by Glen Cook
Life, I will confess, has been generous to me. Big bags of money have wandered in just when they would be most welcome. I bought a house. I have investments that generate income enough to keep the place up and to house its occupants in comfort-though that is mostly Singe's fault.
Singe is a big part of my luck.
I got no sense that the Dead Man was remotely close to awake.
Singe asked, "You're going to do what Belinda wants?" Her crisis had passed. Contractions were back. She was an amazement. Ratpeople voice boxes aren't made for colloquial human speech.
"It's Morley, Singe. I have to."
"And Tinnie? This could poison. ."
"I have to. If she can't understand, we've both been wasting our time."
"Wow."
Yeah. I was terrified. That might be the case. Tinnie turned into a different woman once she was sure she made herself the only woman in my life.
Things men associated with the dark side of a redheaded woman became exaggerated immediately.
I will stipulate that the plus side remained as marvelous as ever.
"All right."
Singe sounded like she was having trouble believing what she heard. "Since I know you will head straight for this Ice and Fire place, I'll handle Tinnie."
I started to protest, then grinned. People don't handle Tinnie. Tinnie handles people. "Wrangle away. And good luck."
"Are we likely to make money out of this, Garrett?"
"No. This time is for love."
"That is the way you think most times. Maybe we'll get lucky this time, too."
9
Singe made sure I was armed and ready for the older, less friendly TunFaire before she let me leave. "I will pray to the human gods that the Civil Guard doesn't roust you. You aren't a good liar. They'll pat you down ten seconds after they stop you."
And my record as one of the finest subjects of the Karentine Crown would not tilt the balance away from an arrest for possession of proscribed weaponry.
Singe would not let me go with anything less. And, "Even though this does not look like a situation where we will need the Dead Man, I'll try to wake him up."
"Singe, you are a treasure."
That was a wonderful straight line. I regretted it before I finished saying it. Singe, however, confounded heaven and earth by disdaining her opportunity. "I know. I have trouble imagining how you have survived without me. Get along. No! Wait! What about your other friends?"
Symptomatic of my reduced status, I asked, "What? Who?"
"Saucerhead. Winger. Playmate. Half a dozen others."
"Oh. Them." At the moment Mama Garrett's boy didn't have much of a positive attitude toward her second favorite son. I had done so little to keep in touch. "I guess you could, like quietly, let them know there's a situation. Without mentioning what happened to Morley. But I don't think we'll be asking them to get involved."
Singe just shook her head.
I needed to get out there and make my special ratgirl happy by finding the real, missing Garrett.
10
Fire and Ice wasn't hard to find. It was a well-known establishment on the frontier of Elf Town, serving the needs of the successful working man. Meaning it wasn't quite the upscale hook shop I expected but it wasn't rodent's belly nasty, either. It was a place where shopkeepers and skilled tradesmen could relax of an evening. A throwback kind of place, actually, because it didn't make its money on volume, nor entirely on marketing its keystone service.
I expect the relaxed atmosphere was one way the house competed for scarce disposable income-much of which, these days, ends up in TunFaire's gaudy theaters.
Play-going was all the rage, in part because a man could take his wife. And the wives knew that.
I gave my name at the door. It was no shibboleth. I tried Belinda's.
There was the magic.
A veteran brunette-absolutely a heartbreaker not long ago-turned up quickly. She had something special going. I was tempted to fail to remember that I was taken.
"You came from Miss Contague?"
"She asked me to keep watch on your injured guest."
She considered my claim. She considered me. She consulted some recollection. She decided that I was the real thing, though she was not prepared to be impressed. My feelings were bruised. I was willing to be impressed by her. And I was as fine a specimen of former Marine as you're likely to find still vertical. I had my dings and scars but they just let you know that I was the genuine article.
"All right. Come with me." After a glare that dared me to even think about running with that.
We passed through the fancy public lounge works, entirely uninhabited at the moment. Potential witnesses had been cleared out. In the back, where delicacies comestible and sensual got prepared, I spied several toothsome lasses enjoying a light repast and steadfastly taking no interest whatsoever in anyone passing through. Two appeared to be full-blood elf girls. The others were nearly as gorgeous.
"Stop slobbering on the carpet."
"Sorry. I don't get out much anymore."
"Here's a suggestion. Keep your hands to yourself while you're here." Then she snorted. She was one of those people who can't keep their laughter out of their noses. It took me a few seconds to get the joke.
"I'm taken," I said stiffly.
"Most of our clients are." We came to a narrow, steep back stair.
"I'm Garrett," I said, though my name had failed to awe anyone yet.
"I know. I've heard of you. I'm aware of your reputation."
"Damn! I didn't know I had one. It's probably all lies and exaggerations. Who are you?"
"You can call me Miss Tea. If I find out that you're tolerable, I'll let you call me Mike."
"Mike?" One of those? Here? "I had a brother we called Mikey."
"For Michel." That was a hard "ch." "He didn't come back?"
"No. It broke my mother's heart." She gave up. She'd already lost my father and hers, and some brothers, to the terrible beast of war.
Mike turned a little less hard-ass. Very little. Like almost every human in Karenta she shared the experience. "You were luckier."
"I was. Most of me made it home."
She looked me straight in the eye. "And now you're stalling so I'll go up the steps first. So you can be behind me and watch my ass."
"That hadn't actually occurred to me, but now that you mention it, sure, I'll be a gentleman and let you to go first."
"Living up to expectations so far. Enjoy the show. It's the best you'll get around here."
Did I threaten her somehow? Was she a secret agent of the redheaded Tate? "I'll do that. It's a sin to ignore what the gods generously set before us."
"And me without my work boots." She started up the stairs and laughed mockingly as she went. And, hard as she might have tried, she could not help putting a touch of flounce in her step. "And you said you were taken. Hypocrite."
"Are you my conscience?" I was a tad flustered and confused. So I did try to lean back and enjoy what the gods set before me.
I began to suspect that Misty was not entirely disinclined to have her assets appreciated. And that she considered her behind to be the best of those. And I thought she might be right, seen from where I was standing.
11
They had Morley stashed in a second-floor bedroom at the back of the house. I stuck my head in long enough to make sure he was breathing. He was lying on his back in a big, comfortable bed. He had bandages all over. He was having trouble breathing. A punctured lung?
Two house operatives were there with him, looking decidedly rough, as though standing a deathwatch over their one true love.
I wanted to hop in and give my dark elf buddy a good swift kick. He was out of it, trying to die, and still he had women swooning.
"What are you doing?" my guide demanded when I didn't rush right in.
"Scouting ways somebody might use to come after him. In case the folks who put the holes in him want to add to his collection."
Madam Mike didn't follow my reasoning but indulged me.
There were three ways to get to Morley. Up the front stairs the clients used. Up the back stairs from the kitchen, the way I came. Up the outside of the building, then through a window. That would require a small, skinny assassin. The window would open only six inches.
For the villain with gaudier ambitions there was the time-honored option of burning the house with Morley inside it.
While I examined the window my guide evicted Morley's caretakers. She promised them they could handle communications between the room and the world.
After they left, I asked, "How old are those two?" They seemed a little fresh to be in the life.
"DeeDee is twenty-nine. She has some elf in her. She's just gotten to the point where we can't auction her virginity. Her daughter Hellbore is sixteen."
"Hellbore?"
"Really."
Both were legal, then. I couldn't imagine the older one having weathered the vicissitudes of her career so well.
I said, "I'll settle here. If you have something like a field cot, I'd never have to leave."
"That would be useful. Business has been slow. I don't want what clientele we do get scared off by you."
"By me? Come on!"
"You're so straight-arrow a blind man can see it. They'd think you were spying for their wives. Or you were a Runner collecting stuff for the Unpublished Committee's files."
The Unpublished Committee for Royal Security were the secret police. "I'll be good. I'll stay in here with my boy, making my list and checking it twice. Been a pleasure meeting you, Misty."
Flirty brown eyes flashed. "Not Misty, dolt! Miss Tea. As in the capital letter. For Teagarden."
I gave her my special raised eyebrow, the one that gets the nuns salivating. Miss T came close to slamming the door as she left.
I had been out of circulation too long. I needed to sharpen my tools. Unless she was one of those lesbian types. That would explain her natural resistance.
I paced. I watched the world outside the window. I studied Morley and felt bad for him. I paced some more; then I inventoried chamber pots, bedpans, pitcher of water and bowl. Then a second pitcher and bowl on a small table in a corner, accompanied by a bar of soap and a stack of towels.
Of course there would be towels and soap. Necessary to the trade in an establishment like this.
I decided to ask for a cup or mug so I wouldn't have to drink straight from the pitcher, using a ladle.
The door opened after a perfunctory knock. DeeDee and Hellbore lugged in a mildewed cot. They dumped that, made sure I hadn't let Morley die while they were gone.
Miss T followed, pushing a small cart. "Food. Drink. Other stuff you'll need. Crush or DeeDee will come around regular. They'll bring whatever you need brought and take away whatever you need taken."
"Crush?"
DeeDee said, "She don't like her real name."
Hellbore/Crush, a foot shorter and ten stone lighter than me, gave me a look that asked if I wanted to make something of that.
"All right." I tried to get DeeDee to chat some. She had a marvelous, breathy way of talking.
Miss T said, "And you a bespoke man."
These women could not be fooled or manipulated. Unless you were Morley Dotes and you were unconscious. Then they would be your slaves.
Oh, well. They were too weird, anyway. The mother was mildly inclined to flirt and had a silly streak. Crush had the cynical hard-eye of a twenty-year veteran of the life.
Miss T asked, "What were you figuring on doing while you wait for something to happen?"
"I'll catch up on my sleep. And maybe spend some time worrying about what my woman will say when I come wandering home."
"Are you a reader? We have a few books. Mostly for decoration. Ask Crush. She's read them all. She might recommend something."
I looked at Crush, who did an outstanding bored teenager's "whatever" shrug. "Thank you, Crush." Meantime, DeeDee gave me a suggestive look. The new, improved, extra-mature me thought that might be a marvelous pastime, especially if the excellent Miss T would join us, but then I'd still have to find something to do the other twenty-three and a half hours of the day. And somebody would put a bug in Tinnie's ear before I got my shoes off. So I stuck to, "Yes, I can read. This would be an excellent time to broaden my mind. So if Crush will bring me something, I'll be happy."
At that moment I was still thinking in terms of minutes, hours, and, at desperate most, a couple of days.
Miss T herded the talent out of the room. I watched them go, wondering if they weren't running a scam. The purported mother not only acted younger, she looked it.
Miss T said, "My obligation to the Contagues leaves me no choice but to give you whatever you want. Indulge me. Be reasonable. And, really, stay out of sight."
I blew her a kiss.
She gently slammed the door.
It set my cot up against it.
As long as I was sleeping, loafing, or reading, any intruder would have to knock it over to get in.
12
Waiting for Morley to get better got really, really boring really, really fast. Being Tinnie Tate's boy toy had stripped me of my knack for enduring endless do-nothing.
Tinnie was not patient. She had rubbed off.
Crush's taste in reading was unusual. The first thing she brought me was a collection of plays written by Jon Salvation, including the still running Rausta, Queen of the Demenenes, in which Tinnie had had a featured role when the play first went on in Max Weider's World Theater.
"You're a fan?"
"He tells wonderful stories."
The wildest were the ones he made up about himself. "I know him."
"He's a friend of yours?"
"No. He comes with a woman named Winger who is my friend." Sort of. When temptation doesn't get in the way.
"Wow. I'd like to meet him."
Suddenly, the girl had a new attitude. I stifled a cynical smile. "Maybe someday. Once this is done." I noted that Crush wasn't interested in Morley when her mother wasn't there. I asked, "Did you know Morley before they brought him here?"
"Not me. DeeDee did. I think."
She called her mother DeeDee.
"Is there anything to read besides plays?" I wondered who was putting those out there, and how. I'd had a scheme, once, but it had involved using hundreds of ratpeople to make copies.
Kip Prose could, probably, tell me how it was done. If he wasn't responsible.
"There are some history scrolls. Tedious stuff about the olden times. Somebody left them when he couldn't pay his tab. Mike never got around to selling them." The kid leaned closer, whispered, "She gets airs sometimes, she does. Gets above herself."
All interesting. Grist for the mill. Me soaking stuff up, getting the old ear back.
When I worked up a good case of cabin fever, I tamed it by rolling the sheet back off my friend.
Morley had suffered eight deep stab wounds. He had an additional dozen cuts. And he had a fine collection of bruises and abrasions from having been kicked, clubbed, and dragged.
I hoped that Belinda would have her ear to the ground listening for the brag of the sort of idiot who can't help telling somebody what he did.
People tell me I think too much. Most of the time things are exactly what they seem. Trying to make more out of them is a mug's game.
I say that when you stop believing in weird conspiracies that involve scores of people who never break faith, you're fully ripe for the weird to come get you.
I was thinking that kind of stuff and, alternately, trying to dismiss it or get it to make some kind of sense if I entered Morley into the equation. I couldn't get anything rational to fall together.
There was nothing to do but wait on the man himself.
13
Somebody shoved against the door to the room so hard that the impact against my cot wakened me.
I got my feet under me. I stood the cot up against the wall. I was
not in a good temper when I opened that door.
Miss T was my antagonist. I blurted, "What the hell? This isn't any time when a rational being. ."
I sniffed. Something smelled odd.
"Stuff it, Garrett."
Miss T had not come alone. That was Belinda Contague.
The smell came from behind me. I glanced at the window. It was dark outside, except for a three-quarters moon. "What the hell?"
One curtain bottom had been pushed a foot aside. Enough for me to see the moon in a cloudless sky. The window was up about three inches. I had left the curtains closed and the window shut.
The smell came from outside.
I forgot about the rude folks in the hall. Something more sinister had been going on. I might ought to be grateful that they had wakened me.
I went to the window. It would not open enough for me to lean out. Every shadow across the street, though, felt like it was hiding something rotten.
I said, "I'm way off my game. I might not be the man for this job, Belinda. Let me ask, less irritably, what's the occasion?"
Belinda took in the situation with the window. "I brought a healer." She and Miss T moved aside.
A small, well-rounded, bald-headed man passed between them. He sniffed the air. "I hope that's not your patient."
The healer wore dull black clothing in a style declared defunct a hundred fifty years ago. Deservedly. Clotheshorse Morley should have shrunk away even in a coma.
The healer belonged to a cult called the Children of the Light. Of the Dying Light. A prime tenet was no sexual conduct. They were militant pacifists, too-the kind willing to pound the snot out of you if you tried to claim that war might actually solve something. They were born-again do-gooders, as well, but so smugly self-righteous that most people loathed them. They ran soup kitchens. They ran shelters. They ran free clinics. They had made a bid for control of TunFaire's grand, totally corrupt charity hospital, the Bledsoe. They did a lot of good for a lot of people. Their healers were minor magic users. The Hill turned a blind eye to their unlicensed operations because they confined themselves to charity work.