by Glen Cook
Doris and Marsha Roze are relatives of his. Somehow. They’re part giant, part troll, part other stuff. They stand twelve feet tall and can bring down small buildings with a single pound. Too bad they weren’t along a few minutes ago.
“Why not? There must be another ten thousand streets that could use a good dusting.” It’s rare as frog fangs to see Morley Dotes all dirty and spiffed up in rags. “I wish I could preserve this vision for posterity.”
“I’ll put on old clothes next time. Get back to me on this.”
He was upset. I wasn’t sure why. You can’t win them all.
“I’ll do that. Good luck tonight.”
10
“What happened?” Dean demanded as he let me into the house.
“Somebody tried to kill me.”
He grunted, unimpressed.
“You should see the other guy.”
He grunted again. He has no respect for my way of life, though it keeps him full of bread and beans.
“Not a scratch on him. Even though I had Morley and six of his guys there lending a hand. We would’ve turned it around, though, if the Watch hadn’t shown up.”
That was for Singe’s benefit. She’d come to the kitchen to find out what was up. She had a kitten in her paws, petting it. The baby cat didn’t mind the incongruity.
I asked, “Think you could pick up a day-old trail using this?” I tossed her the green egg.
“Gak! Underwater. What was it? A bear or an ogre?”
Singe has a talent.
Ratpeople are blessed with an exceptional sense of smell. Some can embarrass a bloodhound. Singe stands out of that crowd.
As noted, she’s a genius. For a ratwoman. And has more courage than ten other ratpeople put together. Excluding only her brother.
Even the most daring and wicked ratfolk get scared around humans. The sorcerers who created them saw no need to take that timidity out.
“He was human. From one of the far fringes of the species.”
“What did he do?”
“He tried to kill me. With an old-fashioned sling. Using that egg for ammunition.”
“Bathing would not appear to be one of his human vices.”
I told Dean, “That tongue gets more wicked every day.”
Dean scowled. He can’t shed all his prejudices. Singe bounced, though, pleased by the compliment. She has one great character flaw. She tries hard to be human.
She’s smart enough to know they’ll never let her be.
“Why a day-old trail?”
“I don’t have time today. I have Chodo’s birthday party to do.”
“Who are you taking? Tinnie?”
“Nobody.”
“Can I go?”
“No. I’m not taking anybody. It could get ugly fast. I don’t want anybody getting hurt.” Not to mention that she wouldn’t be welcome. Virulent prejudice can be ignored only at great peril. Particularly by persons of goodwill.
Singe knows that on the practical and emotional levels. She doesn’t let on when she gets her feelings hurt. She thinks that by revealing her feelings, she’d belittle my effort to save her some pain.
I know. But it works for us.
I asked, “Anything stirring on the undead front?”
If the Dead Man hates any one thing enough to almost let it get his blood pumping, it’s being lumped with the undead. Vampires, zombies, and whatnot are all predators. He insists that he isn’t.
“Not a sign,” Dean said. “Looks like he’s down for a while this time.”
That wasn’t good news. I could use some advice. Like maybe the top ten ways of surviving Chodo’s shindig, barring the obvious: Don’t show up.
When you have no choice about hiking the valley of the shadow, you need to brainstorm ways to cover your ass. I got busy.
I had options. I had connections. Some might even be useful.
Singe’s brother, for example.
I recalled a conversation with Morley about the truth of what I mean to Belinda Contague. Not the business meaning. Not the former-lover meaning, nor the outright-fear meaning. The symbolic or fetishist meaning to the secret, frightened little girl hidden way down deep inside Miss Belinda. The little girl who, Morley believed, wanted me for the daddy she hadn’t had when she was coming up because her real daddy was Chodo Contague, hardly a paragon as a parent.
I’ve rescued the woman, one way or another, from the deepest shit several times. Morley says she’s chosen me as the bellwether of her personal fortunes because of that. That she’ll never let me be hurt because the little girl needs Daddy Garrett out there in case another terror closes in.
“Singe. I’ve got an idea. Maybe a dumb one. Come in the office and help me brainstorm.”
“What’s up?” she asked, hissing like a sack of rattlers as she forced the contraction.
“You think your brother might help us with something? If we offer him an appropriate fee? I know! I know! But you had the same mother. Humans figure that makes him your brother.”
John Stretch-real name, Pound Humility-is the boss of the ratpeople in my part of TunFaire. He’s top rat partly thanks to me. He’s Singe’s half brother from an earlier litter. They have a stronger relationship than most related ratfolk. He tried to rescue her from my clutches one time. She spanked him verbally and told him to go the hell away-she was happy right where she was.
“I do not know. He suspects that you took advantage of him last time.”
“I understand a pride problem. You know better than me if we can do business.”
“What do you want him to do?”
“This party tonight. He could help me with it. If he really talks to regular rats.”
Singe considered. We both knew John Stretch could get inside the minds of regular rats and use them as spies. He had admitted it in front of us.
“You want him to go over to the place where Chodo Contague’s birthday party is going to happen.”
“Yes.” But now my idea was growing up. “If we could hide him close by, he could stay on the job right through the party and warn me so there wouldn’t be any ugly surprises.”
“You might not be able to meet his price.”
“I’m not hurting for cash.”
“He will not ask for cash.” I groaned. “A favor for a favor.”
“What use can you be to a ratman gangster?” A human agent could be very useful to a rat king who knew what he wanted.
“You want me to find him? You do not have a lot of time.”
In fact, it was too late. Almost certainly. Nevertheless, “See what you can do.”
Singe was ready to go in minutes. I told her, “Leave the kitten. It won’t be welcome where you’re headed.”
She returned the critter to the bucket. “They grow on you.”
“So do lice. Don’t get too attached. They aren’t staying.”
I let Singe out right into a major pixie squabble. Those bugs are worse than sparrows. But they’re so constant about it that I don’t much notice anymore.
I told them, “I want to talk to Shakespear and Melondie Kadare, please.” Polite helps a little. Sometimes. Unpredictably. About as often as it does with big people.
If I couldn’t get ratpeople help, I might enlist some pixies. Which would be cheaper, anyway, since helping me is how they’re supposed to pay their rent.
Melondie Kadare came out, a gorgeous specimen of pixie womanhood. Sadly, pixies live fast. Melondie will hit middle age in about six months. She was a typically obnoxious adolescent when I met her, a month ago. Now she was a woman of standing in her nest.
She piped, “Shakespear isn’t here anymore, Garrett. He married a Daletripses. He decided to join her nest.”
Pixie clusters are strongly matrilineal. Most times the boys follow the girls.
“Congratulations. I guess. That’s an important connection.” My pixies are newcomers to TunFaire. Refugees. The Daletripses cluster is an old line, as local pixie tribes go. A marital alliance would ser
ve my tenants well. “Though I thought that you and he…”
“Let’s not talk about that. I have a husband of my own now. And he don’t like hearing about the good old days.”
“I’m sorry. If that’s the appropriate sentiment.”
“Not to worry. He’s a little stupid, a lot lazy, and way too jealous, but I’ll whip him into shape.”
Marriage doesn’t take the same form with pixies. Passion is unimportant. Forging alliances and preserving estates are. Passion gets indulged on the side. In some clusters a girl isn’t marriage material unless she’s demonstrated her fertility with several merrybegots.
“I want to know if I can get some help with a case.”
“Hey! We’ve got to pay the rent, don’t we?”
“It might be dangerous.”
“Talk to me, Garrett.”
I told my story.
“So you have a history with the Contagues.”
“More than one.”
“Better tell me about that, then. It could have an impact on how decisions are made at the head table.”
Belinda wouldn’t let sentiment hamstring business decisions. She was harder than her father. And Chodo seldom let emotion get in the way.
“This hall, Garrett. Where this will happen. Is it far out of our territory?”
“You know where the Bledsoe is? The charity hospital? That whole area was all government buildings in olden times. When the Empire was in charge. The hall is over there. It was something else before they turned it into a war memorial. They were more frugal in the old days.”
“Are there any pixies around there? Or anybody else who might think we’re trespassing?”
TunFaire is a hundred cities piled onto the same hapless patch of dirt, a different one for every race. Some peoples are so different, their TunFaires scarcely intersect. More often, they do, and only us big, numerous types don’t need to invest in getting along. We can be as awful as we want to be. And usually are.
“I don’t know. I only just found out that the shindig is moving there from Morley’s place. I haven’t been in that part of town since somebody got me committed to the crazy ward at the Bledsoe.”
“That must’ve been an adventure. How’d you lie your way out? Convince them you were sane?”
“I convinced them I was so crazy they didn’t want me there.”
“There isn’t much time. You’ll have to take us with you when you go. Keeping us out of sight.”
That wouldn’t work. I couldn’t walk for miles lugging a carpetbag full of squabbling pixies.
Melondie read my mind. So to speak. “Don’t be such a cheap-ass, Garrett. Hire a coach. We can get there unseen. And you can show up without looking like a refugee yourself.” Everybody nags me about the way I dress. Nobody believes me if I poor-mouth. They all think I’m rich. Just because I have those points in the three-wheel factory.
Melondie’s idea was sound. “Can somebody fly a note to Playmate’s stable?” My friend Playmate doesn’t have a coach of his own, but he can come up with one at a moment’s notice, usually. And I like to give my business to friends. Plus, as a bonus, Playmate is about nine feet tall and handy to have around when a debate turns physical.
“I suppose.” She wasn’t enthusiastic. Long-distance flights are risky for pixies. Too many things out there think they look like food.
“Excellent. I’ll write one up and we can get the circus moving.”
I spied Singe returning. A couple human kids were giving her a hard time. I didn’t go chase them. She wouldn’t like that. She wants to fight her own battles.
Melondie had none of my problems. She whistled into the gap her tribe uses to get in and out of my walls. A half dozen adolescent bugs zipped out and hummed down the street. They got behind the human kids’ heads and started tormenting them.
Singe arrived. “John Stretch says he will be thrilled to help the great Garrett with a case. He insists that he bring his own rats instead of relying on those that will be in place already, though.”
“Fine. I’m sending a note to Playmate to bring a coach.”
“You changed your mind!”
“Don’t go getting all excited. You’ll stay inside it. You’ll help John Stretch run his game.”
11
Playmate brought a huge mahogany coach. It had to belong to somebody from way up the food chain. “This isn’t going to be missed, is it?”
“Not unless we don’t let it get back before the end of the week.” Playmate jumped down to help load. “I’m more worried about getting blood all over it. Or leaving a corpse inside.”
“That wasn’t my fault. You need to take a more positive attitude.”
“Familiarity with the Garrett experience suggests that guarded pessimism is the safer approach.”
Playmate is a huge black man who looms even huger than he is.
He’s bigger than me, stronger than me, and almost as handsome. His big shortcoming is that he’s a wannabe preacher who isn’t as mean as he looks. Who isn’t really nine feet tall. But seven feet wouldn’t be out of the question.
“You’re sure?” I could see where a crest had been removed from the coach door. “I don’t want some storm warden stomping me because his coach isn’t there when he decides to go for a ride.”
“Want me to take it back?”
“That’s all right. I was just checking. What’s this?” A goat cart stopped behind the coach. No goat was employed in its locomotion, though. A ratman had put himself into the traces. Singe’s brother. With a load of wooden cages filled with large, brown, unhappy rats. “Am here,” John Stretch said. His Karentine wasn’t as polished as his sister’s.
“Let’s get those critters into the coach, then.”
“Where is Singe?”
“Taking her good sweet time getting ready. You sure you can manage this?”
“Will have Singe to help. And them. Yes?” Pixies swarmed into the coach like Melondie meant to bring all her friends and relations.
Playmate remarked, “You’re looking pretty good there, Garrett. Did you hire a consultant to dress you up?”
I spread my arms to the sky. “You see the torments I suffer? Take me home now.”
Singe came fluttering out of the house, a young woman running late. Though how you get behind when your wardrobe is as limited as hers, I don’t know. But what I know about women, even limiting the sample to my own tribe, would fit in a thimble with room left over for a brigade of dancing angels.
Singe brought the kittens with her. She piled into the coach.
“We’re ready,” I told Playmate. I glanced at the goat cart. “John Stretch, you’ll lose your cart if you just leave it there.”
“No problem. Is not my cart.”
Great. So now the Watch would find a stolen goat cart in front of my house. Because, with my luck, the damned thing would sit there undisturbed for six months if it took that long to embarrass me.
I clambered aboard the coach.
Total silence reigned inside.
The pixies warily split their attention between the baby cats and the rat cages. The baby cats peeked out of their bucket, intrigued by the bug people and the rats. The rats glared at everybody.
What should have become chaos on the hoof declined into inexplicable relaxation.
“Well,” I said, relaxed myself, despite what lay ahead. “How about that?”
The pixies found perches. They gossiped. They didn’t squabble and they didn’t bother the rats. Normally, given half a chance, they would’ve swarmed any rodent. A plump rat could provide the main course for a huge feast.
Singe couldn’t control the kittens, though. Several got away and began investigating everything. Without bothering the rats or bugs. They were remarkably well-mannered, for cats.
As we turned into Wizard’s Reach I glimpsed a familiar face outside. It belonged to the man Morley and I had had the misfortune to catch earlier. He was watching my house. From a bruised visage.
; His presence made me nervous. If he got obnoxious and kicked my door in, the Dead Man would be no help at all.
I couldn’t turn back. I’d have to trust the process. A notion I find dubious in the best of times.
My neighbor Mrs. Cardonlos is a police spy. And, possibly, a friend of Mr. Deal Relway, director of what, this week, is called something like the Unpublished Committee for Royal Security. Mrs. Cardonlos’ great pleasure in life is spying on me and imagining my life being more exciting than it is. Relway pays her a small stipend.
She’d keep an eye out while I was gone. The most interesting stuff happens at my place when I’m not home. That’s when the stupid shines. That’s when the unprepared find out that they should’ve done more research. The Dead Man has fun with stupid thugs. My partner can be as cruel as a cat with an unbreakable mouse. But, oh, woe! He was on a sleeping holiday today. “What kind of kittens are those?” I wondered out loud. They looked like basic gray stripy alley lurkers, but not quite. They were odd. However, all I know about cats is that I like them better than dogs, except maybe beagle and sausage dog puppies.
Oh, wondrous day! Singe and John Stretch both actually understood that I didn’t expect an answer. Both looked like they expected praise for being that clever.
I nodded and smiled my approval.
Speaking of pixies, which I wasn’t, “Melondie. Did you guys get into some poison, or something? I’ve never heard you all so quiet.”
Miss Kadare fluttered over a tad drunkenly. She assumed a widespread stance on my left palm, hands on hips, wobbling, not in time to the coach’s rocking.
“You been drinking?” Pixies love alcohol.
“Not a drop.” She staggered, plopped down on her tiny but gorgeous behind.
“You are drunk!” I accused.
“No way!” she snapped. Then she giggled. “I don’t know what’s happened. I was fine when we flew in here.”
The other pixies were drunk, too. Most more so than Melondie Kadare.