by Glen Cook
Dotes whined something irrelevant about the whole thing having been my idea and registered a plea for a lot less vocal volume.
"Pussy. I wake up feeling like this three or four times a week. And I function. What the hell are those people roaring about?" Neighbors not struck down were rushing into the street. In normal times their voices would have been considered restrained. Not so now.
They all stared at the sky.
I looked up just in time to see something large and shiny and shaped like a discus disappear behind nearby rooftops, heading north. "What the hell was that?" I glanced at Morley. "Never mind. Don't tell me. Your cousins just got away in one of those flying lights that people keep seeing."
"Cousins? Those things weren't elves, Garrett. Not elves of any kind. Their mouths and eyes were all wrong. They didn't have elven teeth. Maybe they're some kind of foreign, deformed humans. You might look into that. But they're definitely not elves."
Playmate came around. Between groans he asked, "Did we get him back?"
"Kip? We didn't even get a wink this time. Let's see what we did get. Maybe that whore Fate has a heart of gold after all."
We managed to collect a few scraps of silvery cloth and nearly a dozen other items of wildly varying shape and no obvious utility. Those included several small, torn bags made of a silvery, somewhat paperlike material. The rest resembled smooth gray rocks with a very unrocklike feel that came in varying regular shapes. Most had markings in green and red and yellow that looked like writing but which were in no familiar alphabet.
One of Morley's men came up with a bag that hadn't been opened. Its contents turned out to be two thick biscuits the texture of oatmeal cakes. They had a sorghum molasses odor.
"Food," Playmate said. "We broke up a meal."
"I could use something to eat," Saucerhead said by way of announcing his recovery. "We still got that cheese basket?" He rubbed his forehead as he looked around. He has an amazingly high threshhold of pain but now he had begun to respond to it. "What happened?" He reached out and helped himself to the elven oatmeal cakes. He wolfed them down before anybody could remind him of the legends about fairy food.
Nobody answered his question. Because nobody had an answer.
"Lookit there!" somebody shrieked. In a second half the crowd were pointing skyward again.
The silver disk was back. And it was in a big hurry. It left a thunderclap behind as it streaked off southward.
"Hey! There's another one!"
One turned into three in a matter of seconds. Only these weren't disks. They looked like giant glowing gas balls. On a smaller scale I'd seen something similar in the will-o'-the-wisps of the swamps on the islands I'd visited during the war.
The glowing globes chased the silvery disk.
Morley murmured, "I've been hearing about these things for weeks but I'd about made up my mind that they were pure popular hysteria."
I looked around for an easily accessible high place. I wanted a clear line of sight to the west, toward the heart of town. Toward the Hill. To discover if those lights ended up there. Because this looked like the sort of thing those people would pull. Squabbling amongst themselves using experimental sorceries while the folk of the city got run over.
Morley asked, "You think your friends the unemployed gods might be back, Garrett?"
That hadn't occurred to me. "I doubt it. They were more reserved. They didn't show themselves unless they wanted to be seen. Mainly because they couldn't be seen by nonbelievers unless they made a huge effort."
"I don't think that these people would attract attention if they were given an option. Something intense is going on with them, sufficient to make being noticed the lesser concern."
"Probably." I did think he was right. Logically, if you were a foreigner running around in an alien town you wouldn't let yourself be noticed unless it was unavoidable. "You think Saucerhead is going to croak on us?"
Tharpe had turned several indescribable colors, near as I could tell by torchlight. Torches and lanterns were turning up now that the curious felt safe enough to come out of their homes. Just as well that they hadn't before, too. We'd have awakened to find ourselves plucked of everything but our toenails.
"I think he might want to die," Morley said. "I think we ought to discover ourselves in another location sometime soon. This much activity is bound to attract lawmen."
And he wouldn't want the notice, however much he protests his innocence of the illegal of late.
Maybe old habits die hard.
These days, with the postwar economic depression becoming entrenched, the new secret police are very interested in any center of excitement. A minor bit no more scary than a street party can turn into a riot at the bump of a belly between an unemployed human and almost any nonhuman he might suspect of having moved into a human's job while human soldiers were away risking their lives on behalf of the kingdom.
These are social problems that aren't going to go away anytime soon.
I said, "We do have everything we need for a blowup."
Morley nodded. He understood. He shared my concern.
He has become very sensitive in these changing times. He doesn't like the way things are headed. Though it isn't the conflict that bothers him. That can be exploited to produce big profits. What he abhors is the growing power of the Crown and its determined interference in our everyday lives.
An elven trait, to believe that that government governs best which doesn't govern at all. Chaos is more fun. Anarchy is the ideal. And only the strong survive.
Morley would admit that a sustained harsh dose of genuine anarchy most likely would result in the extinction or expulsion of every species of elf currently calling TunFaire home.
I told Morley, "That was an absolutely marvelous suggestion, old friend. Can I assume that it'll be you carrying Pular Singe... ? What?"
Singe was still unconscious. But I wasn't concerned about her. "Morley. I just saw Bic Gonlit. He was watching us from across the street."
"So let's get Singe put back together and see if she can get on his trail. He just might know where to look for Playmate's kid."
"You don't think she can track Kip from here?"
"Not if he got carried away inside a giant flying wheel, I don't."
An excellent point. Not one I'd wanted to look at close up yet, though. You hope you can catch an occasional break.
Singe was getting her feet under her now, with a little help from Playmate.
"Let's see about traveling on, then," I told Morley. "I just spotted another familiar face. This one I recollect seeing in the vicinity of Colonel Block and Deal Relway in a none too distant past." I made a big effort to remember such faces so I can exercise some sort of exit strategy when I see one again. "I'll help with Singe."
15
The secret police evidently didn't have an interest strong enough to pursue us. At the moment. But I was willing to bet that I'd hear from Westman Block if anyone in the Tenderloin had recognized me.
Colonel Westman Block, erstwhile acquaintance of that handsome Marine named Garrett, oversaw all police forces and functions in TunFaire. That included the secret police. Theoretically. On paper.
We gathered in a dark place, half a mile from the excitement, and considered, "What now?"
Singe said, "I cannot possibly follow a man who flew away through the air, inside a flying boat made out of metal." She then wondered aloud, "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Because Morley said almost exactly the same thing just before you woke up. We decided to chase Bic Gonlit instead." She knew the name from discussions of what was happening, back when we were tracking Kip. "As soon as we were sure we'd shaken the police."
"You must tell me more about this Bic Gonlit."
Playmate and I both tried to explain Bic Gonlit and his place in what was happening. A challenging task, of course, since we had almost no idea ourselves. I added, "Only, I'm not sure if he's actually part of what happened this afternoon."
"You people like to think you are so much smarter than us but sometimes you are really dumb, Garrett. You start talking before you think. How do you expect me to follow someone who is just another face in a crowd?"
"She's got you there," Morley said, content to leave all the blame with me. "I could use a little more information myself. Bic Gonlit is only a name to me."
"He's this little round fat guy who wears funny boots—"
"There was a little round fat man with hugely thick-soled boots I saw several times on the way down here. I thought he might be doing something for you because your parrot was right there near him."
"I didn't see him," Playmate said. "Not the bird, either."
"Nor did I," I confessed. My parrot. Following me around. And I never noticed.
It might be time to consider alternative careers.
"I noticed the bird," Singe said. "I saw the fat man, too. But I did not know Mr. Big was following him. I thought he was following you, Garrett. He is still around. I saw him just a minute ago. Yes. Over there. Where we came from. Up on that cornice thing where the pigeons are sleeping."
"I've made up my mind. I'm going to see Weider and tell him I'm taking the security job at the brewery." I felt completely blind and useless. It was so dark I couldn't find the end of my arm.
"There is a short little fat man over there watching us, too," Singe told me. "He is hiding behind those steps right under the parrot."
Like anybody could see all that if they just looked. Grrr! The only thing I could see was a glow in the distance, about where we'd lost track of Kip.
I really was inclined to tell Max Weider I was ready to come on board. Truly. At that moment. But, before I hung it up, I had to try another stunt or two. "I have a thought. We're all tired. Why don't we head for my place? If Gonlit really is following us, we can lead him to the Dead Man."
I was past ready to go home. I was desperate for something to take the edge off my headache. And I was hungry. And I was tired. Getting knocked unconscious regularly takes the vinegar out of you fast, even if you're not going out by getting bopped on the head.
My plan, as proposed, didn't stir a word of protest. Much to my amazement. Morley is naturally contentious. He'll get involved in arguments just to entertain himself. But all he said was, "I'm worn-out, too. And The Palms is headed into its busiest time. And I left Puddle in charge."
"I got a thing going myself," Saucerhead said. "I need to get back, too, unless something starts happening."
Even Playmate was willing to shut it down for the night. And to desert me when he did. "Nobody's been at the stable all day. I need to get back there before the animals get so upset they... " He stopped. I think he was about to let slip something terrible about the conspiracy amongst horses but realized that me finding out might turn out to be bad luck for him. He changed the subject. "And somebody's going to have to tell Kip's family what's happened."
A while later, after a period of silence, Playmate asked, "You wouldn't consider taking care of that for me, would you, Garrett?"
"Not likely, old buddy. Not likely. After today's adventures you're not real high on my ‘please, God, let me do him a favor' list."
The tiniest flicker of a smirk crossed Playmate's features before he settled on an expression of stolid resignation. I had the feeling that I'd just gotten jobbed but couldn't figure out how.
16
I never saw the Goddamn Parrot before he dropped onto my shoulder in Wizard's Reach, two blocks from home. Or one block through the alley to my back fence. By then the only companions I had were the bird and Pular Singe. None of us were inclined to lose any sleep looking for Cypres Prose anymore.
Maybe I was just telling myself what I wanted to hear when I reasoned that Kip was in no physical danger because the silver elves had shown no inclination to do anyone any permanent harm. So far.
Kip's personality might trigger the extra effort. The bird said nothing. His presence was the message. The Dead Man knew we were coming. And he knew that Bic Gonlit was on our trail.
Now we would see how well the little fat man had done his homework.
If he knew much about the Dead Man he wouldn't get too close to the house. Not as close as he'd gotten in the alley. Though how close is really too close is something even I don't know.
The Goddamn Parrot whispered, "He has stopped, Garrett. He has positioned himself behind the Bailnoc stoop. From there he can see the front of our house while he stays far enough removed that I cannot read much more than his moods."
He didn't seem to mind Singe finding out that he could chat with me through the ugly rooster. I didn't think he was dumb enough to believe that she was too dim to catch on. So he trusted her completely.
Handy to know just how trustworthy your associates are.
I looked back. I couldn't see a thing. I wondered how Gonlit could be watching me. I wondered about his connections. He'd have to have some potent ones helping right now. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to follow me around unnoticed.
That takes some advanced magic.
I think I'm pretty good at this stuff I do. I don't normally get tailed without noticing unless the tail comes armed with some pretty potent sorcerous tools.
As Singe and I climbed the stoop a sleepy-angry tittering broke out somewhere up under the eaves. Something as fast as a hummingbird dropped down and circled us several times too swiftly to be seen clearly.
My front door opened. Dean must've been alerted by the Dead Man. He stood there in his nightshirt, scowling, holding a lamp above his head, disapproving of birth, death, and most everything in between.
"Early night?" I asked. The nightshirt was for commentary only. It wasn't yet time for him to retire. He doesn't change until he's ready to slide into bed. Unless he wants to make some point that will remain obscure to everyone but him.
He grunted and rewarded me with an even blacker scowl.
"What's with the gang of pixies up there?" I expected their presence would keep us arguing like pixies for weeks.
"Ask the thing. He's the one who decided to adopt them."
Ah. Live and learn. And discover the real root of Dean's bad temper. The Dead Man had done something to offend his sense of rectitude.
Dean was aggrieved further because I'd been all set to blame him. Because that's the kind of thing he's likely to do. Every time I turn around he's trying to take in another stray.
This might require some untangling.
"I'll talk to him," I promised. I wasn't really happy, either.
Living near pixies is like setting up housekeeping inside a colony of sparrows. The squabbling never stops. And this bunch was making themselves at home right above my bedroom window.
None of that would bother Old Bones. He's dead. He doesn't have to listen to the racket.
Darkly, I added, "Failing him seeing reason, I know where I can come up with a nest of bumblebees." Bumblebees and the smallest of the little people were feuding before the appearance of the first men. If you credit the legends of the wee folk.
Dean growled something about, "Then how do we get rid of the bumblebees?"
He grows ever more pessimistic as he ages.
"One step at a time, brother. One step at a time. Right now we've got trouble on a grander scale. I lost the boy who came here looking for help today. In circumstances surpassing strange. Make some tea, slap together some sandwiches, bring everything in with His Nibs, and I'll fill you in."
The old man headed for the kitchen. I'd triggered his concern for the lost and the hopeless. Earlier he'd been ready to stuff Kip into a gunnysack with a couple boulders so the boy could have a close-up look at the lost treasures on the bottom of the river somewhere off the Landing.
Singe watched while I took the Goddamn Parrot to his perch in the small front room. The Dead Man had withdrawn his control and inhibiting influence. The feathered weasel was returning to normal. He muttered like a stevedore but his big interest at the moment was food, not obnoxio
us chatter meant to get his owner crucified. He let Singe stroke his feathers as long as she didn't interfere with his dining.
Singe was pleased. Normally that jungle buzzard is less kind to her than he is to me. She looked up at me and tried to smile.
"Wish you wouldn't do that."
"Am I doing it wrong?"
"No. But you're not people. Be content to be the brightest and best ratwoman who ever lived. Be true to yourself." I felt like somebody's dad, spouting clichés. Then, of course, I felt really awful because I was old enough to understand what the clichés were all about. Embarrassment followed that as I remembered the cocksure boys we'd been when we were getting showered with the stupid stuff that turned out to be Joe Everyman's way of trying to pass along his accumulated wisdom.
She is young, Garrett. And she has only just escaped a state closely approximating slavery. She will need time and numerous opportunities to shore up her belief in herself.
Old Bones has a soft spot for Singe, too. Though he'd never admit that if it were suggested aloud. He'd never confess to any form of emotional vulnerability or sentimental weakness.
I kept thinking about old men and clichés. And I kept trying to avoid considering how often the Dean Man threw those things my way. Because I resented his advice almost as much as I'd resented advice from men of my father's generation when I was fifteen. I guess neither the old men nor the young men ever learn, but they keep on trying.
Dean nearly beat us to the Dead Man's room with the refreshments. I got a lamp going. Singe dragged in a special chair I'd had made that let her sit without having to worry about her troublesome tail. In moments she and I were hard at work. On the tea and sandwiches.
"Damn!" I woofed around a glob of bread and ham. "I didn't realize how hungry I was. The effects of that knockout spell must be all the way worn off now."
Singe grunted. She didn't have time for anything else. Once she gulped down everything Dean didn't nibble and I didn't devour, she looked around like she hoped there was still a whole roast pig she'd overlooked. I knew a reinforced battalion of young women who'd gladly kill, and who'd certainly hate Singe, for her ability to eat and eat and never gain an inappropriate ounce.