Gilded Latten Bones gp-13

by Glen Cook

  You are correct. To that point. But people can change. When they do, it is usually for the worse.

  "I take it you haven't had much luck with Morley."

  Very little. He is remarkably closed. If he were an animal I might think he was hibernating. Inasmuch as he is intelligent I have to believe that something was done to keep him untouchable.

  "He might never come back?"

  He will be back. I promise. As the challenge grows bigger I become more determined. I will build him a path of escape. Henceforth, do not be startled if I reexamine every second of your recollections of your time together before you came here.

  Clever Garrett got it in one. Morley had started to wake up. Then he had gone away. "Belinda's healer. We need to find him."

  Yes. Though I was thinking about what tried to get in through the window.

  "Maybe he just decided to dig a hole and pull it in after him."

  That would not be in character. Enough. Do your chores. I have a visitor arriving momentarily. She is not comfortable in your presence.

  That had to be his pet priestess, Penny Dreadful. He had taken Penny under his intellectual wing when she was little more than a toddler. He had mentored her ever since.

  I considered lying back in the shadows at the foot of the stairs just to get a look but thought better of it. I was upstairs being domestic when Penny arrived.

  35

  I was still upstairs, taking a nap. Singe invited herself into my room. She poked me with a stiffened finger. Impossible! It couldn't be! Not across species as divergent as redheads and artificially intelligent rats.

  "Ouch! Once was enough."

  "Drag your lazy ass out and go downstairs. People are waiting. Their time is valuable, too. Look at this mess. You didn't do anything."

  "I made the bed."

  She snorted derisively.

  "And I considered the possibility of changing the lock on the front door," I grumped, sourly enough for her to take me serious for a second. "That might get me some peace."

  "I despair of seeing you grow mature and responsible."

  "I don't. It isn't on my agenda."

  "Be that as it may, you need to go downstairs. Otherwise, those people will drink all the beer and eat everything in the pantry."

  "A blatant provocation of my natural inclination toward frugality."

  "The correct word is parsimony, but if you prefer the illusion of thrift, indulge."

  I was out of practice. I had to settle for being proud of me because I did not let my frustration overcome my self-control. I swung my feet off my bed, planted them firmly on the floor. "Look at me. I'm on my way. Now would be a good time for you to get yourself a head start."

  Clever Singe realized this was not the best time for further nagging. Maybe she got private advice from the Dead Man. She scooted out.

  I saw Dean leave the kitchen with refreshments as I descended the stairs. He staggered under the weight of the provisions. An absence of cups, mugs, plates, milk, and sugar bowls suggested that this was not his first run. The natural parsimony that Singe had mentioned kicked in-as she had intended.

  A dull roar of conversation came from the Dead Man's room.

  I followed Dean, wondering if I hadn't made some mad, long-term mistake when I took Singe in.

  The Dead Man's room was wall to wall with bodies and faces. There was Saucerhead Tharpe, showing a touch of gray, with an extra layer of muscle around his midriff. There was Singe's brother Pound Humility, better known as John Stretch, gaudy in the latest ratman style. Jon Salvation was there, looking cocky and prosperous. Why the hell was he here? Looking for an angle for a new play? Sarge, one of Morley's oldest henchmen, stood alone, vaguely confused. Playmate looked awful. He had lost a hundred pounds. He was as gaunt as a man dying of starvation.

  There were others, in disguise, maybe to avoid being identified by watchers outside.

  Belinda had done a creditable job of turning herself into a slim, handsome dandy with a dark dash of a mustache, reminding me of the chap squirreled away in my old office.

  General Westman Block looked like a wino who had wandered in unnoticed while the door was open. He looked confused. He was not well-known but everyone here had run into him before. No one seemed troubled.

  There were people I did not recognize. I took it on faith that the Dead Man needed them.

  I looked for a special one with red hair and came up with a count one short. Singe saw me checking. "I sent word. Maybe she'll come later."

  I got no chance to respond. My own respite from recognition ended. People swarmed me. Saucerhead said, "Man, I didn't hardly know you, all dressed weird, and shit."

  Jon Salvation stroked his pointy little beard, which wasn't the same color as his hair, and said something about me having adapted my fashion flare to something showing a distinct feminine influence.

  A third kind soul mentioned that I was developing a pot. Someone else said, "That happens when you don't got to work for a living no more."

  To which Saucerhead responded, "Garrett never did do no more work than it took to keep from starving. He just had a run of luck." Stated with a touch of envy. Like me, Tharpe worked as little as possible but his luck never shined. Too often he had nothing more than the clothes on his back.

  36

  Amongst those people who stayed quiet and didn't move much were Sarge and Playmate. A good look at Play left me shocked. Not only had the man lost a huge amount of weight, he stooped to where he was no taller than me. He looked like he had to deal with bad chronic pain.

  He does. Had I been aware of his situation I would have made something good happen for him, long ago. Without you here these people never visit. I remain unaware of what is happening in their lives. On a positive note, I have gotten Miss Contague to send for the healer who worked on Mr. Dotes.

  "Clever. Two birds."

  Probably just one. Playmate's cancer appears to be advanced.

  I could say nothing more out loud.

  I shook hands, slapped backs, exchanged hugs. I asked Jon Salvation where his shark woman was. He astonished me by reporting, "I don't think she was invited."

  "You came anyway?" I blurted.

  "I do things like that these days. You'll find me more independent than the Remora you remember." He had been called the Remora because he swam in the slipstream of his girlfriend, Winger, betraying no personality of his own. "I expect she'll turn up anyway. She'll be sure the lack of an invite was an oversight."

  I looked over at Singe. She was doing a credible job of being the lady of the house, seeing to our guests while being smoothly sociable. Even the prejudiced were unable to consider her as just a ratwoman.

  Neither Belinda in disguise nor General Block in disguise did any socializing. With the exception of brief exchanges with John Stretch, neither spoke to anyone.

  The more I looked around the bigger the crowd seemed to be. I kept spotting people I didn't know. I saw John Stretch associates helping Dean with the refreshments. I saw people I did know but would not expect at a let's-decide-what-we'll-do party themed round Morley Dotes.

  Singe's office was open to the crowd, too. People drifted back and forth in search of conversation. Morley himself had been declared off-limits. Three of John Stretch's worst villains were in there and had permission to hurt people who wouldn't take a hint.

  There were exceptions, one-on-one and closely watched. Sarge. Saucerhead. Belinda. Me.

  Once I lost my appeal to the mob, Belinda and the General drifted closer. Block shook my hand, told me I was looking good, then said how wonderful it was that I was showing some civic interest again. I kept a straight face and did not ask when he thought that I ever demonstrated any civic mindedness. He asked, "Can we slip into your kitchen for a second? This isn't private enough."

  "How can I say no?" Though there wouldn't be much privacy back there, either, what with Dean and his ratfolk assistants underfoot.

  This may be important. Do not waste time fenc
ing, Garrett. I sense the imminent arrival of someone who may be Miss Contague's healer. He is very closed. Also, the population of loafers has begun to grow out on Macunado Street.

  We stepped into the kitchen, conveniently as Dean and his helpers trained out with trays that looked like each ratman was carrying his own weight in drinks and treats.

  I began to suffer grim thoughts about how the Dead Man better not be only plundering minds, he had best be bringing the right people together to talk about what needed doing. And he had better be putting the right ideas into the right minds while he was at it. Because this was going to bankrupt me if it went on for long.

  I drew a mug, asked, "Fill you up?" Headshakes. I settled at the overloaded table. "Talk to me."

  The General seemed disappointed.

  He had changed. The weary but determined middle-aged functionary had become a worn-out elder bureaucrat.

  "Garrett, I don't know what to say. I hear you've changed. I'm told you've turned into a model subject of the Karentine Crown."

  "I always was."

  "Pardon me? You were always a stubborn, obstructionist asshole. You had no interest whatsoever in forwarding the welfare of the commonality."

  What the hell? "You mean I wasn't excited about 'forwarding' the cause once Deal Relway defined it for me."

  Do not argue. Accept. From his viewpoint he is stating one hundred percent truth.

  Meaning he got to define the welfare of the commonality. "I love you, too."

  No two people see everything the same. You know that. At the moment it is important that we not antagonize our allies simply for the pleasure of being difficult.

  Hang on. Even my partner thinks I refuse to cooperate with the tin whistles, and hold back information, just to tweak them?

  "Garrett? You here?" the General asked. "Or have you died and gone to hell?"

  "I'm sorry. I was in the throes of what might have been a grand epiphany." On the other hand, it might have been breakfast backing up. "What do you need?"

  "We Guardsmen have a morale problem that is becoming a moral problem."

  "I hope that's not contagious."

  "Exactly. All the good we've done could start to unravel if this mess keeps on the way it has been."

  "You lost me."

  "Will you. .?" He glared in exasperation.

  "Ever since we met you've accused me of stonewalling or deliberately holding things up. You were right. When it was in the interest of my client. Maybe one time in ten. I knew why you were barking, then. This time I don't. All I'm doing is protecting a friend who came within a frog's feather of getting himself stabbed to death. In case somebody tries to finish the job. I've been told by half the people here and some who aren't that this is all I'm allowed to do. It's all I intend to do. And at least one woman doesn't want me doing that much."

  "Touchy."

  "Damned straight."

  "Why do you have all these people here, then?"

  "I don't. I didn't invite them. Did you get an invitation from me?"

  "No. But this is your house."

  "It's a place where I'm staying because I thought Morley would be safer here than anywhere else."

  He gave me a dubious look.

  "The first I knew about this was just a while ago when Singe woke me up from a perfectly beautiful nap and told me to come help."

  "You always blow a creditable cloud of smoke."

  "Again, what do you want?"

  "We've been warned off this case."

  "You're going to let it slide? You lost people."

  "Garrett, can the shit. For the rest of us this isn't about Morley Dotes. About him and his problems I don't much care."

  "Tell him that."

  "Gladly. Is he up for an interview?"

  "He's in a coma."

  "Too bad. But his testimony isn't critical. What is critical would be our incorruptibility. When we started out Deal and I were promised that no one would be above the law. Not even the Royal Family. Prince Rupert stood behind us when we stepped on sensitive toes. But this time he's telling us to back off. We have to let it go. The same word has gone out to the Syndicate."

  "Who has the drag to bully the Crown Prince?"

  "Exactly. We mean to find out."

  "You're not going to back off?"

  "We're going to be less obviously vigorous. Unobtrusive. But the more pressure we get the more we'll dig. Same pertains for the Syndicate, I suspect. You push the Contagues, they push back."

  "You think dread of an explosion in production of dead bodies might be why the Prince wants to stand down?"

  "No. I think somebody on the Hill, somebody who can make even Rupert shit his knickers, wants the thing left alone. I'll even go so far as to guess that the Hill as a whole wants it left alone."

  "Because the villains might be some of them?"

  "In part. But more because if we poke our noses in very far we're likely to turn up all sorts of things they don't want the public to know."

  I poured myself some tea. Dean was outside the kitchen door telling me to hurry up. He had to get back to work.

  I raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Block said, "I'll stipulate that most Hill folk are as distressed by the warehouse as the rest of us. But they want to handle it themselves."

  "So let them."

  "And next time somebody wants to shut the Guard out? Next time somebody wants to handle justice privately?"

  Block had a fierce case of the same disease that ruled Relway. Most of the time it did more good than bad.

  "All I can do is wish you luck. I'll be right here babysitting."

  He didn't believe a word.

  Sometimes there's no point trying to communicate with some people. They live everything inside their heads. Outside things that don't fit get ignored.

  Westman Block was a good man. I liked him. But he could frustrate me like almost no one else but Tinnie.

  "Come on in, Dean."

  Dean burst in and got cracking. He was determined to render me destitute before the sun went down.

  37

  Belinda isolated me, in with Morley, amongst the deaf ratmen. "They insist that we back off. That we have to let this alone."

  "They? We?"

  "Don't play word games."

  "I'm not. You know what I mean. Nobody has told me not to do anything. And the only we I'm part of is me and Morley."

  "Then I'd have to ask why most everyone you know by name is here. I even saw that poisoner, Kolda, a minute ago."

  "He's not a poisoner." Distracted. "I don't know why you're all here. I had nothing to do with that. Like I told the General."

  She didn't believe me either. Someday I'll make a huge score because nobody will take me at face value. I could loot the Royal Mint, then run around yelling about how it was me that done it.

  I did know what was going on. Singe and the Dead Man had cooked a plan to investigate out of my house. They would use people we had worked with in the past. I found it disconcerting that they weren't troubled by a Hill interest potent enough to make Prince Rupert back off. Old Bones must have seen a way to get away with defying that which must not be defied.

  This was shaping up to be what I'd had in mind when I'd visited with the Windwalker. Who was not around today.

  I asked, "Is that healer ever going to come?"

  "Are you kidding? After what I paid him before?"

  "And he isn't worried about my friend in the other room?"

  "He doesn't know. I told him you spilled the medicine. That we'll want more. But first he has to take another look at Morley. I'm pretty sure there's something more wrong than what he thought before."

  "And if he's a villain?"

  "We'll know that straight off, won't we?"

  We contemplated our mutual friend. Morley looked as peaceful as a man in a coffin.

  I kept wondering why it was taking the healer so long to show.

  He is out there. All the traffic makes him nervous. He does not l
ike that but cannot shake his greed. He will come into the trap eventually.

  My impatience faded. I just worried about Morley. Till my mind wandered off to Factory Slide.

  An unexpected voice asked, "Garrett, are you all right?"

  I looked up. "Gilbey?" Manville Gilbey and his recently acquired wife, Heather, were framed in the doorway. Gilbey was the number-two man in the Weider brewing empire. He seemed concerned. "I'm all right."

  "We haven't seen you at the brewery lately. When I heard about your open house I thought we'd stop by and see what your situation is."

  "It's marginal despair." I glanced at Morley. "What do you need to know?"

  "Nothing, now. We've been circulating long enough to get a flavor. Max will stand behind you."

  Of course, because Max Weider didn't like folks involved in illegal experimental sorcery. Several of his family were murdered by shape-shifting things created in abandoned beer vats. Max wouldn't mind exterminating the whole tribe of sorcerers.

  Heather Gilbey was usually more forthcoming and social, naturally, than Manville, but today she just smiled and kept her mouth shut.

  Gilbey told me, "Take care doing what you need to do, Garrett. We value you." He eyed Morley, then the ratmen with illegal weaponry. He knew Morley. Morley's restaurant was across from Max Weider's World Theater, where Heather was manager.

  Heather gave me a slight smile before she stepped out of sight. I liked her fine but she was high on Tinnie's list. Tinnie had acted in several Jon Salvation plays. She had gotten a big head. A huge head. Heather wasted no time letting her know that her talents might be better appreciated elsewhere, a fierce stroke since the World is the only theater where female actresses are not expected to have other commerce with audience members.

  Tinnie is not accustomed to failure and has almost no capacity for accepting criticism.

  38

  I had some quiet time with my friend, then, sharing the space with John Stretch's goons. I stared hard, willing Morley to come back.

  Belinda stepped in. "No change?"