Cruel Zinc Melodies (24 page)

Were he among the breathing I would’ve wondered what he was chewing.

Get going.
Patience exhausted. Cranky again.

Nagged unto death, I donned my loaner coat and went. A Singe all thrilled because she had her own office now, bigger than mine, all to herself alone, shut the door behind me.

I saw all kinds of unhappy truths during my descent to the pavements of Macunado Street. In
that
direction Little Miss High Priestess in Exile, Penny Dreadful, waited for me to disappear so she could cadge a meal and, probably, make me look even badder. In
this
direction lurked a guy I couldn’t see who radiated a cosmically bad odor.
Yonder
, a clutch of nonchalant loiterers in mufti, with tin whistles under their shirts, looked forward to getting some exercise trudging around TunFaire behind the city’s most lovable former Marine.

Barate Algarda was in the gallery, too. Lurking with less success than Felhske. Could I lure him close enough for the Dead Man to snap up?

Head east. Turn south on Wizard’s Reach. Then take the alley. Try not to frighten Penny.

A pear-shaped, bug-loving teen sat on the steps to Mrs. Cardonlos?
establishment, uphill. He had fallen asleep. Thereby failing to note the magnitude of his folly. The Relway Runners avoided disturbing him as they came and went. I wondered what the hell he was doing but did not want to put him on the spot by stopping to ask.

I followed the Dead Man’s suggestion. Except for the part about not scaring Penny Dreadful. I couldn’t resist.

Round the block I went, in a direction I seldom travel. And came back into Macunado nose to nose with the Cardonlos place. I was tempted to drop in unannounced. Or maybe play a game of wild goose with the widow’s houseguests, leading them around till the spring thaw came.

I would have done it, too. A few years ago. Deal Relway be damned.

That old devil maturity had a hold on me.

Absent Barate Algarda, I toddled onward, onward, into TunFaire’s black bureaucratic heart. To the Chancellery, where I took time to enjoy the ranting of the hardy lunatics spouting paranoid conspiracy theories and political absurdities on the building’s steps. A last taste while I could get it. This tradition wouldn’t last. Some raving conspiracy theorists lack the sense to leave Deal Relway out of their formulae.

A sizable percentage of the city’s population waited impatiently while I indulged. All those potential witnesses wanted me to get on along and do something interesting.

In ages past, in the long ago, when I’d wanted to get into the Royal Library? which is
not
for the use of any hairy Tom Dick who claims he’s Karentine? I’d shown up at a particular side door. A small cash transfer blinded the guard there. The unstated rule being, I’d start no fires and wouldn’t pee in the corners while I was inside.

No tip, however, ever sheltered me from the wrath of sweet Lindalee’s superiors. Who were sure thumbscrews and branding irons were too good for someone who actually wanted to look inside their books. Or maybe wanted to get close to a particular young librarian.

No reasonable man expected exemption from betrayal under the circumstances obtaining at the Royal Library. A smart man handled his business fast.

And here, now, with the weak half of an army tracking me, where was the point of expecting privacy?

47

I went to my special side door. No way a lowlife like me could walk in through the front. There are maybe fifteen Royals who enjoy that privilege.

Snootiness doesn’t keep us lesser beings out. If we’re armed with the silver key.

The old soldier watching the door was new. He didn’t know me, either. But he liked my coat. I could tell. And he was old pals with the dead king on the chunk of silver I passed him. He didn’t even speak. He just closed his eyes as a stray gust whiffed into the library. Probably planning an outing with his old pal, King Whoever.

I headed for the rare books, not sneaking. Hardly anyone visited them, though Lindalee always enjoyed their company.

For a moment I feared I might feel guilty about how I’d treated Lindalee. Maybe even about how I’d treat her now, considering I was fenced in by Tinnie.

Curses! This was worse than the hives. I was breaking out all over in a
bad
case of growing up. And wasn’t worried about finding a cure.

I took a wrong turn. In the sense that I rounded a stack and buried my beautiful honker in the brown sweater armoring the belly of a familiar ogre. Wool on an ogre? Yes. This big boy looked like the male equivalent of the librarian stereotype. He even wore reading glasses, which are expensive. Even when their lens don’t have to be custom-ground.

The ogre didn’t move. There was no way around him. He had an acre of foot at the end of each tree trunk of a leg. The outsides of those lapped against the bases of the stacks to either hand.

In the real world ogre expressions are easily read. There is snarling while they sleep. And there’s snarling as they try to rip bits off of you. They don’t stand around looking at you like the unexpected rat dropping that just surfaced in the porridge.

That’s what this one did. He stared. Then he stared some more, upper lip rising in a sneer. He did nothing else but breathe. And take up space.

I apologized for my clumsiness and stepped back.

With my nose in brown wool I was too close to handle easily. I did him a favor by opening the range. He took advantage, latching on to various limbs. In seconds I was back in the weather, floundering in nasty slush, my spiffy borrowed coat all wet, filthy, and torn. Poindexter the literary ogre was back inside. Through the open doorway I heard him suffer harpy shrieks because he had been too gentle.

That wasn’t Lindalee being shrill. That was her boss. A lovable spinster? for whom they invented the word “harridan” because nothing already out of the forge was harsh enough to fit. She never did like me.

The man I’d reunited with his dead pal stuck his head outside, curious to see how far I had flown before splash-down. He looked guilty round the edges. Like he might have operated some kind of silent alarm.

So much for a cerebral line of investigation.

What now?

48

The Dead Man opened with an oblique, snide observation about pigeons coming home to roost. Singe helped me out of my wet things. She hustled the loaner coat into the kitchen for a drying session. Meanwhile, I nearly panicked, thinking Old Bones had found him a way to get the Goddamn Parrot back.

He was just being a pain.

We will access the library another way. Do we know a respected member of the community who owes us a favor?

“And can read? No. People like that try to stay away from people like us.”

Unless they go into business with us. Surely, there are those who might be induced.
He offered suggestions, including Max Weider, Manvil Gilbey, even Tinnie Tate.

“Tinnie? You looking to start a war?”

I doubt there would be problems. What competition there may have been is over. I expect Miss Tate and the other woman would spend an afternoon amusing themselves by trading war stories. Or horror stories, as the mood demanded.

That was worth being nervous about.

Go to the World. See what Mr. Tharpe has to report. Ask Miss Winger to come see me.

“What do you want with her?”

Nothing. As I mentioned recently, I can use her shadow. Who will not come if he knows he is the object of my interest.

“The Remora?” I’d thought he was just making mental bathroom noises. Jon Salvation was a standout among the dozen most useless human beings I’d ever met.

Indeed.

I shook my head. No more questions. He might give me answers I didn’t want to hear.

I will want Cypres Prose, too.

Had he mentioned that before? Maybe when I was more focused on beer? My mind wasn’t at peak today.

Or most any other day, inasmuch as you refuse to exercise it.

“Use it or lose it.” See. Mind at half speed. Handing him a straight line like that.

Of late, he’s made a habit of ignoring these opportunities. Leaving me to stew in my own humiliation.

I did not mention Kip Prose before. Perhaps your undermind is engaged even while the rest lies fallow.

It could happen. “If I run into him. If he’s willing to come back.” I reminded him, “He has been here before.”

Yes. And I may have missed something important.

Oh, it pained him to confess. Especially when I observed, “Hubris.”

Close.

He was irked with himself. He had gotten sloppy. Too full of himself, and sloppy.

Garrett!

Though you could not have pried it out of him with a giant’s crowbar.

I heard the front door open and shut. “Where is Singe going?”

Miss Pular is on a mission.

“And Penny Dreadful? I saw her hanging around out there.”

She had a report. And hoped I would have more work for her. Likewise, Joe Kerr and his countless siblings.

Uh-oh. It’s not good when he starts playing general and king spider tugging strings from the heart of his web. He has too much fun. And I get scared. And too soon penniless.

Web-spinners are, generally, female. And the brewery is underwriting expenses.

“There are limits, even for Max Weider. Who has a nose for financial bullshit better than Singe’s for a track. What about Barate Algarda? Did you get anything out of him?”

Embarrassed pause.
No. I was unable to gain control. His protection was stronger than before.

“That’s kind of scary.” I told him about seeing the pear-shaped boy asleep on the steps of the Cardonlos mansion.

That is odd.

“For a while I was thinking he might be on Relway’s payroll. But that wouldn’t make sense. If he was he wouldn’t be out where people could see him. So I figure he didn’t know where he was when he sat down.”

Dean appeared. He brought a fine meal. I know that because Dean cooked it. But I was too distracted to enjoy it. I don’t recall what it was. He told me, “I’ve packed something for you to take along. Since you'll be out late. Your coat is almost dry.”

I suffered a fleeting inclination to visit my old-time haunts. Get a take on the pulse of the city today. Very fleeting. I ate. I listened to the Dead Man wax eloquent on the possibilities inherent in a rumor that Dean had stumbled over during a shopping run he hade made while I was off enjoying a lesson in humility.

Glory Mooncalled may be back.

That would have nothing to do with what we were into today. That was excitement from the past. Interesting to the fans of Glory Mooncalled, but, no way. “Anyone who claims he’s Glory Mooncalled is an impostor.”

You think so? Is he really gone? He is a folk hero. A lovable rogue. The man who steals from everybody and gives to himself, but the poor and weak just see him thumbing his nose at the rich and powerful.

“Dean’s imagination is overwrought. I'll believe it when I see it. Whatever the story is. What does it have to do with what we’re into?”

Nothing. As you reflected, just a bit of news that might someday prove interesting to his many aficionados.

Not just women but whole societies sometimes love the bad boys.

49

It was getting on toward evening. Despite the chill nothing was coming down, chunk-style or liquid. People were out enjoying themselves, without fear. I watched excited young people take turns ferociously racing three-wheels. Not once did I see one of those once common, sinister characters who had a stretch of his side of the street all to himself.

The why was plain. Wherever you looked you saw a guy in blue, sporting a red flop hat. Where was Colonel Block getting the money to pay them? He poor-mouthed constantly whenever I saw him.

When you thought about it, though, the Crown could use money it once spent making war. Were it so inclined. Cynical me, I couldn’t see the Royal crowd giving a rat’s ass. Excepting Prince Rupert.

The prince is a special nut. A Deal Relway fan at the highest altitude.

People followed me. Not so many as before. They had decided I wasn’t going to do anything interesting.

I hoped. I’d had about enough interesting times.

I found Saucerhead in a state of excitement, roaming around the outside of the World. Some work had gotten done today. A brace of roofers were still on the job.

Gilbey had taken my advice about offering discharges.

Tharpe practically exploded. “Sekmat on a broomstick, Garrett! What the hell is wrong with this place?”

“Excuse me?” And, “What the hell is that?”

I did know what “that” was, not being blind. It was a flying thunder lizard. There are a dozen species out in the wilds of Karenta. Here in town they’re usually small and pick on pigeons. But we don’t see them during the cold winter.

The beast that had snatched a cat-size beetle off the unfinished roof had a ten-foot wingspan. The roofers saw that as God’s way of telling them it was time to knock off for the day.

Tharpe said, “That kinda shit’s been going on all day. Along with ghosts roaming around inside, and weird music playing. Two of my toughest guys quit. Couldn’t take it. The ones that stuck, none a’them will go inside no more. What did you get me into, Garrett?”

“You wanted a job.”

“Yeah, but...”

“I don’t know what’s going on. Finding out and making it stop is why we’re here. Here’s a fact for you, though. Only one guy has gotten hurt so far. A drunk who passed out behind those pillars. The bugs got him.”

“Oh. That helps. When the carpenters say it’s way spookier now than it was before they walked out.”

“What happened?”

“Besides what I done told you?”

“Yes. Besides the exciting stuff.” A pair of flying thunder lizards banked overhead.

“Some guys? eight, altogether? showed up for work. Two tried inside. Four went up on the roof. One did some base coat painting by that far doorway. The last guy went around yelling at all the rest. Reminding me why I got a such hard time holding that kind a job. I keep thumping guys like him. Anyways, he said more guys will show up tomorrow. And he’d sincerely appreciate it if
somebody
would do
something
about the goddamn
bugs
.”