and he’d heard that there was trouble. He was summoning assistance.
Changing times. Relway and Block just have way too many ideas for advancing the case of law and order. Not that I mind too much when they interfere in someone else’s business. But my business is mine.
I said, “My friend and I have to run. I’ll take good care of your boots. You know where to find them. When the mood hits you, drop by the house. You can pick them up.”
I was drawing to an inside straight, betting his boots were that important to him. I would’ve talked more but now whistles from several sources were sounding closer and closer.
I headed for home. I was halfway there before I realized that the Goddamn Parrot wasn’t with me. When I got home I went straight to the Dead Man to find out why.
The manner in which you dealt with the exigencies of your situation seems well chosen. However, it did leave considerable leeway in the hands of Mr. Gonlit. It seemed prudent to keep watching eyes and a nagging voice somewhere near him. Lest he surrender to a fit of common sense and just abandon his boots.
You do have those still? Excellent. Would you summon Miss Pular? She is in the kitchen helping herself to a snack. Dean has retired for the night.
We will try to discover why the boots mean so much to our rotund nemesis.
Did you, by the by, discover how it was that he was able to see in the dark?
“’Fraid not. The question went right out of my head when I heard those whistles.”
Old Bones was wide-awake and in rare form, nothing escaping the notice of his several minds. I wasn’t going to be allowed anything less than wide-awake myself until he sucked up all the outside information he wanted.
18
Singe sniffed Gonlit’s boots. That wasn’t a task I envied her. Their fragrance had been less than appealing while I was toting them, even carried at the ends of their strings. But ratpeople don’t seem to be repelled by odors the same way we humans are. Nor are they offended by the same scents.
Hard to credit in some case
s but I’ve been around Singe long enough to know that it’s true.
The famous Gonlit boots had soles layered more than two inches thick. They had fake glass emeralds and rubies and little brass rivet heads all over them. I thought they looked pretty shabby these days. Maybe old Bic was farther down on his luck than rumor suggested. He wasn’t so big-time that popular interest tracked his every step.
At one time the boots had been white. At one time, so the story went, Bic Gonlit had dressed all in white, even unto the extremity of an all-white, wide-brimmed version of the Unorthodox missionary’s hat.
That would have been years ago, though, when Bic would have been more prosperous because he was less well known. That would have been during the days before he learned that having a signature look was no advantage in the bounty-hunting business. Your quarry would see you coming.
The boots themselves, by reputation, were enchanted. How so remained an open question. They hadn’t added anything to his getaway speed. But, on the other hand, he’d been able to see in the dark.
Maybe we’d winkle out all the facts when Bic came to reclaim his treasures.
The Dead Man and Singe communed about those boots.
I jumped suddenly. My eyes had fallen shut. I don’t know for how long. Long enough for the lamp to have gone out. Now just a single candle burned on the top shelf of the Dead Man’s memorabilia case. He and Singe weren’t troubled by the shortage of light.
Garrett.
I heard a racket up front.
One of the two nuisances had awakened me.
The Dead Man wasn’t going anywhere. I got up and stalked to the front door. The racket there persisted. I began thinking that maybe Mr. Gonlit needed a whipping, just to remind him of his manners.
I used the peephole for its dedicated purpose.
Surprise. That wasn’t Bic Gonlit trying to make my neighbors dislike me even more. That was three or four guys who had no manners to be reminded of. The loudest was none other than our beloved chief of the city Guards, Colonel Westman Block himself.