Whispering Nickel Idols gf-11

by Glen Cook

  It may not be that simple if he realizes what natural tools he possesses.

  “Use your standard tactic. Baffle him with bullshit. Why does he want the stone?”

  Proof that Old Bones hadn’t lavished much attention on BB then surfaced. He didn’t yet know why. He had to go pearl diving in a mind naturally indisposed to surrender its treasures.

  This will take a while. He appears to have been of several minds concerning the stone. Though each of those focused on wringing the biggest profit possible from the windfall.

  Classic crook-think. Calling a theft a windfall. “Why?”

  I felt a little prickle in my mind. He was checking to see what I meant. Instead of asking.

  “You’re awfully impatient this time, Old Bones.”

  There is so much going on. And I am so excited.

  “You’ve become sarcasm incarnate. How is the egg important? Why is it valuable?”

  Because he may have told the truth about how dangerous the rock is. Even though it might not have been stolen from the nest of a fabulous bird. He wants to auction the egg on the Hill for enough to get out of the priest racket. The stone does rate description as “rare as rocs’ eggs.”

  “I’m confused.”

  I am surprised that you would notice.

  He has a bite like a saber-toothed toad.

  “Have Singe do your transcription. She needs the practice. And it’ll keep her out of the beer.”

  He offered the mental equivalent of a harrumph.

  “So. About the stone?”

  It can be used to start fires.

  “Is that so?” I sensed that he didn’t know anything else, in any concrete way, but was chock-full of speculation.

  I have Miss Winger working an angle that may tell us something useful.

  Which he wouldn’t share right now, of course, because he doesn’t like to speculate or brainstorm- except among his own minds. He doesn’t like being wrong. But I could guess what he was thinking. I’d considered it myself and decided the idea was too farfetched. You should have mentioned the stone to Mr. Thorpe.

  Saucerhead groaned. He sat up, clapped his hands to his temples, swore, and lied, “I’ll never do that again.”

  “What is that?”

  He realized he hadn’t taken on his career as a cat mattress by indulging in too many adult beverages. “What happened?”

  Morley told him, “It was too nasty for you to go home last night.”

  “What time is it? Oh, gods! I shoulda been over to… she’s gonna kill me!” He tugged at his clothes, retied his shoes, hoisted himself to his feet, and headed for the front door. I tagged along so his misery would have company once he looked outside.

  Saucerhead took his look. “Holy shit! What did you do?”

  “Man, you can’t blame the weather on me.”

  “Sure, I can. No law says I got to be logical.” He showed me his biggest shit-eating grin. He stuck his head back outside, retreated again. “I blame it on the peace.”

  “What? You blame what on the peace?”

  “The weather, man. When we had us a war going we never had no weather like this. Not this early.”

  “What the hell are you babbling about?”

  He grinned again. “Just yanking your chain, brother. I keep hearing that kind of crap out there in the taverns.”

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t get out there no more. You don’t know the latest lunatic theories.”

  Saucerhead Tharpe lecturing me about lunacy. It’s a strange old world. “You going to jump on out there or not?”

  “I think I’ll hang out here. That’s just plain too ugly.”

  It was a good thing Dean got a chance to lay in supplies.

  I did what I could to loosen my writing hand, went back to work transcribing Merry Sculdyte’s memoirs. Singe and Morley spelled me. There wasn’t much else to do but try to play chess.

  I found one more area where I could feel superior to my favorite pretty-boy dark-elf breed buddy. Though he insisted I was getting secret help from my sidekick.

  And his handwriting is barely legible.

  47

  One by one my guests slipped away.

  Morley left first, after waiting almost all day. An hour later Saucerhead plunged into the snowfall, which had passed its peak. It now consisted of glistening little flakes that looked artificial. There was a foot on the ground. And not much wind, which helped ease the misery.

  With Tharpe gone, I asked, “What do we do with these other two? BB has a wife.”

  The woman at the temple is his sister. He lets her believe she is the brains behind his confidence games.

  Singe was writing, tongue hanging out the left side of her mouth. She concentrated ferociously, head tilted way over. She wasn’t quite ready for illuminated manuscripts.

  “Singe. You think other ratfolk could learn to copy stuff?”

  “What?”

  “Do they have a high tolerance for boredom and repetition? If they could learn how, we could start a copy business.”

  I turned back to the Dead Man and BB. “Is she? The mind behind?”

  He does not believe it. He may be incorrect. You will have to feed him. Soon.

  “Have to? Can’t I just cut him loose, chock-full of confusion?”

  There is more to be had from him. Something he does not know he knows. Something that has his unrealized talent fully wrapped around it, protecting it.

  “Is it critical?”

  I will not know till I chip it out. It could be the final clue to the meaning of life. Or his mother’s recipe for buttered parsnips.

  Taking into account my standing as fool to the gods, a quick calculation suggested that Brother B. would be partial to parsnips.

  The Dead Man suggested I take over for Singe. He was impatient with her striving for perfection. I refused.

  “We aren’t going anywhere in any hurry. How about Merry? Is he mined out?”

  There is nothing left to be learned from Mr. Sculdyte. But his release into the wild must be handled carefully — after long delay.

  His absence will leave his brother indecisive. It will cause competing underworld factions to act with restraint. They will all be nervous and his disappearance from the criminal scene will work to Miss Contague’s advantage. Merry Sculdyte is the one enemy who was able to penetrate the Contague household.

  “What?” This was news to me.

  Perhaps he was exaggerating to make himself look better. Read the manuscript and find out.

  “But-”

  Read the manuscript. That will keep you out of trouble.

  Dean brought supper for everyone. After supper Singe and I moved over to the office to read each other’s transcripts.

  When I went up to bed I was aswirl with emotions. Once the Unpublished Committee for Royal Security reviewed Merry Sculdyte’s memoirs, organized crime would suffer hugely.

  The nagging question, as I fell asleep, remained, where were Chodo and Harvester? Were they together? Was all this something they planned way back when? Had Temisk pulled a dramatic rescue? Or was he working some huge scam?

  I shivered down under my winter comforter. It seemed my bed would never warm up. I checked my breathing.

  Despite having downed a well full of water and most of Teacher White’s antidote, I still needed help.

  I kept on shivering.

  48

  Dean made soft-boiled eggs for breakfast, an expensive treat this time of year.

  The whole crew was determined to spend me into the poorhouse.

  “Stop whining,” Singe told me. “You are not poor.”

  “I’m going to be, though. I’m working for nothing. You’re all eating like princes and throwing money down… the storm sewers.” I’d been about to mention rat holes.

  Dean grumbled about quails’ eggs and giving me something to bitch about if I really wanted to bitch.

  Singe said, “He is this way because it is morning.”

 
She had a point. It was way early. And I couldn’t blame my situation on anybody but me. Nobody dragged me out this time. I did it to myself.

  I shivered. I hadn’t shaken that yet. And I heard the whispering of the damned, in relaxed moments, from far, far off in my mind.

  After I ate I checked the weather.

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was blinding bright out. Pedestrians slogged through half a foot of slush, carefully. The ice hadn’t gone away. Scavengers were gathering fallen branches for firewood.

  I retreated to the Dead Man’s room. The contrast in light levels left me blind.

  How is your breathing?

  Startled, I realized I was breathing on my own.

  Be cautious. You are but a third of the way recovered. You have no wind. It will be days yet before you dare strain yourself.

  “No running or fighting?” Maybe the samsom weed was why I couldn’t stop shivering.

  Nor anything else you indulge in that causes an increased heart rate.

  “Oh.”

  Psychic snicker.

  “Then you’d better scare the redhead off if she comes around. Because I don’t have a surplus of self-discipline where she’s concerned. Hey! Where’s my pal Bittegurn?”

  I sent him back to his temple to recover the firestone.

  That didn’t sound like the smartest move. “Think he’ll bother to come back?”

  He will return. He is convinced that he has found a way to make the big score that has been the secret goal of his life.

  “I feel you wanting to crow. What did you do? Crack that last shell inside his head?”

  Exactly.

  “So how much stroking will I need to do to get you to tell me about it?” I shuddered, the worst fit of shivering yet. “Did you do that?”

  Did I do what?

  “I’ve been shivering since last night. But this was worse. A completely creepy feeling for a second. That feeling people get when they say somebody walked over their grave. It wasn’t the first time, either. And I hear things. Whispers. That are just a hair too far off to make out. So. What did you get from BB?”

  The connection. No. A connection.

  “With what?”

  Between the excitement in the underworld and the Ymberian question.

  “Huh? No. There isn’t any connection. There can’t be.”

  Historically, there is. However, you are correct in thinking that there is not one now. Not directly. None of those ambitious felons out there, eager to take possession of Chodo Contague, are aware that while he was establishing himself, he rented muscle from the cult of A-Laf. They did great violence that could not be traced back to him. For his part, he later provided similar services to the aggressive faction now controlling the cult. You will remember Mr. Crask and Mr. Sadler.

  “You got all that out of Brother Brittigarn?” I shivered, just remembering Crask and Sadler. Being glad that those two were among the angels now. Because, in their time, they’d been much worse than Merry Sculdyte. Much more in my face, far more often.

  Idid. That is, he knew the secret history of the A-Laf cult well enough to let me fill the gaps. He did not know the name of the TunFairen criminal captain whose blood money financed the growth of the cult. But what he knew made it obvious that Chodo Contague must be that hidden ally. I expect Mr. Contague would be considerably nonplussed to discover what his assistance has made possible.

  “No shit.”

  Excellent thinking.

  “What?”

  You were thinking that it might be useful to see Mrs. Claxton again and interview her from a new perspective.

  “Yeah? Yeah! I’m so clever.” I shuddered again, again stricken by that totally creepy feeling that made the chills worse than ever. The whispers were almost intelligible. I had a notion that it would not be good to really understand.

  Got that this time. Ugh. I should have seen it.

  “You going to fade into one of your mystery moods while I figure it out for myself?”

  Not this time. It would be too dangerous to wait that long. The mood you feel, the whispers you hear, are caused by the nickel jackal idols. They came here fully charged with pain and misery and madness. All that has begun to boil off. Someone did not reseal the box properly.

  “Begun? This has been going on since they dragged those things in here. I just didn’t make the connection.” I began to have trouble breathing. But none whatsoever shivering.

  No need to get upset.

  You can’t breathe, maybe you do need to fuss.

  I stared at that damned box. The lid was closed. But it hadn’t been nailed down tight.

  A baby cat trotted in, headed my way, bounced, landed in my lap. It made itself at home. But it stared at that box, too. With an intensity suggesting that it saw things invisible to me.

  Much better.

  “What?”

  You are calmer now. Once you are comfortable with it, nail that box shut.

  “Sure. I’m a rock.” But he was right. The panic was gone. The whispers had receded. My hands weren’t trembling. “How much longer is this going to last?”

  That cannot be predicted. It may become necessary to catch this Kolda and make him tell us about samsom weed. I do not want to deal with flashbacks and seizures indefinitely.

  “Yeah? Consider my point of view.”

  Ah.

  “Ah? Ah, what?”

  The rumor of your imminent demise may be about to pay dividends.

  “I am on my way,” Singe said, heading for the front door. A moment later I heard Scithe talking, though I couldn’t make out individual words. Singe came back to report. “That was a Watchman. He wanted to know if it was true about you. I said yes. On inspiration, I told him you had been forced to take a poison Teacher White got from somebody named Kolda.”

  Idid not cue her, Chuckles informed me. She thought of that herself.

  “Good going, Singe. They’ll round them all up.”

  Singe puffed up with pride.

  No time for patting one another on the back. Garrett, you need to be in bed, dying.

  “Block is at the Cardonlos place, eh?”

  It seems logical. I believe he is. Mr. Scithe suspects he is, though he has not seen the Colonel. He was sent here because of his ignorance. But he is brighter than they suspect. He believed his real task was to find out if I am awake. He will report that he found nothing suspicions.

  Block being Block, that would be suspicious. “They’ll think you messed with his head, then.”

  Not amusing. Go be sick.

  49

  The being sick part didn’t require much acting. I still had aches in my pains and bruises on my bruises and those were turning colorful. I hadn’t gotten near a razor in modern times. I kept hoping Tinnie would come back and give me a sponge bath. I shivered and shook.

  I fell asleep. Which I needed to do. I’d wasted altogether too much time not sleeping.

  Tinnie woke me up.

  “Oh, hell!”

  “Thank you so very much. I’ll just go back home.”

  “I wasn’t being… you’re here because you heard I was dying. Somebody from the Watch told you, right?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  They knew she’d been here before. They’d walked her home. They’d visited her before doing anything else.

  “And you told them I’d be all right because the Dead Man keeps me breathing.”

  “Oh-oh. I goofed.”

  “Yep. We wanted to fish Block into coming over here. The Colonel was too clever for us this time.” Did Block know something he was eager to keep to himself? Probably not. He just had a dislike for having his secret mind exposed.

  My breathing seemed almost natural. But thinking about Tinnie and sponge baths alerted me that I wouldn’t be living the fantasy anytime soon. “Life is a raging bitch.”

  “Dean said you’d be in a bad mood. You haven’t been drinking as much as you should. Water, I mean.”

  My,
my. She could be right. I was thirsty right then.

  I climbed out of bed, rocked dizzily. “Oh.”

  “You all right?”

  “Dizzy.”

  “You’re shaking, too. Is the Dead Man starting to rub off?”

  “He’s been contagious lately.” I sat back down. She was right about the shakes. My dizziness didn’t improve. “Maybe you’d better get Dean or Singe to bring some water.”

  The dizziness not only did not relent. It got worse. Likewise, the shakes. I felt the Dead Man touch me, concerned. Dean brought water. I sucked a pint down without taking a breath.

  You are not supposed to become genuinely sick.

  “I guarantee you, it wasn’t in my master plan.”

  Tinnie said, “You’re running a fever.”

  I collapsed back onto the bed. “This may need to run its course.”

  Dean invited himself in. He seemed disappointed not to have caught us in midfrolic. “I brought a pitcher of beer. A rapid pass-through might do some good.”

  I gave him the most potent fisheye I could muster while teetering at the brink of unconsciousness.

  I drank all the barley soup I could hold. It was prescribed. I did pass out then, shivering, outraged because this had happened to me, now.

  Vaguely, I heard Dean opine that I must’ve caught it that night I was out in the weather. Less vaguely, I tried to get the Dead Man’s attention because it might be those damned metal dogs again.

  Jackals.

  I wakened with a mild headache and a solid, coughing cold well started in my left lung. Tinnie materialized before I got all the way upright. I grumbled, “Aren’t we getting domestic?”

  She had thoughts on the matter. She didn’t share. “Drink this.” She’d brought a steaming hot mug of something more fetid than aged swamp water.

  “Are there wiggly things in here?”

  “Dean forgot to add them. I’ll go get some. Start on this in the meantime.”

  I took the mug, held my breath, downed a long draft. Fighting a cough as I did. I don’t get sick often. If I do, Dean usually conjures some effective remedy.

  Tinnie didn’t leave. She made like a stern mother forcing her recalcitrant scion to polish off his rutabaga pie.