Gilded Latten Bones

by Glen Cook

  Singe growled even louder.

  “Whatever happened to that sweet little ratgirl you brung home a few years ago, Garrett?”

  Singe told him, “She spent those years around crude human men. Please do explain why you came here. Besides the obvious.”

  She bruised Tharpe’s feelings with that, not something easy to do. He knew she was calling him a moocher. Which he was, often enough, but not the obnoxious kind you want to bang on the head with a shovel. Usually you wanted to help, gently, because Saucerhead is a good guy blessed with a plentiful supply of minor bad luck.

  I told him, “You’ve been bubbling. You’ve been threatening to tell us an interesting story. So how about it?” I glanced at Singe. I had no idea what he had been asked to do.

  Singe shrugged. She didn’t know, either. And Saucerhead wasn’t talking. He did, in fact, seem confused.

  He asked, “He’s really asleep? The Dead Man, I mean.”

  “He really is. He’d be snoring like Playmate if he was among the breathing.”

  “Damn! I figured he’d plunk in there and get what he wanted before it went away.”

  Getting exasperated, I snapped, “Just do it the old-fashioned way! I’ll give him the word when he wakes up.”

  “Oh. Yeah. That’d work, wouldn’t it? So what it is, he wanted me to prowl around the costume shops in the theater district.”

  TunFaire did not have a theater district as such. Theaters were scattered across midtown, with others downtown. A few smaller venues were out in the neighborhoods. The World was four long blocks from its nearest competitor. The support shops, costume makers and set builders, were concentrated in a patch near the geographic center of the big name play-houses. And that was what Saucerhead meant.

  “Costume shops,” I mused.

  “Yeah. Himself charging in on things from an unexpected angle. Instead of hunting a girl who wears tight black leather and spiffy wigs, find out who makes her outfits. Find out who whipped up them ugly gray wool suits and goofy helmets for the zombie brunos.”

  “Clever,” I admitted, thinking we needed a neologism for the patchwork reanimated baddies who hung out inside the wool and weird wooden helmets.

  “Definitely outside the box,” Morley said. “Not an angle that would have occurred to me.”

  “I take it you came up with something,’Head, on account of you’ve been wearing such a big shit-eating grin.”

  “I got to admit I never found who made the stuff for the zombies. Maybe the folks that build them have them make their own outfits. But I did find a guy that made stuff for the hot witch.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Here’s the part that’s got me feeling smart. This guy ain’t no theater costumer. He makes custom stuff for the fetish trade.”

  “Really? I’m starting to think that we’ve been underestimating you,’Head.”

  “People got a habit of doing that.”

  True enough, though usually only in regard to estimating how much abuse he can suffer and go on living.

  “How come you thought of this fetish person?”

  “I was passing by his place. I had this friend once, she liked to play dress up. I knew where she got her stuff. So I went in and got a little pushy, pretending like I was working for Relway. The tailor guy went all white and shaky and told me about this custom order for a bunch of black leather outfits that had to sync up with six different wigs. He got his gig through the wigmaker. And he got hands-on with the woman when she came for fittings.”

  “All right. Good story. Who was she?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. She never told him. But I guarantee you, she got to that tailor. He had stars in his eyes. His hands shook when he showed me how her body curved. And him as nancy as you can hope to find down there.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “Just excellent. What about the wigmaker?”

  “I got the name. He should be the next target.”

  Morley observed, “This is like taking over for the Dead Man, Garrett, us at the heart of the web while minions do the legwork.”

  Saucerhead frowned. He wasn’t thrilled about that minions remark.

  Singe said, “Mr. Tharpe, you do recall the name of that special tailor, don’t you? And the wigmaker?”

  Tharpe understood. Singe wasn’t questioning him. She wanted to get the information committed to paper so it wouldn’t get lost.

  Morley said, “I meant it about just sitting around like the Dead Man.”

  “I know. And I’m thinking that maybe he gets frustrated, too, because he can’t get out and snoop for himself.”

  “You? Frustrated about having to lay around and do nothing?”

  “It’s different when it isn’t your own choice.”

  75

  Jerry the beer guy turned up while Singe was winkling critical information out of Saucerhead. I helped bring the kegs in. Dean had gone for an extra, a standard-grade tavern beer good enough for our endless stream of guests.

  Saucerhead was the first benefactor, though what he got was the last partial pitcher off the cripple in the cold well. I took half a mug. Morley got nothing but he doesn’t drink. Singe got a taste off Saucerhead’s pitcher.

  Dean and Penny came back as Jerry and I were loading the empty kegs on his wagon. Dean had bought so much stuff he’d had to hire a cart to haul it. I did a brief apprentice stint in the porter trade.

  It’s good to develop new skills.

  Dean’s purchases didn’t inspire me.

  He was concerned about our finances — especially after having bought three kegs of beer and paid the deposit on the extra.

  While lugging apples and potatoes, I took a look around. The complement of watchers had become disrespectfully small.

  Folks thought the tale had moved on. Morley and I were not considered factors anymore. Or, maybe, the powers on the Hill had grown fangs so long and green that people formerly inclined to hang on my adventures had chosen discretion as their expression of valor.

  Yeah. That felt better than thinking I wasn’t worth watching anymore.

  Having made sure the fresh kegs felt at home I scuttled back into the Dead Man’s room. “All right, Mr. Tharpe. You’ve done an admirable job so far. What next?”

  “I don’t know.” His tongue had gotten a little thick already. He was thinking about his next pitcher. “I figure somebody else should take over. I asked so many questions people was starting to believe I was one of Relway’s Runners. One of the ones so dumb he don’t know how to hide it.”

  “They act scared?”

  “Of course they did. Everybody is afraid of the Unpublished Committee, excepting you and me and maybe your napping friend across the way.” He meant Morley, who had gone back to his cot while the beer barrel population was being restored to glory.

  “Any threats?”

  “You know anybody stupid enough to threaten Relway’s thugs? Anybody still running around loose, I mean. There’s probably a shitload helping drain Little Dismal Swamp.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. Anybody serious about bucking the Director better be smart enough to keep his big damned mouth shut.”

  Tharpe said, “So I was thinking, since I couldn’t find the people who made the masks and outfits for the zombies, maybe the next step would be to look the chain back a link and find out who made that ugly cloth. And who came up with the stuff to make them stupid helmets. Did you save one of them from the other night?”

  “The red tops took everything.”

  “That General Block, he’s smarter than he lets on. I wonder if he’s been thinking the way I been.”

  I doubted it. “Did you run into any real Runners when you were poking around?”

  “No.”

  “You were ahead of them.” I should give Block a heads-up. He could swamp that district with investigators able to scare a stone into spilling its guts.

  “I’m thinking you’re onto something,’Head.”

  “I got one more thing. Then I’m g
onna head into the kitchen and get me another pitcher. I’m gonna enjoy that. Then I’m gonna curl up in a corner and sleep for about two days.”

  “Sounds like a plan. What’s your one more thing?”

  “Get the Remora to take over where I left off. He pokes around down there, them people will lay down and spread their legs. They’ll do anything for him if it might get them a shot at connecting with one of his shows.”

  “Saucerhead, you drink all the beer you want.” I felt like the peasant boy who’s just been handed the magic sword. Big things were coming.

  Tharpe showed me his biggest, goofiest grin, headed for the kitchen. I went over to discuss it with Singe. She was recording Dean’s purchases in her books.

  76

  “Saucerhead came up with an original idea.” I explained.

  “That is an interesting angle. Somebody has been feeding him smart pills. Let’s hope Mr. Salvation feels amenable.” She brushed aside my suggestion that we send for him. “He’ll ignore us if we appeal to him. He needs to think things are his idea. Wrangling him takes craft.”

  “Did Old Bones craft him into doing something for us?”

  “He did. I don’t know what. Certainly something the Dead Man told him only he could manage.”

  I shook my head. Jon Salvation. I couldn’t get used to a Remora with airs.

  Focused on her books, Singe told me, “You need to put your prejudices aside when you think about that man, Garrett. He is a near complete waste of flesh in ways you consider important, but he is also the best and most powerful playwright working. And, in his mind, he is one of your inner circle.”

  “I got you. But do you realize how ridiculous that is to anybody who knew Pilsuds Vilchik?”

  Singe asked, “Answer the door. I still have entries to make and Dean’s notes look like he kept them in code.”

  “The door?”

  “Someone is knocking.”

  “Damn, your ears are better than mine.”

  “I’m young. I’m pretty. And I’m not human.”

  No way could I respond to that and have anything good come of it.

  She snickered as I left the room.

  John Stretch and two ratwomen were on the stoop. I figured his henchrats had witnessed the beer delivery.

  The so well-to-do lord of the ratfolk underworld joined me in with the Dead Man. His women joined Morley. “This cool air is wonderful.”

  I had worked up a sweat doing porter work so I was in complete agreement. “I’m scared to ask Singe how much we pay for the heat exchange spells but on these warm days it seems worth it.”

  “There must be some kind of climate change going on. Ratpeople aren’t usually bothered by hot weather but this much heat, this early, worries me. What will it be like when we hit the blazing heart of summer?”

  “Blazing heart, eh?”

  “Not original, I admit. It is from a street corner rant I heard the other day. Though he actually said, ‘The blazing heat of summer.’ His point was, the hottest day of summer would seem refreshingly cool once we found ourselves in hell.”

  “A street theater guy. You got to love them. Life would be less fun without them.”

  “Too true.”

  He had a reason for being here beyond a hope for free beer. I put on an expression of eager curiosity. I drank some beer myself.

  “The reason I came by — I wanted to let you know, I just launched a special operation.”

  I took a long sip. “I’m all ears.”

  “The stink of corruption in that warehouse had to be unique. And something like it would be strong wherever the zombie makers are building their monsters now.”

  He looked expectant.

  “I imagine so.” I looked expectant right back, sure he had a point to make. “Yes?”

  “Ah.” Pleased with himself. “I put out word to ratfolk across the city. Sniff out places that stink of death and chemicals.”

  “Brilliant!” How could the people who wanted the thing left alone object? “Everybody is thinking more clever than me.”

  “Everybody?”

  “Saucerhead Tharpe came up with the notion of looking for the people who made the costumes, then to work back from them.”

  “That would be interesting, too. But my method has more promise.”

  “You’re right. Find the monster manufactory and back-tracking won’t be necessary.”

  He wanted more pats on the back. Some parts of his life must not have been going as well as he would like.

  I said, “Enjoy your beer.” Which must not have been the perfect sentiment at the moment. He looked puzzled.

  The day went downhill from there. The world kept intruding.

  All the folks sent out by the Dead Man would come back to plague me.

  77

  Jon Salvation turned up first, glowing. He shook my hand. “I don’t know what you did, Garrett, but, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “All right. Good for me. What are you talking about?”

  “Tinnie. She’s going to take the part. She turned up for first readings this morning. She was an angel. And she nailed her character first try. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “Any time. But do me a favor. Tell her my dividend is late. Way late.”

  “Eleven days late!” Singe said, managing a fierce growl.

  “All right. I’ll pass it on. To business. The Dead Man asked me to talk to people I know about who holds the deed to the warehouse where they were making zombies. The owner is Constance Algarda, better known as Shadowslinger.”

  “Wasn’t she one of the people the Bellman killed when...? No. I remember now. He busted her up but she lived.”

  “I report, sir. I don’t do analysis. If she’s dead she still manages to be active in the real estate world. She owns other properties around town. I brought a list.” He produced it. Singe snagged it, began copying it to make sure the information got put away safe before I could contrive to lose or destroy it.

  Salvation added, “Just as a bit of practical information, I wasn’t the only one asking questions. People from the Palace, people from the Guard, and some scary-looking people off the Hill all poked into the same stuff before I did.”

  “That might not be good.”

  “You think?”

  “There’s something else you could do to help. You being uniquely qualified.” I explained the costume angle.

  “I can handle that. Easy. I have a big lever. We need lots of costumes and sets for The Faerie Queene.”

  I couldn’t tell the man he wasn’t half the waste of human flesh that I’d always thought. But I could think it and maybe he could sense it.

  Singe finished copying the list. She handed the copy to her brother. John Stretch scanned it, took a drink, bobbed his head, and left the room with Singe right behind. He was less under the weather than I thought, and more literate.

  Singe returned, began making another copy. I asked, “When did he learn to read?”

  “While you were away. He’s slow and he has trouble with script but he understands that literacy is the most useful skill you can have in life.”

  “What’s he going to do with that list?”

  “Have his people sniff around.”

  “He’ll need to be careful if those others are doing the same thing.”

  “Give the dumb rat some credit, Garrett. He heard. He’ll be careful — in the unlikely event that anybody does notice ratpeople.”

  Ouch! She was in a mood again. But she had a point.

  “I understand. Now tell me something. What are you so busy writing all the time? You can’t possibly need to do that much bookkeeping.”

  “I keep a record of everything that happens to us.”

  Odd. That sounded like one of those truths that have more than one face. Like a carefully crafted answer kept on the shelf for the moment when the inevitable question arose.

  Jon Salvation chuckled. He knew something.

  Of course he did. The past
few weeks even kids like Crush and Kyra knew more than me about almost everything.

  “Jon, about the girl who was here the other night.”

  “Crush?”

  “Yeah. She’s a good kid.”

  Singe made a whuffing sound, maybe startled.

  “I’m sure she is. And I wasn’t at my best.”

  I showed him a raised eyebrow.

  “It’s so frustrating. They all have the same dumb questions. Which they can’t articulate because they’re starstruck. I try to remember that their questions seem unique to them. But I’m not used to all this. Sometimes I lose patience.”

  I gawked. I asked Singe, “What did they do with my friend the Remora?”

  He laughed. “People change when the earth shifts under their feet, Garrett. I’m not Pilsuds Vilchik anymore. Nor the Remora — though that has had a hard downside for Winger. I’m all Jon Salvation, now. Which isn’t always a great thing, even though Jon Salvation is living the fantasy that rocked Pilsuds Vilchik to sleep every night.”

  All I could say was, “Wow!” But I kept it to myself.

  He said, “I’ll do something to make it up to Crush.”

  I got all daddy.

  Singe made a noise before I said anything.

  My little Hellbore was a working girl with ample experience looking out for herself.

  Salvation promised, “I’ll be the perfect gentleman.”

  I must have looked skeptical.

  “I am aware of her background, Garrett. Though I’d never bring it up. If she pretends to be a lady I’ll pretend to be a gentleman.”

  Singe left her desk. “You’re both sentimental, idiot romantics in a world where only pragmatists survive.”

  She left the room.

  I said, “I just wanted something nice for Crush that she could have without having to lie down. She’s a good-hearted kid. She deserves a minute when she doesn’t have to be a whore.”

  The famous playwright gave me a goofy grin and a thumb up. “I’ve got it. But I’ll need some help since we’re going to pretend that all I know about her is that she’s a cute teenager.”

  78

  Singe deserted us to answer the door. She returned with an unlikely duo: Belinda Contague and Westman Block, both in disguise. Block was convincing as an aging hoodlum. I don’t know what Belinda hoped people would see. She was dressed more conservatively than usual and wore a curly chestnut wig that changed the shape of her face. She could have passed as my sexy younger sister.