Gilded Latten Bones

by Glen Cook

  “It means you need to get together with the Remora and convince him that you aren’t that Tinnie anymore.”

  “No, dumbhead. It means that if I don’t mess this up I can tell my uncles to go to hell. They can find somebody else to keep their damned books.”

  Epiphany! Though she hid it well Tinnie didn’t like her life much. “They’d have to pay somebody.”

  “Yeah!” She had been trying to be what they wanted her to be. I had suffered because she tried to make me into the man they thought she ought to have. “If you’re running some practical joke on me, Malsquando...”

  “He’s been trying to get hold of you for days. You wouldn’t let him.”

  “I thought... Never mind.” She bounced up and down again. And didn’t turn sour when I suggested that she move into a better light so I could more fully appreciate the view.

  I was, for the moment, content. We were rolling along just the way we ought. Only one teensy gnat in the ointment.

  Old Bones and I needed to have a sit-down when he woke up. He needed to make his thinking clear. He was the serpent who could slither the deepest cesspits of the human mind. He could explain why he preferred Strafa Algarda to the woman who had been closest to me for an age.

  Kyra galloped in. I was sure she would want to know who had been using the guest room bed. Instead, she said, “Our coach is here.”

  Tinnie said, “It is way late. I need to get Uncle Oswald and Artifice home so they can be treated.”

  I struggled into a sitting position. “We all need sleep. Kyra, can you see if Dean needs any help? He’s got to be half dead by now.”

  She went. Tinnie asked, “What about you?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “You need to rest, too. But somebody has to let Singe in when she gets back.”

  “Dollar Dan can handle that.” The ratman was in Singe’s office, staying out of the way.

  “That sorceress will be here, too.”

  “She might be,” I admitted.

  Tinnie took a first step in changing the rest of her life. She let that go. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t try to manipulate me by telling me how much she trusted me.

  Old Bones had had some impact after all.

  66

  I didn’t know when Singe and Strafa came back. They didn’t bother to wake me up. I lay back down after Dollar Dan, the Tate women, and their coachmen hauled Uncle Oswald and Artifice away. I was asleep before Dollar Dan locked up behind them.

  I slept on the floor. The Windwalker used my bed. Not only did I miss out on the temptation, I knew nothing about it till late next day. By then I was in a bad temper, fighting a terrible cold or incipient flu. I was surly with everybody. Singe had to be the pleasant face of the household to the rest of the world.

  I hurt all over. And Old Bones was asleep. But Playmate was awake, ambulatory, trying to help Dean. He looked a lot better, though the plan had been to keep him unconscious several days more.

  He had missed his doses of the stuff that had kept Morley down.

  Dotes was seated on the end of the cot. He moved gingerly when he moved at all. It hurt him to talk today.

  Him being upright brightened things a lot.

  He said, “I hope you feel better than you look.”

  “I doubt it.” I climbed onto the other end of the cot, which creaked but held. I told him about my latest brush with the darkness.

  Penny appeared with a stack of handkerchiefs. I suppressed the urge to grab her wrist and pull. Keeping right on, growing up.

  She offered a half curtsey, fled.

  Morley chuckled. “Time’s been good to her. So you’ve made up.”

  “Sort of. I don’t know how long it’ll last without Old Bones cracking the whip.”

  I heard Singe talking to somebody in the next room. Then somebody left the house. Singe joined us. I said, “You look frazzled. Did you get any sleep?”

  “Some. We had the usual luck.” She sneezed.

  “You, too?” I offered a hanky. “They lost you?”

  “This is not a cold. It is a continuing reaction to something they used to stop me from following them. I did not stop to identify ingredients. I got away fast. The compound was designed to ruin my nose forever.”

  “You’re all right?” I was concerned despite my own bad humor.

  “Yes.”

  “Strafa?”

  “She’s all right, too. I owe her. She pulled me back before I got a nose full. She brought me home. She just went back out. I don’t know why.”

  “You’re suspicious?”

  “Just a feeling. Probably mostly because she is so interested in you. I shouldn’t distrust her for that. She is too simple to be evil.”

  That was an interesting notion.

  Morley drank it in without comment.

  I said, “I’m going to try to get up, now. I have some business that needs doing.” I thought. I ought. It had been a long night.

  Singe said, “I’ll get a chamber pot.”

  I lifted my butt eight inches off the cot, could not find the strength to get any higher. Then I realized that I didn’t need to go as badly as I should.

  Morley grinned when he saw my frown deepen.

  “Wait a minute.”

  Singe said, “The cleaning women took care of you, too. You hardly groaned. And you definitely needed the work.”

  I faced a creative linguistics challenge but was too sluggish to manage more than an apathetic, “Dirty rotten rackelfratz.” I did turn red.

  “It is just a job to them, Garrett. They said hardly anything. And you really needed it. You were a mess.”

  I used another handkerchief.

  Singe added, “I will ask Dean to prepare a camphor breather.” She left. I blew some more and worried about how bad the cold would get once it got down into my chest.

  I was not looking forward to that.

  67

  Morley asked, “Do we have a plan?”

  “We get us back in shape. Then we go find the people who hurt you.”

  “A masterpiece of strategy and tactics.”

  “It needs a little refinement.”

  “That’s the usual Garrett approach. Stomp around and break things.”

  “It works.”

  “I’m not sure why. I will stipulate that you still walk among us.”

  Dean and Playmate turned up. Playmate carried a clever little table that folded up flat. It had the Amalgamated hall-mark burned into a leg. Another Kip Prose invention, no doubt. Playmate set it up. Dean deposited a tray featuring tea, dry toast, two bowls of soup, and the thing Singe called a breather. Fresh handkerchiefs accompanied that.

  Dean volunteered, “The younger Miss Tate sent us a half dozen of these tables and some more fold-up chairs.”

  “Thoughtful of her.”

  “It was, truly.” He eyed me expectantly. So I thanked him for the table and tray.

  He left looking sour.

  Morley poured the tea. “He was hoping you would clarify the direction you’re headed emotionally.”

  “What?”

  “They’re all wondering the same thing, Garrett. I can see that and I’ve been dead for a month.”

  I sipped tea, nibbled toast, downed a few spoons of soup, then suggested, “Clue me in,” before I shoved my face into the inhaler device. Which did not bear an Amalgamated hall-mark.

  It had been created right here in this house by Dean Creech.

  No doubt Kip Prose could polish it and make it a bestseller.

  Morley said, “Everybody thinks Tinnie has run her course. That you’ve started to show some spine. Maybe because of this Strafa. They talk like she’s your perfect woman.”

  They? “That can’t be true. They can’t know her well enough.”

  “They wouldn’t talk about it in front of you. And they do know Tinnie.”

  “They? Who? Dean and Singe?”

  “Don’t get excited. People care about you. They worry. They especially
worry about how your decisions might affect their lives.”

  Another worry I didn’t need. “Let’s get something straight. Do you think Strafa is better for me than Tinnie is?”

  “I haven’t formed an opinion. I don’t know the new woman — except that she’s scary and she’s screaming gorgeous. Tinnie I do know.”

  That didn’t sound like a ringing endorsement. “Meaning?”

  “Tinnie has some wonderful points. But with some of us she resonates like the Remora does with you. You tolerate him because Winger is your friend. One could make a case for Tinnie being a particularly sinister proof of Dotes’ First Law. Don’t look at me like that.”

  “It could be my fault.”

  “That’s the sinister part. She makes you think the problems are all your fault.”

  I muttered about us having to start recovery training, to avoid an inappropriate vent about him and Belinda. Then I wondered if I ought to poll my acquaintances for their opinions.

  Of a sudden I had a distinct feeling that I liked Tinnie a lot more, and thought a lot better of her, than did most any acquaintance not named Tinnie. They tolerated her because she came with me. Odd, that. I was used to thinking that people tolerated me because I came with Tinnie.

  Both views would be pure truth — depending where you are standing.

  That was not the Dead Man. His Nibs continued snoozing. That was me imagining how Old Bones would respond if I asked his opinion.

  I said, “Intellectually, I’m not feeling so good. I need time to get my mind right.”

  Morley said nothing. He had no need. His expression told the tale.

  Garrett had had years to think. He had done his best to avoid that. Now he was caught in a cleft stick, with guilt twisting his arm up behind him.

  Sometimes procrastination can be a blessing. And sometimes not, with personal things. Time passing lets opportunities get away and unresolved problems fester.

  “Really? Isn’t your actual problem that you think too much?”

  “Hard to argue with that. Everyone I ever knew accused me of that.”

  “Let’s get back to the plan.”

  “It’s coming along. Since neither of us can go dancing with the devils right now we’ll train till we are able.”

  “I understand the theory. But your thinking is anachronistic. It made sense back when you dealt with stuff that didn’t attract attention from generals and princes.”

  What he meant wasn’t obscure, but I didn’t get it.

  “You kept developing attachments, Garrett.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “In the beginning there was you, me sometimes, and a sleek new girl every couple of months. And Tinnie in and out of your life. Then you started getting entangled. There was the brewery connection. Then the Contagues.” He made a gesture meant to warn me against interrupting. “You got entangled with Block and Relway and Singe. And Kip and the whole inventory of Tates.”

  I understood, then. As life proceeded I kept making persistent connections that created ever more complicated obligations. The hiatus under Tinnie’s thumbs hadn’t shaken me free. People had expectations. I had expectations of my own.

  Morley said, “All those entangling people will go right on doing what they do.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant but he was gracious enough to go on crushing my grand strategy.

  That’s what it added up to. Our problems existed for other people, too. In this case, most everyone in the city.

  “You put it that way, there’s no point in us making plans.”

  “Now you’ve got it.”

  I took another shot at getting up off the cot. This time I made it upright.

  A drooping Singe materialized before I took a second step. “Where are you going?”

  “Upstairs. To bed.”

  “You just woke up.”

  I coughed heartily. The cold was getting there. “Ah, crap! You should get some sleep, too.”

  “Somebody has to run this circus. And I seem to be the only one who can stay awake.”

  “Unfair. You didn’t get the magical smack down.”

  “Nor did I, eyes wide shut, charge into what a three-year-old dimwit could recognize as a deadly instrument.”

  “She’s got you there, Garrett.”

  A point. When I charge around overturning and busting things sometimes it’s me that gets overturned and busted.

  I would have been better off hanging back, throwing rocks.

  I picked up the breather. “Show me what to do.”

  What to do was take notes, for the Dead Man’s delectation later, from people poking into things for us. Half of them I didn’t know. Some I hadn’t seen before. I had no idea how or when they had gotten hired. And they were, universally, boring, because they had nothing interesting to report.

  After the fourth I told Singe, “This is impossible. TunFaire can’t possibly be that quiet. People can’t still be that ignorant. There were witnesses out there.”

  “Just means the powers that be kept the lid on. So far. Probably by manufacturing clever stories. Gang warfare. Ethnic strife. Something like that. There. I’m caught up.”

  Nothing interesting happened for the rest of the day.

  68

  I did get to bed before sundown, never having taken a sip of beer. Dean had gone up right after supper. Singe didn’t stay up much longer than I did. We left the house to Penny and Dollar Dan.

  I fell asleep snuggling with the breather and a mound of handkerchiefs. Singe had delivered a mug of fierce medicinal tea on her way to her repose. That put me under, fast.

  I wakened with the sun on the rise. And I was not alone.

  Strafa was spooned up against me as though she had been there every night for years. She was leaner and warmer than what I was accustomed to.

  I was startled, but only for a moment. Where else could she stay? The other beds were taken.

  I moved slightly. She adjusted, too. My right hand discovered something smaller and more firm than what I anticipated. I cupped it. She pushed against my hand and made a little sound of contentment. I slipped back into Nod. She was purring.

  When next I wakened I was on my back. Strafa’s head was on my chest, over my heart. She was against me tightly, all the way down. Her hand was on my belly, thumb resting on my navel.

  It all seemed perfectly reasonable.

  My heartbeat quickened.

  That wakened Strafa, slightly. Her hand drifted.

  I squeaked. She purred but granted a stay after brief exploration. She wrapped that arm around me, over my right shoulder, pulled herself even closer, half on top, purred some more, and went back to sleep.

  Singe awakened us. She showed no attitude. “You won’t have time to eat if you don’t get moving.” She grabbed my used handkerchiefs. “I’ll get these washed. There are fresh downstairs.” Her nose twitched, no doubt telling her what she wanted to know. “The Dead Man is still asleep. General Block should be here in about an hour. His message didn’t say why. Otherwise, there is no news.”

  Strafa untangled herself from the bedding while Singe talked, exposing my nakedness. No surprise to Singe. She knows I sleep raw. But Strafa was equally bare and not the least self-conscious.

  Singe’s nose twitched some more. She said nothing. Her season was no longer causing completely tormenting emotions.

  She collected the breather. “I’ll have Dean recharge this.”

  “Thanks.” I did not look at her. I could not stop staring at Strafa, who was digging in a trunk that hadn’t been against the west wall when I went to bed.

  The door shut behind Singe. Strafa looked at me, now sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re having naughty thoughts. I can tell.”

  Oh, yeah.

  She came to me, pushed me back, straddled me, asked, “Now? Or wait till tonight?”

  I was no moral hero. I was no faithful lover. Had the name Tinnie Tate come up just then my best response would have been, “Who?” I c
ouldn’t talk. My brains were scrambled. The woman had found her way deep inside my head. She had established emotional colonies. There was no way to drive her out.

  I couldn’t come up with an answer. So Strafa allowed herself the luxury of deciding for me.

  As far as she was concerned the issue never was if but when.

  69

  I was still distracted when we reached the kitchen. Kind old Dean served breakfast despite the time. He was in a fine mood.

  Morley shuffled in. He checked us out, smirked, but never said a word. Penny appeared as Dean set a plate in front of Morley. She sniffed as she settled into the last chair. She gave Strafa a dark look but didn’t say anything, either.

  Playmate stuck his head in. “Anything I can do, Dean?” While he eyeballed me and Strafa.

  “You could grab a hammer, some nails, and some boards, and add on to my kitchen. Otherwise, no. We can’t squeeze another body in.”

  It wasn’t that crowded — though nobody would be able to move if Playmate put himself on our side of the door.

  I asked, “Dean, who all is here? Besides who all I can see right now.”

  “Singe. Some of John Stretch’s people. That creature who calls himself the Bird.”

  Penny said, “Bird came to paint. His Honor is napping, though. So Bird is silencing his voices instead.”

  That was about the longest speech she’d ever made in my presence. She sounded disconsolate. I risked panicking her. “What do you think about him, Penny? Does he really hear voices?”

  She made herself reply, her voice tiny as she did so. “Yes. He hears them. And not just because he’s crazy. They’re real. He let me talk to them while we were working.”

  Kitchen business stopped. Penny shrank under the pressure of curious eyes.

  “The Dead Man thinks the Bird belongs in the crazy ward at the Bledsoe.”

  “His Honor can’t hear the voices. He only hears Bird’s answers. If Bird does answer. Mostly, he just takes another drink.”

  “How did you talk to the voices, then?”

  “Bird told me what they said. They heard me when I answered.”

  Dean rested a reassuring hand on Penny’s shoulder. “You’ll be all right.”