Gilded Latten Bones

by Glen Cook

  She headed for my old office.

  Block appeared to have gotten an early start on White Day, the romantic holiday. Lovers give each other candy. But so do friends. I grimaced at the thought. White Day could get expensive if I fetched up friendship boxes for all the girls in my life. Ha! One for Mrs. Cardonlos! That might be fun.

  I made a mental note to ask Dean to see if he could get a job lot rate on a dozen boxes.

  Block was a solid one sheet to the wind and maybe closer to two. He needed Singe’s assistance to get settled. “It’s an ugly world out there, Garrett. An ugly world.”

  Jon Salvation nodded agreement.

  I said, “No doubt you’re right. But I’m the kind of guy who loves to hear the miserable details.” I sent a questioning look Singe’s way. Block had been her excuse for dragging me out so early. She shrugged.

  Did Block have anything to share? Or was he just here in hopes of scoring some more free booze?

  There was plenty of Bird fuel around.

  Block asked, casually, “Any ardent spirits left from the other night?”

  Singe produced a half gallon of the finest, smoothest sipping water-of-life ever distilled in Karenta, along with a sizable mug. She filled that for Block. For Jon Salvation and me, there were little sipping cups holding about two ounces.

  What was she up to? She would have Block passed out and puking on the rug.

  I did not let wondering distract me from enjoying my own drink.

  This skullbust tasted like smoked medicine. But I sipped along, just to be sociable.

  Block failed to expand upon his contention that the world was less than beautiful. He was too busy spooning with his ardent spirits.

  Belinda joined us, evidently satisfied that Morley would live. “Give me a big-ass mug of that shit, Garrett. I’m in a mood to get wasted.”

  I asked, “You all right?”

  “I’m better after seeing him, but, are you stupid? Of course I’m not all right. My idiot lover is still down and there isn’t a godsdamned thing Belinda Contague can do to make things better.”

  “Actually, he was awake, aware, and functioning till a little while ago. He wore himself out. He’s doing fine, Belinda. But how about you?”

  She looked grim, downed water-of-life like it was small beer. “I’m so damned frustrated, I’m thinking about starting a war just to make people pay attention.”

  “Whoa, girl! That’s not a good idea.”

  “Just to make them pay attention, Garrett. Just to make them pay attention.”

  She must have been drinking before she got here.

  This side of Belinda hadn’t come out for a long time.

  “How did you turn up at the same time as the General? And, before you get all old-time hardcore, we have made some headway.” I told her what Saucerhead and Jon Salvation had told me.

  Salvation himself remained silent and motionless, hoping not to be noticed.

  Block said, “There’s talk that Shadowslinger doesn’t own those properties despite her name being on the deeds.”

  Belinda slurred, “Clever, going after the costume suppliers.”

  She wouldn’t be with us long.

  “I have some other odd angles going. And I’ve gotten possible identifications of the people whose portraits we put together.”

  Tipsy, bloodthirsty excitement on Belinda’s part. Block was less nasty but equally thrilled.

  I said, “There is a problem. The bad guys are people who should have been out of it years ago.” I explained what Playmate and Barate Algarda had told me.

  Block mused, “The guy’s name stays the same. Hmm? Do we have ghosts, like at the World? Or a father-son-grandson thing? Or the undead? You have a theory, Garrett?”

  “We haven’t yet seen any of them out in the daytime.”

  “Vampires?”

  That would have seemed silly a week ago. Now, though. “The bodies they’re rebuilding could be those of their victims.”

  “Problem,” Block said. “We got forty or fifty zombies but no missing persons. We took out nineteen but that leaves thirty to go. We for sure haven’t had that many people the right age die.”

  Belinda was well toward becoming inarticulate but, stumbling and bumbling, she managed, “Roger keeps whining about his business getting so awful. His customers don’t want to be embalmed. They just want a ride to the crematorium.”

  Poor Cap’n Roger.

  How does a resurrection man stay in business if all the dead get burned? “What’s the story in the refugee shantytowns? They wouldn’t be honest with the red tops since they think you’re persecuting them.”

  “We would know,” Block said. “Deal would know. His intelligence gathering has improved since your day.” He sighed. He took a long, forlorn look into his mug. I could not believe he was still speaking coherently. Belinda had started talking to herself. She could not understand a word she said. “Garrett, our problem is that we’re drowning in intelligence. We have so much we can’t pick out the important bits.”

  “What?”

  “Occasionally, lately, we’ve found that everything we needed to know to prevent or solve a crime was in the system but the information just didn’t get to the right people.”

  “Uhm?” I hoped he was making excuses, not fishing for suggestions.

  Singe had some. She held us spellbound while she brain-stormed an analytical hierarchy that would sort reports on arrival, evaluate them, then move them to people whose job it would be to determine connections or threats. Those folks would pass information to the people who would take action. The process depended on individual responsibility, with the hierarchy built so that shifting blame would be difficult. Penalties for failure by pettiness or indifference would be rough.

  Block was awed. “Magnificent! Pure intellectual genius, Miss Pular! I see just one flaw.”

  “Sir?”

  “Human nature. Even with penalties built in not everyone will strive to achieve the common goal.”

  Singe was deflated. “Oh. Humans. Right.”

  “It’s still the best idea I’ve heard. Definitely something to build on. We’ll dedicate a holding cell in your name.” Which, grinning, he said to her back. She was up and moving into the hallway. “Uh... Did I hurt her feelings?”

  79

  Singe’s feeling were not bruised. She had heard a knock that eluded the rest of us. She was back in a minute with Kolda, the poisoner.

  Damn! Now I was doing it.

  The company made Kolda nervous. He refused a seat when Singe offered it. “I can only stay a minute. I just wanted to drop off some medicines. This bottle, with the green powder in it, is for Mr. Dotes. It will help his body flush poisons. Have him use it till it’s all gone, no matter how good he thinks he feels. And this bottle, with the stuff that looks like ground amber, is for the man with the cancers. Very expensive but very effective. It’s exuded by an exotic tropical beetle. Give him a pinch with every meal. No more than a pinch. More could kill him. Even a pinch may leave him feeling so nauseous that he might try to talk you out of giving him any more. Make him stick it out.”

  “Kolda, thank you, man. You’ve gone beyond the call. What do I owe you?”

  “This is on me, Garrett. But I figure it makes us even. I’ll charge you next time.”

  “Something to drink?” Singe asked.

  “I shouldn’t. It’s a bit early.”

  “You sure? Not even one beer?”

  “Well... One can’t hurt.”

  Singe headed for the kitchen.

  Kolda glanced around, decided to sit after all. He leaned toward me. “There was one more thing.”

  “We’re all friends here.”

  Kolda shrugged. “When I was going around the trade looking for something to fight tumors several chemists and apothecaries hit me up for Jane’s mint seed. I don’t have any. Not to wholesale. It’s rare. After I’d been asked a few times I started asking back, about why.”

  “Uhm?”

/>   “Jane’s mint only grows in boggy places. It’s not really mint but crushing the leaves produces a juice with a mint smell. It shouldn’t be ingested. It used to be used to poison mice. The seeds are hard to collect. You have to catch them at exactly the right time.”

  “We’re interested in Jane’s mint seeds because?”

  “Because the powdered seeds have an almost miraculous healing effect. And someone has been buying them up. The price has gone up tenfold in a month.”

  I exchanged looks with Block, then held up a restraining hand when he wanted to press for details. Kolda didn’t notice.

  Belinda didn’t care. She was having trouble staying conscious.

  Singe returned. Kolda accepted a mug, took a long pull, was pleasantly surprised, belched, then told me, “And that’s about all I know, heading west.” He drained his mug and got his feet under him again.

  Singe released him into the wild, then hustled back to eavesdrop while Block and I quarreled over whether the Guard or the Outfit should make the rounds of the town’s chemists. I thought Belinda’s thugs would be more effective.

  I wondered, “Did you get anything from the bodies you hauled away the other night?”

  “They got confiscated by people who had the right warrants but not the right look.”

  “I smell obfuscation,” Belinda said, suddenly awake. She had on a big smile. She had been faking the drunk. And she knew more than the Civil Guard thought she should.

  Block said, “We did what we could in the time that we had.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Two zombies had faces resembling those of known criminals. It wasn’t for sure. The outsides of the bodies were more like leather than normal skin. The forensic sorcerers said they were dressed in whole human skins after the surgical rebuilding. The major seams were in the back. Not all of the skins fit right, which might be why they wear the woolen tights. The helmets hide the faces, which are in bad shape. The hair falls out in patches, even in the beards and eyebrows.”

  I hit the key point. “You recognized two of them.”

  “We think we did.”

  “And?”

  “And what, Garrett?”

  “Who were they? How did they die? Where? When? What were the circumstances?”

  “They were housebreakers. They were sent to the work camps. Once we give them to Works they’re not our problem anymore.”

  Things might have been starting to line up. The Dead Man’s compound minds might have pushed on past what had to be obvious even to a general.

  I said, “If somebody wanted a supply of corpses, she could make a deal with somebody at a work camp. Not many of those crooks finish their sentences still breathing.”

  “The reason they die is that they get used up. They don’t get fed right, they work long hours with primitive tools, and they get no medical attention. All part of the price of being a bad guy. Works has hundreds of prisoners and has to account for them only when their sentences are up. If a prisoner dies they report it so we can tell the family that what they expected has come to pass.”

  I had an evil turn of mind. I imagined several ways that men more wicked than the prisoners could profit from the penal work system.

  No doubt the bad guys out there had thought of them all and a dozen more.

  Block said, “We’re looking at it, Garrett. Supposedly in regard to complaints about prisoner abuse.”

  “The more I learn the more useless I feel.”

  I expected to hear something reassuring. Instead, he said, “That’s because you haven’t come to terms with having to be a desk jockey. You’re sitting on your butt when you think you should be out kicking ass and taking names.”

  Singe made a noise suspiciously like that from someone who snorts while breaking up inside but is compelled to maintain a straight face.

  Block went on, “How come you think you have to be useful? I mean, why now, suddenly, when you spent forever being an obstruction?”

  I did not want to have this argument. It was the same crap I’d gotten from minions of the law since I went into business.

  “I try and try but I can’t figure out how me not being your brownnose butt boy qualifies as obstructionism. The gods didn’t send me down here to wash your feet, kiss your ass, and whisper in your ear what a great stud you are. You know that’s bullshit better than I do.”

  Singe and Jon Salvation popped out of their chairs, tried to calm me down. Singe made my drinking cup disappear. Block gaped like he had opened a casket full of worms.

  My mouth just kept running. “I have no clue how you and that repugnant troll Relway got the idea that I’m supposed to be your tool but you need to get shut of the notion, now and forever.”

  I was shouting before I finished. Penny came to see what was happening. Belinda clapped and cheered. Jon Salvation told Penny, “Just a little trouble handling his drink. Ask Dean if he has anything useful in a situation like this.”

  The man was right. I shouldn’t have had that water-of-life. It had opened a door. The frustrations were getting out.

  Singe, assisted by Jon Salvation and Dollar Dan, returned me to my former place of glory beside Morley, next door. Singe and Dollar Dan sat on me. I became fixated on that rat, wondering if he hadn’t moved in when I wasn’t looking.

  He was never underfoot. He was invisible most of the time. But he was always there when someone needed him.

  I faded into a nap wondering if he was more than a ratman. He might be a living metaphor for his whole race.

  80

  Business rolled along while I snoozed. People came, people went. General Block, Belinda, and Saucerhead all left. Some beer and a nap were all Tharpe needed. Singe and Jon Salvation got their heads together, scheming something. Morley woke up and turned crabby because he had missed Belinda. Salvation left after his confab with Singe.

  Tinnie dropped in and spent some quality time with Singe, their banter getting heated. First, Singe would not let her wake me up. She used the words “too much drama” more than once. Then the overdue dividend came up. The exchange went from heated to icy. Tinnie refused to believe that our shares had not been paid.

  Singe said, “I have received no deposit receipt from our bankers. Produce evidence that payment was made.”

  This was when Morley entered and saw the actual exchange.

  Tinnie replied, “We have not failed, ever, to meet our obligations, on time and in full. What you claim is impossible.”

  Singe countered, “You handle the fiscal paperwork for Amalgamated. Even when you don’t authorize payments you keep records of them. So I say again, show me proof of payment. Our bankers would have given you a receipt, too. Produce it.”

  Morley was impressed by Tinnie’s self-control. By this point most Karentines would have launched a vile rant about uppity vermin.

  “Tinnie saves her bile for me.”

  Evidently Singe’s grim, firm, confident, no-nonsense attitude got the best of the redhead. She scribbled a note, then roared out of the house.

  Morley said, “I expect somebody at Amalgamated is hanging by his short hairs now. If what Singe claimed is true.”

  Having seen Typhoon Tinnie Tate in a category-four rage I was glad the bad weather was headed elsewhere.

  I read her note.

  Sorry I came when you were resting. I had a wonderful time at rehearsal. Never felt so happy. Thank you, Malsquando. Love you, and always will. X O X

  It was not signed.

  Had anyone read it?

  Singe? Almost certainly.

  Morley? No. His odd sense of honor would forbid it.

  Dean might have done had he known about it and been inclined to think being aware of the contents would help him protect the household.

  Penny appeared while I brooded, bringing tea. She saw the unfolded note. She reddened.

  So.

  Why would she be nosy?

  Did she have some vague notion about getting back at Tinnie for having fed
her so much slime about me?

  Morley watched Penny leave. He chuckled.

  “What?”

  “You missed some real excitement.”

  “My head hurts.”

  “It ought to. And you did it to yourself.”

  Not only did my head hurt, it was still wobbly from the dizzy water. “What did I miss? Besides Tinnie?”

  “Winger. She came looking for her pet playwright. He was gone by then. She was hammered. She wouldn’t believe Singe. Singe and Dollar Dan got her under control. She went away, then.”

  “Bad shape, eh?”

  “Blitzed pathetic. She’s too old for melodrama.”

  “Aren’t we all? But still it happens.”

  We shared a moment of silence, reflecting on the absurdities of our relationships.

  Morley asked, “Is it even possible for men to get past adolescence?”

  “Maybe not. I’m missing Old Bones big-time right now. He could share centuries of observation.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he could answer your question. Me, I think we can’t help but act like juvenile idiots till we can’t contribute to the continuation of our tribes anymore.”

  “If we were well behaved and thought with our heads...”

  “We’re slaves to our little best friends. But the gods had a reason for making us that way.”

  “A disgusting digression, Garrett. But you’re probably right. And the gods made sure that girls are dim enough to believe anything we tell them until they’re old. Nature wants that next generation’s boots on the ground before anything else.”

  “Because we do think, though, we make it more of an adventure by coming up with ways to get around Nature.”

  Morley lost interest. He asked, “Where are we going, Garrett?”

  “Nowhere. I’m going to sit here and feel sorry for myself. My head will be ready to explode in a couple more hours.”

  “I meant in our relationships.”