"Blame the drink," Block said. "I'm not supposed to let that get out."

Interesting. More Civil Guard disobedience.

Clear as iron, Block and Relway were way not happy with outside pressure. Their scorn for the rules suggested that they had gotten quiet assurances from Prince Rupert that he would notice nothing if somebody did babble too much after a mug of beer.

Somewhat nimbly, Singe moved into the hallway again, headed for the door. She needed to be nimble to get through the crowd.

I took a long sip of firewater and tried to run a census. I couldn't come up with a firm number but there had to be seventeen or eighteen warm bodies cluttering the place.

I was way out of practice for the social life. A little beer, a few sips of ardent spirits, and I was totally relaxed. I no longer had a care. Nothing troubled me. I looked at Strafa without a professional thought in my head.

She looked back. One eyebrow lifted slightly. Her small mouth betrayed a ghost of a smile of invitation, agreement, or triumph.

59

Singe said something out in the hallway. I didn't catch the words but her tone was troubled. John Stretch and I both got up and headed that way, me wondering where I had left my stick and how trouble had gotten close with the Dead Man on the job.

John Stretch put that together quicker than I did. He stopped. I bumped into him, not hard.

Singe returned to the office, headed straight for the cup she had given her brother. Had she been human she would have been pale and grim.

The reason was a step behind her. A fine looking redhead hove into view . . .

That was Kyra Tate, Tinnie's teenage niece, at first glance a dead ringer for her aunt. In the instant it took me to realize that Kyra was not my dearly beloved, the master redhead herself materialized.

Kyra was just a little older than Crush. She came with manifest teen attitude. She did not want to be here--though it soon became evident that it had been her idea to come. Behind her, Tinnie slowed down, jaw descending, as she took in the size and makeup of the crowd.

General Block lifted his mug to Tinnie. "Good evening, Miss Tate. May I say how very handsome you look tonight?"

He could get away with talking to her like she was an old lady. If I said something like that I would regret it for months.

Behind Tinnie came her uncle Oswald. Behind Uncle was cousin Artifice, who had a reputation as a brawler.

I nearly laughed, watching Tinnie's reaction to each presence. Strafa should have fallen down whimpering and crawled under something. Crush should have collapsed into a pile of ash. "Wow. And you still have to meet DeeDee and Mike. And to see how Penny has grown." Which I did not say out loud.

She wouldn't have heard me anyway. She had taken on a glazed look. In a faraway voice she announced, "I have to see the Man Across the Hall."

Said entity touched me ever so lightly, without a word, offering the gentlest of reassurances.

Tinnie had arrived primed for a knock-down, drag-out, once-and-forever showdown but had been, from the moment Singe let her in, thrown off stride. There were ratpeople everywhere. There were numerous human people, too, including the commander of the police and a highly placed sorceress off the Hill. And now she had been summoned to the presence of His Nibs, where she would encounter yet another crop of amazing guests.

Singe collected herself. She asked the other Tates if they would like refreshments. Uncle Oswald nodded.

Never looking up, Crush said, "I'll throw a tantrum if you let her have anything tastier than tea."

"The same rules apply," Singe said.

Kyra knew she was the subject but had no idea why. I explained. "Underage drinking. Singe doesn't approve. Singe, you better check and make sure Penny isn't sneaking anything."

"Your sense of humor never improves."

She and Old Bones both really liked that kid. I never got why. But, so what? I have foibles of my own.

I asked Kyra, "How come you're down here slumming?" She was giving Strafa a suspicious look. She remembered the Windwalker.

No need to explain Artifice and Uncle Oswald. The old man was looking out for the Tate family dignity. Artifice was there to get his butt kicked if Tinnie tried to make her points physically. Also, to make sure she got around safely.

Those streets out there were getting mean again.

Blatant amusement slithered through the ether from the Thing Across the Hall, no cause apparent.

Block recognized Oswald. They were involved in some charity together but only as distant acquaintances. They engaged in a clumsy exchange.

Strafa moved closer, as though to protect me. Kyra and Artifice overlooked that because they had become fascinated by Crush--Kyra maybe because she thought someone her own age had to be as unhappy to be here as she was. Artifice was interested for the reason any man would be. Crush just standing there begged for solicitous male attention. So toothsome was my little Hellbore.

There was, of course, no way Artifice could know that the bloom was gone from that rose and what remained was mostly thorn. Crush was not wearing work clothes.

"Kyra?"

"Sorry, Garrett." She forgot Crush. "It's kind of embarrassing."

"I don't remember you being long on shy." She could be more forceful and straightforward than her aunt. She hadn't had as much practice pretending to be socialized.

Many killers are sociopaths but only a small percentage of sociopaths are killers. Tinnie was the nonlethal sort.

So far.

60

Kyra told me, "I'm not used to having an audience."

Ha! Her problem wasn't Strafa, the General, or John Stretch. Her problem was Artifice and Uncle Oswald. "Bend down here. Whisper."

Crush murmured, "He wants to look down your blouse."

"Humorous, Hellbore, but unfair. She isn't showing a neckline."

Furious Tide of Light tried wilting Crush with her stare.

Crush went back to her book.

Singe arrived with more mugs, more beer, and muffins. That distracted the male Tates.

Kyra dropped to her knees beside me. "I'm having trouble with Kip. That's really why I talked Tinnie into coming. You know Kip. You can give me some advice."

"Amazing," I said in a conversational voice. Strafa had now posted herself behind me, leaning on the back of my chair. Singe was not pleased but her disapproval was so mild that only I got it. "There's a huge chance that I'm the last guy you should ask for relationship advice. But I'll give it a shot."

"I'm seventeen now, Garrett. Kip and I have been together . . . Well, what it is? I don't want to be like you and Aunt Tinnie. Going on and on and on and never . . . Oh, I don't blame you. What's wrong between you and Tinnie is mostly Tinnie's fault. She could've wrapped everything up years ago if she wanted. Now she might lose you."

Crush made some snide remark about here's your chance under her breath. She got the hard-eye from Strafa. Kyra ignored her. "Anyway, I decided I don't want her advice anymore. I want Kip, not the satisfaction of sitting alone in my room feeling smug about how I showed him. No games. Now and forever."

Way to go, Cyprus Prose! You got one of the hottest girls on the continent bewitched. Amazing, nerd boy. How the hell? But it looked like he was close to losing her, probably without realizing there was a problem.

"Kyra, I'm on your side. You're the best thing that ever happened to that boy. So what's the problem? Is he just being his usual dim self? Can't see what's there in front of him unless you smack him between the eyes?"

I tried mentoring the boy, back when. We had some things in common.

"It's sort of like what's going on with you and Tinnie. Only I believed him when he said a friend of his is in trouble and needs his help. My problem is, he shuts me out of that whole side of his life."

Kyra ran out of steam. She had said it all, for the moment. But Tate women seldom stay silent long. I tried to work out what she meant.

Kip did not have many friends.

Strafa still leaned on the back of my chair. Her knuckles were white. Kyra avoided looking at her even though she should have been curious.

Oh. It was the Faction again. The friend in need must be Kevans, a friend Kip had helped, despite all, back when the Windwalker and I first met.

When Kevans and Kip got their heads together technical miracles happened. They invented strange and wonderful things.

Kyra's concern fed Strafa's. Strafa was hard-pressed because she was still afraid that Kevans might be the girl in the tight black leather. Despite believing that Kevans had an alibi for . . .

She did think Kevans was capable of behavior this foul. That was the key.

Oh, my. My new ally, who might become a special new friend, could end up an enemy because the thing she feared most might turn out to be true.

Alibis can be manufactured, before and after the fact.

I had no trouble imagining Kevans dealing with resurrection men, either. I'd never gotten to know her well but I recalled a sociopathic personality. Yet that had been true of most of the Faction. And she had not been the worst.

That might be an angle worth pursuit.

So. Maybe Kevans had been living in that warehouse up north, making new men out of the best pieces of the old.

Where would she get money to pay the resurrection men?

Kip?

I rested my right hand on Strafa's where hers lay on the back of my chair. "She can't afford it."

"What?"

"Think. Where would Kevans get enough money to set up what you saw on the north side?"

Kyra became intensely interested in my hands and dialog. No doubt Tinnie would get a detailed report.

And I, being Garrett the wonder fool, had to ease Strafa's dreads by saying, "Kevans could never look as good in black leather as . . ."

Maybe. Maybe not. When I knew her Kevans had been pretending to be a boy. If she took after her mom she could make that leather smolder. Taking a wild shot at making Strafa feel better because her kid was weirdly built was one of those special moments that make me uniquely me.

An instant after it was too late to avoid getting shoe leather caught between my teeth I had no trouble imagining a dozen voices telling me what an insensitive dumbass I was.

One was not imaginary. It came from the Thing Across the Hall and was heavy with exasperation. But that morphed into a vague apology. If I understood right he was taking out on me frustrations developed while conversing with the redhead. Tinnie had shown complete disdain for reality.

I was amazed. He had lost patience and pushed her out, a tactical error for sure. Even today's more difficult Tinnie is amenable to reason if you put in some time. You do need to be patient, to avoid preaching and rational argument. You need to be intense while you present your position. Worried or scared works best. Then you should shut up and go away. You need to have it end up looking like her agreeing with you was her idea.

Which is more work than most guys are willing to do. It's been getting a lot like involuntary overtime for me, too, lately.

Old Bones thought facts and figures should trump emotion. He was a little out of touch with the raw intensity of the living, yet could get irked by a stubborn woman. He wasn't fond of that sex to begin with. It had taken him an age to warm to Tinnie as much as he ever did. It had taken him time to get used to Singe but they were at peace now.

He'd never had a problem with Penny Dreadful, maybe because Penny came to us before puberty came to her. He had few reservations about Strafa Algarda, who was, for sure, simmering, past puberty.

His ability to be amused by my obsessions and angst remained undiminished.

I heard Tinnie talking in the hallway, presumably to Morley. She wouldn't know DeeDee or Mike. Her tone wasn't hostile.

I was able to exhaust her reserves of venom.

Too many eyes were watching. I couldn't get into a conversation. Old Bones found that amusing, too, because half the current population of the house thought he was snoozing.

I focused on Kyra, though Uncle Oswald and Artifice might be more trouble. And, while I obsessed about Tates, never-so-drunk-as-he-pretended Westman Block committed every nuance to memory. Singe and her brother exchanged significant glances. And Crush went on being every man's sweet young fantasy, pretending to be oblivious while she appreciated Singe's literary treasures.

Kyra and Strafa continued to measure one another.

I grumbled, "What can we toss into this to add a little flavor? How about some hot spice?"

Hot spice debuted, her advent entirely civil.

I wore her down.

One quick glance told me that nobody but Ma Garrett's ever-loving, blue-eyed baby boy was intimidated.

Tinnie stopped in the doorway. She eyed each individual, recognizing everyone but Crush. Crush didn't do her the honor of turning to see who had come in. Tinnie frowned when she looked at Strafa, whom she had seen briefly before.

She was impressed. In one room she had found the commander of the police forces of the greatest city in the world, the chieftain of a major underworld operation, a major player off the Hill, and me.

Clever Strafa had relaxed the intimacy of the distance between us before Tinnie arrived, though not by much.

After visiting the Dead Man and Morley, Tinnie could not help but understand that what was going on here was not just a conspiracy to inconvenience her.

She is starting to get it. Take her out on the stoop and explain it.

I hoisted myself out of my chair. Mug in hand. With murmured encouragement from the Windwalker.

And, for the gods' sake, do not make yourself a sacrificial victim on the altar of let us all just get along.

What did he mean by that?

I mean do not just give her her way because you do not like arguing. This is important.

There followed a psychic echo of a kitten crying, then the crack of a whip.

Hey!

He showed me letting myself be bullied by persons of the female persuasion, all the way back to my mother, but specializing in incidents that gave a certain redhead the hold she had gained over the course of our relationship.

Well.

You are standing there with a dumb look on your face, practically drooling, while a dozen people stare and start to wonder.

Oh. Right.

Old Bones was staging plays inside my noggin. I wondered if he was doing the same thing inside hers. I did hope.

I said, "Let's you and me go out on the stoop where we can talk."

61

It was a quiet night. The sky was clear. The moon would not be up for a while. There were a trillion stars. In some parts of the sky there was more silver dust than darkness. None of the watchers in the shadows made themselves obvious. The men who had accompanied Block had gone to find a tavern. We had the night to ourselves.

Neither of us said anything till a shooting star blazed across the firmament, headed west in a hurry. Then it exploded. For an instant TunFaire was bathed in pallid light.

"This may be the most important night in our lives, Tinnie."

She responded with an inarticulate sound that seemed weighted down with sorrow. She pushed against me like she was cold. She was shivering.

I told her, "We've known each other for a long time. I can't imagine my life without you in it. But I can't go on the way we've been. I can't be what you want. Those people in there are important in my life, too."

The last light of the dying star glistened off a tear. She said nothing.

My heart sank. Old Bones had failed. She would remain stubborn till the end.

Proceed gently, Garrett. All is not lost. Even though he liked Strafa Algarda better than this woman whom he knew so much better.

Tinnie said, "Garrett, I love you. You know that. I have forever. I could say something corny like you complete me. I can't imagine myself with any other man. Whatever I said, however I behaved, whatever else happened in our lives, that's been true since I was a kid and you used to come around to see Denny. Ever since then I've tried hard to understand the Garrett who operates outside the closed field of you and me. But I can't, anymore. I know I shouldn't be so selfish. I know I'm twisting away into a darkness that some people might consider insanity. But I'm obsessed. I can't share you anymore. I can't. The monster inside wants to push it to the point where there is no one but you and me. No work. No distractions. Just us. I know that's crazy. But I can't stop it."

Now she had me scared.

What she says is true but right now she is trying to manipulate you through exaggeration. Nevertheless, that exaggeration is being built on a truth from a level so deep it has never emerged before.

"Can you help?" Tinnie was a major part of my life. I had loved her, maybe too often from a distance, almost as long as she said she had loved me. But I was not obsessed. I had been in love before. The rational side of my mind told me I would survive--if the pain insisted on coming.

The adventure called Strafa Algarda waited on the other side. I knew that. Strafa offered a chance for an adult, cooperative relationship.

I looked at Tinnie and wondered how she had gotten to this point.

She said, "The Dead Man has been inside my head, trying to show me things. He says you're part of a network of friendships and obligations. He says there is a fine woman who wants to be important to you but you still look only toward me . . ."

What game was Old Bones playing?

Tinnie surrendered to wracking sobs.

The problem here is that a part of her mind does remain fully rational. That fraction knows she is crazy. It knows that obsession drives her. But it has no control. It remains a prisoner inside the growing obsession.

"I can't believe it. How could it happen? Could Kolda come up with an herb? Can you do some kind of surgery?"

I might be able. But you will need to convince Miss Tate that she wants to have the corrective work done. And there is the further question of the strength of your own emotional commitment.

I ignored Strafa, thought a question about working Tinnie and this case in parallel.

That might be possible. Assuming she agreed.

"Curses."

I would have to search her mind memory by memory and hurt by hurt to find tipping points in need of adjustment or cauterization. Each such tipping point will have affected every other that followed. It is a three-dimensional problem. The surgery would be far more subtle than an abuse victim like Miss Algarda needs. She is content with the life she has lived. And there would be no guarantees.

Tinnie said, "You and him are talking about me, aren't you?"

"We are." I pulled her into my arms. As always, she felt exactly right, being there. Designed to fit. She cried. I cried. I told her, "We can work this out. If you let it work out. If you let Old Bones make some minor adjustments . . . I'm going to let him work on me."

That was off the top of my head and next to a bald-faced lie. Any refinements my mind needed he would have made already, without mentioning it. Maybe.

Scary thought, that.

Nobody wants to be told that they need fixing. Even when they know it themselves. Tinnie's natural first reaction was rejection. I kept on holding her tight. I said nothing. Talk would not help. What could be talked about had been talked about.

Changes in us would lead to changes in the conversation.

I thought there was a chance. I thought we could find a way.

Uncle Oswald opened the door, checking up. He had a mug in hand. The rosy glow in his cheeks said he was hard at it, enjoying my hospitality. He didn't see any guts strewn about so he grunted and shut the door.

The clinch went on. Tinnie relaxed slowly, surrendering to need. We had to go on. She had to fight the obsession that would make it impossible to do so.

I was confused, for sure. I had this, familiar and mostly comfortable though always freighted with emotion and drama. I had Strafa in the background, exercising a surprisingly powerful pull--not the way it used to be with any female between seven and seventy. That draw was there, too, absolutely. But there was more to it. An intellectual intrigue and a certainty that Strafa Algarda would involve a lot less drama.

Thou foul beast, Temptation!

I felt the amusement of the invisible observer.

It was a classic tough situation.

Tinnie had the lead by a furlong, at the moment. She was as comfortable as an old shoe once she relaxed against me. But Strafa could pull even, or push ahead, with very little effort, if Tinnie wasn't there to rattle my reason.

The invisible observer suggested, It is time to come inside. Something is moving in the darkness. You do not want to be out there should it come this way.

62

The Dead Man's big party rolled on. I led Tinnie into his lair. The temperature had risen there. The air had begun to smell because of the crowd. Penny and the Bird worked on their art. Jimmy Two Steps and Butch's little brother occupied a couple of folding chairs, out of the way, eyes closed, maybe unconscious. Old Bones might be picking their brains.

There is not much there to pick. In any sense.

The lighting was better than usual, on behalf of the artists. The lamps contributed to the rise in temperature.

Playmate's color had improved. It had more depth and sheen. Still, he would be a long-term project, and would demand a lot from the Dead Man at a time when all the rest of this was going on.

Old Bones was a miracle in defunct flesh but he did have limits.

When would he have time to work on Tinnie?

A complication that I am pleased you recognized before I had to bring it up myself. A scheduling problem I will be happy to leave in your keeping.

"Meaning?" I looked over Penny's shoulder. She had several sketches going, all of a very attractive girl. She was doing a sheet of full-body images in different orientations and hairdos. I could say nothing but, "Wow!"

Tinnie failed to poke me. She just looked astonished, and envious.

You are allowing imagination and expectation to carry you away. It is the daring choice of costume that makes the woman so striking. Miss Tate and her niece would appear equally impressive in that apparel.

I said nothing but thought the younger Miss Tate might have an edge on the elder.

Amusement.

"I'm not dead. I notice things."

I watched Penny work. She was talented and quick and had no trouble being close to me while she used charcoal and a variety of Amalgamated's writing sticks to shape her squad of fantasy girls.

The Bird had a color portrait going. It made an ugly, lazy-eyed son of a bitch look like he was about to bark, lean forward, and take a bite.

Tinnie seemed at a loss. I caught the edge as the Dead Man asked her to step back and stay out of the way.

I asked, "Who is this wad?"

A composite of details from many minds. I am not certain but he may be the boss of the resurrection men.

"How did we get to that?"

Mr. Bird, under my direction, is creating a portrait composed of bits taken from the minds of everyone who has come into range since I awakened. Resurrection men are part of what is going on and an angle going unexplored. They gather the bodies that get reengineered. This man could be of special interest. If we can find him.

He was right. It was an approach that had not occurred to me.

Most of our visitors never heard of him. A few have, under the singleton name Nathan. None of our friends, or anyone else, know that they have actually met him but some may have done so without realizing it.

And that, with his wondrous ability to make unlikely connections click, was why the Dead Man was so valuable. I said, "He looks a little like Barate Algarda."

It felt like the warmth went out of the room. His Nibs took a seat behind my eyes, studied the painting through my prejudices.

Not Barate Algarda. The eye. The nose. The scar. The man had a burn scar on the right side of his head, including part of his ear. Ask the Windwalker to come in here.

Tinnie started to follow me. She stumbled, stopped, turned, found a folding chair that she opened and carried back into the shadows.

Damn! Maybe I could get Old Bones to teach me that trick.

Strafa stared at the Bird's masterpiece. The artist himself was on break, nursing a bottle of spirits. Strafa said, "I don't know him. He does look familiar." Unaware that green eyes smoldered in the darkness behind us, she held on to my left arm with both of her hands. Those were shaky.

"I thought he looked like Barate Algarda." I could not call the man her father.

She started. She squeezed harder. "He does, a little! That's weird." She let go. She moved to view the painting from different angles.

I have what I need. You may take her back, now.

I asked Strafa, "So what do you think?"

"I think it's weird."

"Too bad. Well, that's all we needed." Crossing the hallway, I asked, "Do you know anyone who calls himself Nathan?"

"No." Two steps. "Wait! I think Dad's grandfather's name was Nathan. He died when I was four. I remember pulling myself up by the edge of his coffin so I could look." In the doorway to Singe's office, she added, "He didn't have a burn scar."

"Thanks."

Back in the Dead Man's room, I asked, "Any chance this guy could be a vampire?"

Miss Algarda was truthful. She does not know him. I doubt that he is a vampire. His face does resemble that of the man Miss Algarda saw in a coffin when she was a child, though.

Vampires did not last around TunFaire. Their suspected presence will unite classes and races like nothing else. Just a suspicion could lead to a frenzied hunt.

This situation has the potential to turn as ugly as a vampire hunt. Which argument may lie behind the Hill's go-easy attitude.

Vampire hunts always got out of hand. Innocents ended up with chopsticks through their hearts. The last full-blown vampire hunt had happened when I was nine. It had done more damage than any natural disaster since.

"Let me ask the General about that."

Ask him to come view the painting.

Block did not recognize the villain. He did concede that dread of an outbreak of mass hysteria might be the motive behind the hands-off orders being passed around. Might be.

He was, innately, almost as suspicious as Deal Relway.

Block having returned to his firewater, the Dead Man mused, We need to see Barate Algarda and his daughter, here. That is a task the Windwalker will have to undertake.

"That might be a tough sell."

Hardly. She will be compliant to any request so long as you are a gentleman when you present it and you explain the reason for it.

I'd never had that kind of power in a relationship. It was scary.

Miss Algarda is ceding that power in trust. If you breach her trust you will reap a whirlwind more cruel than you can imagine.

"Way to build me up, Chuckles."

It might be valuable to interview your intern, too.

"Intern?"

The boy. Cyprus Prose. I will ask the Miss Tates to bring him in. Making the elder Miss Tate a part of a race against time might go a long way toward improving her attitude. The younger Miss Tate will want to look out for her man.

I was skeptical.

63

I had to reach an understanding with Old Bones about our priorities. Once we acknowledged the most desperate three or four things, there would be, still, time-intensive tasks like honing the ten thousand quirks that defined the mind of Tinnie Tate, all while he kept a sharp watch outside.

You understand.

I understood that everything would take precedence over reconfiguring my special redhead's mental works.

"Your judgment is better than mine. I can't take the emotion out of my choices."

The Dead Man employs profanity infrequently. In a long-winded way he informed me that I was a bone-lazy, backsliding purveyor of mushroom fertilizer determined to avoid even the appearance of contributing anything useful to the conversation.

"Damnit, Old Bones! Life shouldn't ought to be this hard."

Avoid responsibility now, if you like. Do not whine when you face the fattened consequences later.

The change was sudden. For an instant I thought the end had come. The apocalypse. The Twilight. The Rapture, sudden as a dagger in the night. Morley shrieked. Playmate screamed. Tinnie moaned and collapsed. Penny Dreadful and the Bird followed her to the floor. I blacked out for an instant.

I found myself clinging to the frame of the door to the hallway after that instant. I had to concentrate to keep my supper down.

Others had less success.

The light had gone bad. Everything had turned sepia. Those moving did so jerkily. Bad smells developed as folks lost more than their suppers.

Confusion reigned. Dread grew so powerful I knew it had to be artificial. The screaming ended. The screamers had passed out. But chatter waxed amongst the still conscious. None of it made any sense.

No one panicked.

Odd, that.

The initial shock came when the Dead Man dropped everything to focus on one problem. Something that demanding had to be a threat both powerful, lethal, and immediate.

And I, ever-lovin' blue-eyed boy genius that I am, I stumbled up and opened the door for a quick look outside.

Action was developing.

A dozen people in gray wool costumes, their heads inside combination helmets and masks, were headed for the house. Most carried torches. A few were armed. One pair lugged a mini-battering ram that would have dented my door good. Illegally armed ratmen closed in on them from behind.

I found my head knocker and charged, partly because I suspected that a swarming attack would come from other directions, as well.

The attackers kept advancing because the Dead Man was not strong enough to stop so many. He did slow them till their charge looked like it was happening underwater.

His situation would improve as the number of vertical villains declined.

Fine theory, amply supported by the available evidence, but more easily thought than executed.

The grays did not respond well to my initial efforts. My club just bounced off. Lesson learned at the cost of getting dinged a few times.

I shifted to kneecapping. The ratmen started hamstringing. Their efforts were more effective.

Most of my male guests became involved. At some point Jimmy Two Steps and Butch's brother realized they were under-supervised and the door was open. They took advantage.

I pushed through the grays. They did not turn on me. They wanted to turn the house into a bonfire.

Then I was face-to-face with a woman in skintight black leather gifted with the most stunning shape I'd ever seen. Penny's drawings didn't do her justice. She had a mountain of wildly curly white hair. A fierce former Marine bearing down did not rattle her. She seemed inclined to flirt.

So beautiful.

And the face of deep evil. She deserved neither quarter nor amnesty.

We had not met before but we had been at war from the moment those idiot brothers took money from Jimmy Two Steps.

She thrust what looked like a stage magician's wand my way, ever so calmly, all in a day's work, slicing sausage at the butcher shop.

Something hit her like a black lightning bolt to the right shoulder just before I knocked the wand out of her hand by running into it with my big, manly chest. She wore the most wonderful look of incredulity.

The wand delivered enough energy to make me bark and spin, flailing for airy handholds that had not yet been installed. I got one goofy, unforgettable snap view of Furious Tide of Light straddling the front peak of my house, legs dangling, kicking, a ten-year-old up to mischief. She wore a big, happy grin. She flung another dark bolt. Just a kid having fun saving her special friend from a villainess built to torment his fantasies.

That nonsense rattled around inside my gourd for the few seconds it took me to fall asleep on those comfy Macunado Street cobblestones.

I was out only briefly. Still, the excitement was over when consciousness came creeping back. Furious Tide of Light was there with me, now. My head was in her lap. That hurt like I had the mother of all hangovers. Her right hand was hot on my chest, over my heart, maybe delivering the strength I needed to push back the darkness. The agony in my head faded steadily.

Ha! Had I discovered the cure for the common hangover?

I flashed back to that incredible shape in black leather. That was one way somebody could have gotten close enough to stick Morley. That body would have distracted him. A touch of that wand would have left him unable to defend himself, though I suspected the Dead Man would have excavated the evidence if that had happened.

"That wasn't Kevans." Only a liquid weakness kept me from shoving my foot farther down my throat by offering a qualitative comparison of physiques. Kevans didn't bark but there was no way she could make leather look that good.

The time I needed to work up strength was time enough for me to see that I was about to munch a filthy shoe. "She did seem familiar, though. I must've seen her somewhere."

She had been wearing rain gear at the time, or old feed sacks. Otherwise, the moment would be seared onto the backs of my eyeballs.

"Hush, love. The danger is over. Your friends are cleaning up."

It was true. The action was done. The street was carpeted with bodies, not a one twitching. Several torches still burned on the cobblestones. I was awed because tin whistles were not shrilling. General Block was studying the scene carefully. He was both grim and puzzled.

The neighbors began to come out. I heard both negative and laudatory comments. The consensus was, this stuff didn't happen when I wasn't around.

Tin whistles did begin to arrive, from the direction of the Cardonlos house. That old biddy owed me. I was home and she was back in business.

Sleep returned. Whatever the bad girl hit me with, it drained me.

I missed my opportunity to see Tinnie spot me amongst the fallen, being tended by my sorceress friend. I missed the cleanup, too. The red tops carted off nineteen stiffs in gray wool. The lethal blonde and twenty grays got away.

Strafa should have chased them instead of fussing over me.

Tinnie did not head home in high dudgeon. She couldn't. Uncle Oswald and cousin Artifice both had been injured. Oswald could not travel except by coach. Singe sent a runner to the Tate family compound.

64

They tossed me in with Morley, to start, onto the cold, hard floor. Injured people were everywhere, especially against the walls in the hallway. Given the chance to do more than brood and fuss, Westman Block showed us why he had Prince Rupert's confidence. He sent people flying around everywhere. He roused the Guard across the city.

He came by to tell me, "They were all dead, the things in the wool tights. They were made from pieces of dead people."

That did not seem possible. Not in such numbers. Where had the bodies come from? That many people disappearing, dead or alive, should have become a major public issue.

We knew, now, beyond doubt, that there was a connection with Morley and with the break-in on Factory Slide. We knew that several people had to be involved: two women, one old, one young, and, possibly, a stuffed-bear-loving kid. Plus the resurrection men.

I wanted to ask questions but could not. Strafa was not there to ease my suffering. The hangover was back. And I felt like a bad flu had hold of me. I felt naked in a blizzard cold. I couldn't stop shaking.

Speaking of dead . . . Where was Old Bones? I got no sense of his presence at all.

That sparked a moment of panic wasted because I couldn't talk.

The chaos in the house settled out without my input. Singe and Strafa went off to stalk the blonde. The delegation from Fire and Ice headed home after taking a moment to say good-bye. Crush told me, "You have great parties. Remember me for the next one."

I couldn't say anything. I tried to wink. The effort was pathetic. I decided to send her a book.

Miss T understood. She touched my cheek. She was more of a mom to Crush than DeeDee was. DeeDee was one hundred percent self-involved. Mike thought my crowd would be better company than the folks Crush encountered in a sporting palace.

I could not disagree with that.

Jon Salvation and the Bird took off. Bird would come back. The supply of spirits was unlimited and free.

Uncle Oswald kept waiting for a coach that must have needed new wheels before it could leave the Tate compound. Kyra visited me. She didn't have much to say. After watching me shake and drool she fled to Singe's office to baby her male kin.

Dean appeared, armed with chicken soup. I could not imagine him being up so late. He considered me and Morley and found himself at a loss. His heart and mind were in the right place but he was physically unable to follow through.

I made some noise that, after years of seeing me come home tipsy, he understood. "He's asleep. It took all he had to resist long enough for the rest of you to get busy." He tried to sound positive but could not conceal the fact that he was extremely worried.

This was not a good time to lose the Dead Man.

Dean was still trying to figure out what to do when Tinnie pushed him out of her way. She brought blankets and two of the heated stones Dean used to warm his feet during winter's bitterest nights. She was calm and businesslike. She placed the rag-wrapped stones against my chest and back, then buried me in blankets. She told Dean, "I can feed them."

I tried to purr, managed to sound like I was choking on phlegm. Tinnie made sure I wasn't, then focused on Morley. Dean said, "According to Mike we lost Dotes the second the attack began."

Typical. Dean was on nickname terms with Miss T after one exposure.

He asked, "What about you, Tinnie?"

"I'm still flustered. Still not sure what's real. But I'll be all right. Worry about Penny instead."

Dean passed the soup. Tinnie settled into the seat the ratwomen used to feed Morley. She blew steam off a spoonful of broth. Dean went off to help somebody else.

"We have a world of things to talk about, Malsquando. Mostly concerning how my head has been working lately." She got Morley to take some broth; then she looked down at me. I wasn't shivering as badly. Her eyes were unreadable. "I saw things tonight that gave me a new perspective."

That did not sound good.

"I promised you and the Dead Man . . . Well, I promised. I'll stick to that. General Block explained what it's all about."

I wondered what Block was up to, stirring the pot while drunk and angry.

Tinnie got some more broth into Morley. "I see that this has to be dealt with. There are only a few people who can handle things like it. And you're one." Another spoon of soup. "I should be supporting you, not distracting you and holding you back."

That cost her. She had clamped down hard on her emotions. No doubt Strafa tending me in the street was in the front of her mind. That was a slice of reality she couldn't ignore.

I couldn't say anything. I snuggled the rocks and tried to appear grateful.

Penny came to the doorway. She looked as rocky as I felt. "I'm going to leave now, Mr. Garrett. Please send for me when he's able to go back to work."

I tried to tell her that I would.

Tinnie said, "He can't quite talk, yet. Shouldn't you just stay here? It would be safer."

Penny considered me, weighing the risk of being ravished against the certainty of safety and comfort. From behind her, Kyra said, "Stop worrying. Garrett is harmless. My aunt ought to be ashamed of the stuff she told you. It's because of her in-securities. He won't even look at this cross-eyed." She posed.

Oh, woe! The mighty Garrett considered harmless by the young and the beautiful?

Tinnie snapped, "That is quite enough, Kyra!" She told Penny, "She's right, though. You are safe. There's an extra bedroom upstairs. Use that. Warn Dean so neither of you get any surprises. Go on. You need to stay close to good people right now."

Good people?

What was this? That shock must have hit Tinnie hard.

Kyra said, "I'll show you."

And she knew, how? And why?

Tinnie looked like she had the same questions.

Many interesting things must have happened here in my absence.

Muted girl voices came from the kitchen. Dean definitely was exceeding the call of duty tonight. He should have been in bed hours ago.

65

The woman tried hard to drown me but I was too crafty. Whenever she shoved soup into my face I swallowed it. It was Dean Creech wonder soup. Every spoonful hit bottom, then declared itself throughout my body. Energy came back fast, along with confidence and a sense of well-being. It wasn't long before I found my voice.

"Something I've been wanting to bring up all evening, darling. I never got to it because so much was going on."

Wow. I made a miracle comeback. Almost as good as shaking that awful cold overnight. Though I hadn't, really. A host of unpleasant symptoms were back now that Old Bones was asleep.

I could not help feeling uncomfortable about how my sidekick had begun operating without consultation. Strafa had put me away drowning in my own snot. Next morning the mess was gone and almost forgotten.

Maybe Old Bones didn't think I had time to be sick.

Tinnie developed a mild glower while I rambled through distracting thoughts. "Let's have it, Malsquando! Good or bad, let's get to it."

I was nervous. When Penny and Kyra got upstairs they would see that somebody had used that bed.

The guilty flee where no man pursueth.

We could see some interesting action when Strafa returned.

"All right. Here we go. Before the good goes away and the mucus comes back. Jon Salvation has been bullying me to get you to act in his next play. He wants you bad. Did he talk to you about that?"

"He tried to talk to me about something but I didn't pay attention. And he kept hemming and hawing."

The woman can have that effect on the male of the species.

"He has a new play about fairies. He wants you to be in it."

"I'm done with that stuff." Stated entirely without conviction, damned near begging to be talked into changing her mind. "I wasn't able to be that kind of woman."

"What you weren't able to do was stop being a self-involved pain in the ass. You were Tinnie Tate to the third power."

Had to be the soup. Something in the soup was worse than alcohol for loosening the tongue.

"Garrett?"

"Let's just say you wouldn't have put up with half of what you dished out if you'd been doing Salvation's job."

Her mouth opened and closed. No words came out. She reminded me of a freshly caught trout, with distractions. Say, better, a freshly caught mermaid.

"He wants you for the lead role, darling. And he's sure this will be his biggest play yet."

Her eyes got huge. She drifted off into fantasyland, harkening to dreams she'd had before she alienated everybody.

"Really?"

"Really. I tried to talk him out of it. He insists you're perfect. I'd bet he used you when he created the character. Who you might not like much if you do get involved." Tinnie had no patience with women who had quirks like hers.

Jon Salvation had a reputation for drawing his characters from life, and writing them true.

"What?"

"What I'm saying is, we don't see ourselves the way other people see us. Not saying that what they see is any less subjective. But the way you were at the World . . ."

"Stop!"

She did not carry the argument forward.

I had unearthed ambitions my honey had kept hidden. She felt vulnerable, now. Maybe secretly ashamed.

She knew she had been a jerk back when she got kicked out of that select pool of cuties who could act without having to entertain the punters in private after the show.

She had been good but her uncles never approved.

She got all starry-eyed and lost in her imagination.

"Tinnie?"

"I'm sorry, Malsquando. This . . . It's . . . It's a lightning strike from a clear blue sky. He really said he wants me?"

"Like I told you, I think he used you to create the fairy queen. You wouldn't even have to act. You could just be you. As long as that you isn't the Tinnie that got everybody so mad . . ."

She jumped up and down like she was Kyra's age. "I know what you mean. I learned my lesson. I'm not that Tinnie anymore. Garrett, sweetheart, you know what this means?"

"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 couldn'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."

I didn't get the girl. A couple, three years ago she had been hell on wheels, acting in her role as high priestess of a screw-ball country cult, hiding out from religious enemies. But she'd always been pathologically shy around me. Which, as Kyra had told her, was totally Tinnie's fault.

I asked, "You talked to them?"

"Sure."

I blew my nose. "How did that work?"

"Bird just lets the voice take over. Then I talk to the ghost. It doesn't last long. Bird only lets them talk so people will know he's telling the truth."

I made myself stay calm. I had to keep the intensity down. Penny would trample Playmate trying to get away if I tripped her panic response. "I'd sure like to see that." Penny did not volunteer to arrange it. "Who do the voices belong to?"

"Dead people. People who were murdered. Awful people, mostly."

I once spent time in a relationship with a woman who had been murdered when I was a child. I met her ghost as an adult. I had no trouble with Penny's notion. "Do tell."

"Tell what? That the ones I talked to sounded like they got what they had coming? That's what drives Bird crazy. He has these whiny haunts, who deserved what they got, insisting that he do things for them."

"I've got it." Not only did the Bird have to deal with ghosts, his spooks belonged to that select crew who think they are more special than anyone else and should get special treatment always, in the main because they survived childbirth.

In TunFaire these leeches tend to come to a bad end early, though their survivability has improved since the war's end.

Once upon a time the body politic shed its parasites in the cauldron of the Cantard. They could be counted on to get themselves killed.

The war had had its fierce egalitarian side. There had been no buying out of it--though the clever had been able to wrangle less risky assignments. Princes and paupers, everyone took his dip in the deadly pond. Old folks were nostalgic for the days when the war kept the streets clear of loud, badly behaved, sometimes dangerous young men.

"Mr. Garrett?"

"I'm sorry. Having an old man's moment. You're used to Old Bones. Can he fix the Bird's brain so he doesn't hear those people?"

"I don't think Bird would want that. He hates the voices. But if they aren't pestering him and he doesn't drink, he can't paint." Then she asked, "How long do you think His Honor will sleep?"

"I've never figured the formula out. You'd do better to ask Singe."

"What should I do since he's not awake?"

"What would you be doing if you weren't hunkered down here?"

"Stuff. I don't know. Dean and Singe both say I shouldn't leave. Those bad people might want to get hold of someone from this house."

"Dean is a wise man. Why don't you help him? These past few days have been hard for him. And you can help Singe, if she needs it. I'm going to go bug her myself, right now."

Everyone bailed when I did. Penny stayed with Dean. I saw no enthusiasm in either of them.

Singe was writing something using an Amalgamated steel tip quill. "The Dead Man's pet girl says she talks to the ghosts that haunt the drunken artist."

"Take him along next time you dance with the dead men. Turn them around on their mistress."

"I'll run it past Old Bones when he wakes up. I have some questions for you."

"Blow your nose first. That sniffling is disgusting."

I took care of that, and coughed up some stuff besides. "Did anyone trace the giant bottles and glass vats from that warehouse?"

"Not that I know of. The Director and the Guard aren't keeping me in the loop. I didn't think to ask last time the General was here. Speaking of whom, he's late. No one else tells me anything useful, either. Including your new wrestling partner."

"You're leaping to conclusions. What did Old Bones get out of those villains that Block loaned us?"

"He didn't say, officially. Unofficially, what I expected. Nothing that we didn't already know. They were day labor."

"Has anyone found out anything useful?"

"Not yet. You would think the resurrection men, at least, could be found. Are you bored? I'm not here to entertain you. I have work to do."

"Hokum." I suspected that she was crabby because her body was disgruntled because she had not mated successfully during her season.

"I had another question. The most important one. But I can't remember what it was. Wait! Here it is. Old Bones had me chase Relway the other day to tell him about men who were watching the house. Did Relway bother to let us know who they were?"

"Not officially."

"Unofficially?"

"General Block was informed that they belonged to the King's Household Lifeguard. The Palace Guard. He wasn't convinced. He thought they were really private police from the Hill."

Either possibility was disturbing. I didn't want to attract attention from either direction. "Not good."

"But maybe an indication that powerful people take the situation seriously."

I started to say something.

"If all you can do is chatter, take the woman back upstairs or go frighten Penny. I'm busy."

"Ah, you're no fun anymore."

"That's all your fault. Out."

70

I got the last laugh.

Someone used the knocker as I exited Singe's office. I employed the peephole, saw a fierce green eye glaring back. I opened up.

"Kyra."

"I brought some people for you to talk to. You could maybe break this one's leg for me while you're at it." She had a death grip on Kip Prose's left arm. Kip appeared to be shackled to Kevans Algarda with an invisible chain. Kevans looked like she wanted to fight but didn't know who to hit first. Kip had that numb look men get when they have hold of a Tate woman with her mind made up.

"You did indeed. And I'm most pleasantly surprised. How are you, Kip? We don't see much of you at the manufactory anymore. And yourself, Miss?"

I would not mention her mother or how Strafa worried. No point throwing naphtha on the drama. "No real need for the fancy headgear, guys. His Nibs has been out cold since the other night. But wear them if that makes you comfortable. Let's go into Singe's office."

Singe greeted my return with a bloody look. That evaporated once she saw the kids. She got up. "I'll tell Dean we have more guests. Garrett, shall I make sure you aren't disturbed by the others?"

"That would make these three more comfortable."

Kyra said, "I told them about what's going on and how your place is, like, a madhouse."

"It's getting better. We've got only six or seven extra bodies here today."

One of those, Penny, arrived with tea and a heap of the cookies that Dean always brought out when young people visit. Cookies I could never find when I wanted to nick one or three for myself. Penny offered Kip and Kevans a polite smile. She had a warmer look for Kyra. When she left, Kyra told me, "That's who you should be chasing, Garrett. She's quiet, submissive, and young enough for you to train up right."

"I'll wait a while. At least till she stops peeing herself every time I look at her."

Kip was not in a social mood. He isn't happy when life intrudes. "Kyra says there's stuff we need to talk about."

"Yeah. Kevans especially. You heard any rumors about strange stuff going on?"

Kip said, "In TunFaire? You're kidding." But he spoke without passion and nodded in concert with Kevans as he did.

"You probably heard it wrong. Except from Kyra, who was here."

Kip and Kevans both nodded. They were nervous but I sensed no guilt nor any defensive attitude.

"Bad things have been happening. People are trying to cover up. Others are putting out false reports. The whole thing could get ugly in a few days." I told them almost everything, deemphasizing the role of the Windwalker. Kevans showed no particular emotion when I mentioned her mother.

Singe returned moments after Penny left. She took notes.

Penny returned to the doorway. She wasn't sneaking so she wasn't exactly eavesdropping. "Penny, would you get your sketches and Bird's portrait? Please?"

Kip said, "That's ugly stuff, Garrett. Kyra must have sugared it."

"She's an amazing girl, Kip."

"I know. I have an awful time remembering that she isn't my imagination running wild."

Kyra was pleased. Kevans was not, though she was not strictly a romantic rival. She and Kip strove to maintain that frog's-fur rare boy-girl relationship where they were just good friends.

Kevans was, I noted belatedly, wearing girl clothes. She always dressed as a boy, before. She looked good as a girl but she didn't look nearly as good as that wicked woman in black leather.

Penny brought the sketches and painting. Singe held the latter up while Penny handled her own work.

"Anybody recognize anyone?" I asked.

Kevans countered, "Is my mother still here?"

I glanced at Kyra. Butter wouldn't melt. Then to Singe, "Miss Pular, would the Windwalker still be with us?"

Singe responded a grim rat glower. "She may be. It's hard to say for sure. She keeps flitting in and out of the upstairs windows."

I said, "Why do you ask, Kevans?"

"I wondered if she's seen these."

"I don't know. Has she, Singe?"

Singe had a grand opportunity to be lethally catty. She let it pass. "Probably not. She will not go into the Dead Man's room."

Penny agreed with Singe, though we three all knew that she had seen the artwork.

I saw Kyra doing math based on the fact that Penny Dreadful had moved into the guest room while Furious Tide of Light was staying here, too.

I concentrated on Kevans.

Kyra did not let the completed equation affect her attitude.

Singe saw what I saw. She would have smirked and sneered if nature had equipped her for it. She did observe, "Life gets more complicated every day, doesn't it?"

Kip and Kevans thought that was directed toward them. Kevans declared, "Kip and I are just friends. We challenge each other to think. There isn't anything else going on. Really."

Kyra did not appear to be reassured.

I thought the fact that Kevans needed to say anything might reveal something about what was going on inside her head.

I was fairly certain that in the past the relationship had been friendship with special benefits as two incredibly bright but socially inept kids struggled through the turbulence of puberty.

Whatever, these days Kip trudged along in his mentor's trace, essentially oblivious.

Kip's mentor took a chance and changed the subject. "Your mother is desperately frightened for you, Kevans. The Specials turned up what looks like evidence involving you in this new wickedness."

She did a wonderful job of looking unpleasantly surprised.

I told her what Singe and the Windwalker had found in Elf Town. Singe kicked in points I overlooked. I wished the Dead Man was awake to sift the secrets I was stirring off the stream-bed of Kevans' mind.

"They found your stuffed bear, and some other things." Then I went fishing. "Those hairnets don't work anymore."

Kip squeaked like I had stepped on his toes. "That can't be!"

"It can. Old Bones can adapt when he has time to think. The point I want to make is, you can't hide from His Nibs anymore."

Penny sneered. And looked me in the eye when she did.

Kip looked like he wanted to panic. Kevans was less rattled. Singe gave me an unhappy glare, thinking I had just wasted valuable household advantages.

Kevans said, "That sounds like where I hid out after we had the bug problem. I lived there almost a year."

Kip jumped in with a pretty good description of the place. Obviously he had visited. That won no points over on the redheaded girlfriend side. The redheaded girlfriend had not known.

Kyra didn't say anything but it was plain she was more comfortable with her aunt's man having female friends than she was facing that situation herself.

Kip's mouth ran. He didn't have a clue.

Kevans and Kip being friends would offer Kyra no comfort, ever.

"So you don't know these people?"

"No." Kevans sounded definite.

Kip shook his head. He was less certain. "I think I would remember her."

That got him punched from both sides.

Kyra volunteered, "I think I've seen the girl before."

"She was out front the other night."

"I know. I only got a glimpse, then. She looked like bad news."

"She was. I learned the hard way."

Kyra nodded at Penny's drawings. "I mean bad news because she looks like one of those blondes who has gotten anything she ever wanted handed to her since she sprouted a set of knockers."

That was harsh. And a touch hypocritical. Kyra Tate had been one of those girls till she developed the mental defect that bonded her to Kip.

She said, "I might've seen this one when I was about twelve. Some older girls were teasing me about still being flat." Some pink behind the freckles on the cheeks, there. "The ringleader was sixteen or seventeen and very blessed. This looks like her. Sort of."

Sounded like a long shot. "You should go over that with the Dead Man sometime. Figure out the time and place, work outward from there."

Singe made a note.

Old Bones could sort that out in seconds.

Kyra said, "If you think it's worth it I can probably figure it out. I have a good memory for people who misuse me."

I hoped Kip heard that.

His sins, though, would be of omission, not commission. If he messed up with Kyra it would be out of blind ignorance.

I told all the youngsters, "Let's look at the man. He may be the boss of the resurrection men. Any of you know anything about him?"

No, still, though I'm sure Kevans saw the resemblance to Barate Algarda. She kept sneaking looks.

"Another hope dashed. Kevans. Kip. Please talk to me about the warehouse in Elf Town."

Kyra eyed Kip in a way that made it plain she wanted to hear more, too.

Kevans was getting tired of all this. "I hid out there for a year. I told you. I left when I stopped feeling like I had to hide."

"I'm not interested in that. But why hide there? That's a far piece for a kid off the Hill."

"I'd been there before. With my grandmother. She owned it. It was empty and starting to fall apart. I think she sold it but nobody ever used it."

I worked some calculations. Strafa had borne Kevans at a very young age. Strafa's mother had died when Strafa was a child. I had met her ghost. Kevans must have been talking about Barate Algarda's mother.

"Anything unusual happen while you were there?"

"Nothing to do with what you're fussing about."

Kip backed her up. "I used to smuggle food and stuff. It was all sad for a while."

"Singe, make a note to ask the General if his forensic sorcerers went over that warehouse. And what they found out about the glassware."

"You asked already. He told you he got warned off."

"Even so. He and Relway haven't really backed off. If they could blame the poking around on us, they'd be even happier."

"We should not be discussing that right now."

No. I should be jumping all over the youngsters. They were gaining confidence as they grew more certain that the Dead Man was sleeping.

The look I sent Singe was one of appeal. I had emptied my toolbox when it came to interrogating kids.

Singe understood.

She left her desk. She left the room. A moment later Morley appeared, assisted by Penny. He settled onto a folding chair. He stared at Kevans from the side. He is better than I am at reading females.

Dollar Dan, who must have been in the kitchen with Dean, filled up the doorway. He could be amazingly intimidating when he wanted. But he wasn't the onager Singe meant to bring to bear.

71

Furious Tide of Light arrived. She did not look like anyone's mother. She did not look like anyone's wannabe girlfriend, either. She had on the full power of what she was. I had not seen her in that mode before.

Kevans curled into herself, mentally, like an armadillo. You could almost hear bacon crackling when the Windwalker looked at Kip. Kyra gaped, astonished and thoroughly intimidated. Only Penny seemed undisturbed. She stood out of the way, watched, and learned.

The girl was getting scary. I began to picture her as a human version of Pular Singe. It was in the blood. Her father had been Chodo Contague.

She and Belinda had nothing whatsoever to do with one another.

The Windwalker, when she spoke, was gentle, with the conviction of a whip. "Are you two clear on how foul a crime has been committed? What is happening has had no equal for two hundred years."

Strafa considered the drawings and painting. "This isn't a game." She stopped. She didn't want to challenge the kids. Adolescents will push back even when they're dead wrong.

Still, she asked, "What have you been holding back?"

Headshakes I suspected of being less than completely sincere. My sense, though, was that the insincerity had to do with Kip and Kevans rather than with knowledge of horrible crimes. Their friendship might have a more experimental angle than either wanted brought out in front of her mother or his girlfriend. Both lived lonely lives. They had been friends for a long time.

Everyone caught some taste of that possibility. But that wasn't why we had gotten together. I would overrule should the discussion start to slide that way.

I exchanged glances with Singe. If ever there was a time for the Dead Man to be on the job, this was it.

Kevans continued to wilt under her mother's scowl. That the Windwalker was her mother did not matter. What did was that one of the most ferocious and talented magic users alive might be displeased by the behavior of one rogue teen.

The Windwalker demanded, "You're completely sure you don't have anything more to tell us?" I hoped she really was capable of separating Furious Tide of Light from Strafa Algarda.

She stepped in till she and Kevans were nose to nose. She whispered. The girl began to shiver. She was ready to break down but, still, did not have anything to say.

If she did know anything it was something she would not surrender willingly.

I indulged a vain hope that the Dead Man was playing possum.

The Windwalker focused on Kevans but included her audience when making it clear that TunFaire faced a test of right and wrong more terrible than any since the age of uncontrolled experimental sorcery that had produced the ratpeople, plus worse beasts that had been exterminated during the hysterical public response.

Another Time of Troubles might be coming. Ignorance and fear are with us always. Stupid is all-pervasive. TunFaire wallows in bottomless reservoirs of that. A plague of zombies could trigger something way out of proportion to the horrors we had seen.

The Windwalker changed her approach. "Kevans, come with me." She used her Windwalker voice.

They went to my old office. It was quiet over there. Morley eased himself into the more comfortable chair that Kevans had vacated. He struggled to conceal his discomfort. "I hate being like this," he said softly.

"You've been hurt before."

"Not like this. Not this stupidly. Any other time I always knew why. Singe. Anyone find out who paid that healer to drug me?"

"That would have a yes and no answer. The Dead Man saw the woman inside the healer's mind, but only vaguely." She tipped a hand toward Penny's sketches. "Probably her. Miss Contague, with an assist from Mr. Kolda and reluctant cooperation from the Children of the Light, is pursuing that." Then she volunteered, "Other acquaintances are investigating other things. The reports aren't encouraging. It's amazing that so much wickedness can leave so little evidence. These villains are heinous but careful."

I asked a question that had been nagging me. "Why?"

"Garrett?"

"Why are these people doing what they're doing? If we knew that the search range would narrow considerable."

Singe still looked puzzled.

"Come on. These villains didn't just get up some morning and decide, 'Let's have some fun. Let's cut up dead people and build some jigsaw zombies.'"

"They are not zombies, Garrett."

Literal minds! "Whatever. You know what I mean."

"Yes. And you are correct. The question of motive has not come up in so plain a form. The behavior we have seen may have little to do with that."

I said, "It has to do with covering up. A dumb effort to quash something that never got out. That's what attracted attention."

"We may never know why. I expect the Hill people to get to them first. They have the most resources."

Probably. Those people insist.

One of those people came back with her daughter. The daughter was pale. The Windwalker looked grim. "Kevans will tell Barate to come see you. She and Mr. Prose will then meet me at the warehouse in Elf Town. Question Barate, then send him to join us. No excuses. I don't expect that he will know anything so it shouldn't take long. Is there anything else you want from these two?"

"No."

Kyra certainly had something but she kept her mouth shut.

Kip would have some explaining to do later.

Singe handled the door work.

The instant that shut Morley observed, "That woman can be fierce when the mood takes her."

"She didn't think they were telling the whole truth." I turned to Kyra. "So now we need to get you home safely."

TunFaire suffered ever more virulent paroxysms of law and order but a beauty like Kyra still rated an escort, if only to keep the chatter down.

I was about to volunteer. Singe spoke up first. "Dan, please ask Toast and Packer to do the honors." She followed that with burning eye contact. There would be no adolescent bravura on her watch.

I folded.

Were Singe human she would have sneered and told me I was painfully predictable.

She could play me as easily as Tinnie could. Maybe more so because with her my ego did not feel compelled to take stands.

And Kyra never argued.

The apprentice redhead was feeling exceptionally vulnerable.

Toast and Packer turned out to be the ratmen who had come with Dollar Dan.

72

The population of the house on Macunado continued to dwindle. Dean and Penny overruled me and went out to do some desperately needed shopping. Dollar Dan tagged along. I could not refute Dean's contention that all the entertaining had seen our bones get picked. The old man kept muttering about having trouble remembering the recipe for water soup, which was what we would be eating if he didn't go.

He clinched the deal by telling me he needed to see Jerry the beer guy. We would find ourselves in a desert otherwise.

One keg was dry. The other was down to a slosh.

Singe wore the ratgirl equivalent of a troubled frown after she recorded the advance she had given Dean.

"Reality catching up?" I asked.

"Not exactly. I noticed that Amalgamated is eleven days late with the quarterly dividend. We'll need that money if we keep pouring cash into this case the way we have been."

I heard "we" a lot but chose not to quibble.

She continued, "Considering the season, the dividend ought to be strong. I will claim penalty interest."

Her shoulders hunched like she expected me to take the company line against my interest as an investor.

I disappointed her.

I didn't know what she was talking about. I left that sort of stuff to her. She understood it. She reveled in it. She wallowed in it when she could.

Playmate joined us, trying to sub for Dean. He brought tea but was too shaky to manage pouring it.

Morley told him,"Sit your ass down, man! You look like hell."

I said, "He's two hundred percent better than when he got here."

Singe fiddled with her papers, getting more restive by the moment. Finally, she snapped, "Take it across the hall, boys. Take it next door. Take it anywhere but here. I have a ton of work. I need quiet to get it done."

Morley flashed a killer grin. Playmate looked soulfully wounded. I said, "As you command, so shall it be." I collected the Bird's painting and Penny's drawings. We crossed to the Dead Man's room.

"Warmer in here," Morley opined sarcastically.

Playmate planted himself in the best chair. "The pain isn't a tenth what it was but I still don't got any energy." He had brought the tea with him. He poured while sitting.

"That will turn around," I said. "Old Bones is totally confident. Mostly, it'll just take Dean to feed you up to your fighting weight, now."

"Think he'll be out for long?" Playmate tipped a thumb at the Dead Man. "I can feel the evil starting to grow again."

"I don't know. He's unpredictable. The stuff Kolda brought isn't working?"

Playmate tapped a dusting of brown powder into his teacup. "It's working smoky-ass miracles, Garrett. But it just slows the devil down. If I take it faithfully, obeying Kolda completely, it will take me three times as long to die."

His tone was understandably strained.

Meanwhile, Morley studied the artwork like he was determined to commit every brush and pencil stroke to memory.

Playmate said, "I think I've seen that man in the painting somewhere."

I suggested, "Year and a half ago? The mess at the World Theater?"

Playmate stared some more. "I see what you mean. But that's not the same man. An older brother, maybe."

"Barate Algarda was an only child."

"I got it. Nat something. A long time ago. I was a kid. But . . ." He frowned deeply.

"What?" I asked.

Morley blurted, "You're right. He does look like that Algarda creep. But not the same. See the scar?" He pointed.

Playmate ignored him. "The man I remember looked like this over thirty years ago. Scars and all."

I enjoyed that pleasant feeling you get when you stumble onto something good, though I didn't really know if this was worth the stumble.

Playmate smacked himself upside the head. "The drug is working already. I can't hardly remember anything. I know he was a villain. Who ought to be a long time dead."

Playmate slurred. His chin dropped to his chest. Morley observed, "That is some kick-ass knockout powder."

"But of limited commercial value. Otherwise, Kolda would have a pot to pee in."

"I don't like to speak ill of your friends, Garrett, but that Kolda . . ."

Singe shoved into the room. "Don't you hear the door, Garrett?"

"No." I did so now only because she had the hallway door open. Door-answering isn't part of my special skill set, anyway. "Who is it?"

"I suppose we would know if somebody answered it."

The thumping suggested someone was getting frustrated.

Singe made an exasperated noise more appropriate to one of our recent young adult lady visitors. She stamped up the hall.

Morley said, "If she was human I'd think Aunt Flo was winding her up."

"It's about the same thing. She'll be over it soon."

He said, "I may have crossed paths with this guy myself, sometime."

73

Singe brought Barate Algarda into the Dead Man's room. He was not in a good mood but he had shown up quickly. He wasn't wearing a mesh helmet. He wasn't going to hide.

Barate Algarda was a big man, Saucerhead size, ugly, and unkempt. He looked like a down-on-his-luck thug not getting much work because of Deal Relway's impact on the shadow economy. He nurtured that image. It left people unready for the real Barate Algarda. He was as bright and quick as his female descendants. His only talent for the magical, though, was a strong natural resistance to the Dead Man's mind probes.

Algarda was darker and wider than Strafa or Kevans. Strafa took after her mother, whom I had seen in ghost form, once upon a time. Kevans had gotten a little more from the paternal side. She'd never be a beauty.

Algarda barely glanced at the Dead Man. "Well?"

Singe remained in the doorway, I suppose so she could jump in if Algarda became actively hostile. He had done so before, when he thought his daughters were threatened.

"Did Kevans explain what's been going on?"

"Honestly? Not really. I got the impression that she thought she was being hounded unfairly."

"That could be."

"She showed the same attitude when her bunch were breeding giant bugs." He added, "Gods, I'm glad they didn't do any spiders."

I shivered. Me, too. "You have to admit, Kevans has a sociopathic side."

"Runs in the family."

Indeed. "So let me sketch some situations that turn out to be tied together." I brought him up to speed.

"Bizarre. Where does my daughter fit?"

I started looking for the best words to indicate a warehouse owned by his mother.

"Not Kevans. The Windwalker."

"Oh." I gave it to him straight, leaving out the personal side.

"The Crown Prince, eh?" he interjected at one point.

"Yeah."

Morley listened quietly. Playmate joined Old Bones in dreamland, only he snored. Curious Singe looked like my sanitized tale made her want to take a nap, too.

"Glassware, eh?" Algarda mused, out of nowhere. "Unusual glassware. In a warehouse. In Elf Town."

"Where Kevans lived for a year. A place owned by your mother."

He seemed mildly surprised. "A strange woman, my mother. She kept secrets."

Why not just add another whole level of weird? Though the Dead Man would have cautioned me about jumping to conclusions based on prejudices.

I reiterated, "There was evidence that Kevans stayed there. The Specials have that. She says she was there for a year. She knew about the place because her grandmother took her there when she was twelve."

"That's how you got to my mother."

"Does the glassware mean anything special?"

"Not really."

"Morley, could you hold that lamp up so Mr. Algarda can get a look at those pictures?"

Morley turned the pictures, too. They had not been visible from where Algarda was standing. Algarda asked, "Who are these people?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"I can tell you who they were forty years ago. This is my great uncle Nathaniel. He died while I was in the Cantard."

"Did he have kids? Playmate remembers him as a neighborhood thug from when he was a kid. Morley remembers him vaguely, with no where, when, or why. Today he's a resurrection man called Nathan." I had to explain that because Algarda was unfamiliar with the term.

"Really? People will do anything, won't they? It took a lunatic god to create our tribe. Let me think." He put on a frown more of puzzlement than concentration. "All right. Nathaniel had one child, Jane. She would be my mother's cousin but was way younger than Mom. Younger than me, even. She was a ferociously wicked, precocious six-year-old last time I saw her. She might've looked like this at eighteen." He indicated the drawings of the woman. "She'd be in her fifties, now."

We had an old woman in the mix, though based on nothing solid I guessed she would be older than that. "Could she have produced children who looked like their ancestors?"

Algarda shrugged. "Possibly. I don't know much about those people. We never had a lot to do with them. They weren't good people." He shot me a sudden, narrow look, maybe reading something into my question. "As far as I know, their line died out during my first tour." He looked at the artwork more closely, appreciating what Penny had captured. "The man even has the scars Nathaniel had." He looked hungry when he considered Penny's drawings.

He was deeply uncomfortable when our gazes met again. "Are you some kind of diabolical facilitator?"

"Excuse me?"

"Last time the Algardas got into trouble you were digging up worms. Here you go again."

Morley interjected, "The worms were there, begging to be dug. Be grateful Garrett was manning the shovel."

Algarda was a hard guy. He tried laying a hard look on Morley. Morley took no notice. Algarda said, "You're right. There's probably some serious behind-the-scenes rumbling going on at the top of the Hill. This could even tie in to some odd questions I've been asked lately, by people I never expected to visit my new place."

He did not explain. He did say, "I'll dig into a couple of old family legends." He turned toward the doorway.

Singe did not move. She looked to me for advice. I nodded, but said, "I'm supposed to tell you to go straight to the place in Elf Town from here."

He frowned. "For who?"

"The Windwalker."

He gave me the hard-eye but then just nodded and turned to follow Singe. She returned from the door to say, "I don't think he is happy with you."

"My heart is broken. Was his mother involved last time we had some excitement with his people? A couple of old crows got themselves dead, if I remember."

"I do not recall. I will look it up." Someone knocked. "That will be Mr. Tharpe."

"Have you started reading minds, too?"

"No. That would be crippling around you two. I saw him coming up the street when I let Mr. Algarda out." She went to open up.

Morley said, "We're inching toward something."

"Yes. And it might involve the undead or zombies after all."

74

Tharpe rolled in and crashed onto a folding chair. "Damn! This cold air feels good."

"It hot out there?"

"Working on getting there. And I need to shed about twenty-five pounds. Shit. Look at you, up on your hind legs and everything, Dotes."

I said, "Once we weaned him off the poison he came back fast. Next week he'll be able to make it to the front door with only one rest stop."

"You better watch out for the little girl, then. He'll have her giggling and squealing like a piggy in some dark corner."

Once upon a time Morley would have joined the game. Now he just scowled. "I'm a one woman man, 'Head."

Tharpe said, "Singe, honey, my dogs are worn down to the ankles. You want to take a look out front and see how big that flock of flying pigs is? Take one a them Amalgamated umbereller thing-jobbies along in case they got the flying dyer-rear." He snickered at his own wit.

I chuckled, too.

Morley tried but only managed to look grim.

Saucerhead continued, "Ah, gotcha. A health issue, that woman being involved."

Maybe a real health issue. Morley looked physically uncomfortable. I asked, "You all right? You need something?"

"I've been pushing it too much. I'm starting to feel it."

"Singe, I don't think he's ready to do without his angels." I hadn't seen any ratwomen today.

"I'll make sure they're here tonight."

"Good on you."

She asked, "Why don't we ask Mr. Tharpe what he's doing here? That might prove interesting."

Saucerhead said, "Mr. Tharpe was hoping somebody would bring him a mug so he could relax while he was telling his story."

I asked, "You need musical accompaniment? I saw a mandolin somewhere the other day, when we were salting the windows. It was short two strings, though."

Singe made a growling noise.

Maybe that was enough grab-assing around. "There's a problem, 'Head. The beer barrel ran dry. Dean is out trying to find Jerry right now."

"I guess I can wait."

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 gonna 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.

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."

What? We were men. We didn't get into stuff like that. Not seriously. Did we?

"You and Tinnie practically announced to the world that you were going to tie the knot. You moved in together. Then the invitations never came. After a while people forgot. And now you're involved with a totally delicious confection off the Hill. Who must have a love-me spell on her. Even Dean likes her better than he likes Tinnie."

"I'm not involved. Not yet."

"You're sleeping in the same bed. One of you doesn't care who knows. She moved a trunk into your room. I'm pretty sure that qualifies as involved."

"Where did you hear . . . ?"

"Singe let it slip. Accidentally on purpose, I'm sure. She says the woman has no shame."

"In private. But she does have a sense of propriety. She wouldn't hurt someone deliberately."

This stuff was a lot less complicated when I was younger.

Singe came in. She gave us the fish-eye, favoring me with the magnum variety. "The ladies are here for your evening treatment, Mr. Dotes. And you, Mr. Garrett, need to reacquaint yourself with the bathtub. A change of apparel would not be amiss, either."

She had to be channeling my mother.

"I took a bath last week!" With a vintage eight-year-old whine.

A bunch of stuff happened at once, starting with Dean's announcement of a late supper as the ratwomen closed in on Morley. Dotes got a chance to gobble a few mouths full, then participated in the customary rituals in my former office. Singe went and worked hard in her office. I drank a mug of beer, then took myself up to bed. I had a full belly and the world wasn't going to let me do anything else anyway.

I just wanted to escape to dreamland before my hangover set in.

"I'll be responsible next year, Ma."

When I woke up because I needed to commune with the chamber pot I was no longer alone. Strafa stirred but did not waken. When I climbed back into bed she snuggled against me like a second skin. I found it amazing that she could get so close and still leave me comfortable. I did not stay awake long. I spent those moments wondering how Strafa had gotten in. I didn't remember leaving the window open.

It was open now. The air was cool. Strafa's warmth felt good.

81

Pular Singe was not pleased with her boss, master, partner--whatever she styled me in secret.

She blundered into my room at an inappropriate moment. She gasped something like, "Now I believe it," and went away.

Strafa didn't care. She was preoccupied.

Going downstairs told me, quickly, that the new order had become established fact. Dean greeted Strafa warmly, with perfect manners and no hint of disapproval. Singe was more formal but had put her personal feelings into a locked box. She did not dislike Strafa, she just had problems with all the changes.

It would be hard for anybody to dislike Strafa when she wasn't being Furious Tide of Light. Except for Penny Dreadful. Penny had issues of some kind.

Morley reported that. I didn't see it.

"The girl glares daggers at the woman when she thinks no one will notice."

"That makes no sense. She doesn't know Strafa. Strafa is no threat to her."

"You never know. You up for a physical workout today?"

"You aren't ready for that yet, are you?"

"I'll pace myself. It's you that needs to get busy. You're a tub of goo."

That exaggeration was unkind in the extreme but not far off the mark. I was still weak from my cold but the worst of that had passed. If I used Dean's breather occasionally, my nose stayed open and I didn't cough up chunks bigger than my fist.

Morley said, "It will be fun, getting ready for our personal war."

I doubted that the rest of the world would leave us much against which to execute even one tactical move. Scores were out there trying to make an end to the horror.

I was sure that fear of widespread panic and a breakdown of order were heavy on the minds of movers and shakers everywhere. If fear of a witch hunt did have some basis it made sense for the powerful and privileged to keep the worst quiet.

"We may be fooling ourselves, old friend."

"Doesn't matter. Whatever we do to prepare our bodies and purify our souls won't be a waste."

He was in a martial-arts-philosophy-of-life kind of mood.

I smiled and promised, "I'll do my best!"

"You prick. Now you're making fun."

"I don't like people who say things like that."

"I knew it. You have the intonation perfect. Every word from the little dying girl in the comedy Skuffle."

"Damn. You got me. How did you know?"

"I see everything they put on at the World. Good and bad."

"Who stuck you full of holes, then? What did you see that made somebody decide it was time you took a dirt nap?"

"All right. You got me. I suffer memory lapses. I wish I had one where that play was concerned. Alyx Weider and her pals stunk it up, trying to play kids Penny's age."

"I enjoyed it. Once I got over the old maidens factor. It was fluff."

"You're a sentimental, romantic idiot. Which, my marvelous memory reminds me, Singe was generous enough to point out not that long ago."

"My equally peerless memory allows as to how she included you in that base canard."

"Would that be a musical instrument? Might we find it in the orchestra pit? What kind of musician plays the bass canard?"

"Are you all right?"

"It must be the medication. Or I might just be relieving tension by turning it into silliness. You think we could slide out of here if we did a really quiet sneak?"

"Singe hasn't put a bell on the door yet but I don't think we'd get far. She'd be on our trail. With her nose. Then the Windwalker would swoop down and make us break out in boils, or something. If the Dead Man didn't wake up and freeze our brains in our heads."

"You're probably right."

"I am right."

"He is one hundred percent right," Strafa said from the doorway.

From behind her, Singe said, "Pular Singe agrees."

Just to be difficult, I said, "It's times like these when I miss Melondie Kadare the most."

Singe was a grown-up woman. She proved it by having to have the last word. "It is times like these that I miss the God-damn Parrot. And him we could get back. Could we not, Mr. Dotes?"

"Might be a chore. He went away with the sky elves last time they were here. You could pray that he'll be obnoxious enough for them to bring him back."

I did not comment. I wanted no crazy ideas getting stuck in anybody's head.

82

I sat down with Strafa in Singe's office, a stack of handkerchiefs close by. Singe was at her desk, hard at it pretending to be disinterested. "I'm betting you found a whole lot of nothing yesterday."

"You're psychic. I did get to spend time with my daughter and Kip. As did Barate."

That did not sound like the kids had much fun. "You didn't spank them, did you?"

"No. I was gentle as could be. Before Barate got there I hammered Kevans about them having to stop being bedroom friends. They have other commitments, now."

"I wondered if you saw that."

"I expect even Kyra saw it. I don't know if I got through. She didn't want to get it, probably because it's been them against the world for so long. And Kip may not be involved with Kyra physically, yet."

"Don't tell me. He respects her too much. And doesn't see the inconsistency."

"That would be my guess. And, then, there is you and me. Kevans threw that in my face."

"Ouch. What did Barate say?"

"He wasn't there yet. Kevans settled down fast after he showed up."

Singe wrote and pretended to be deaf. I could imagine her thoughts about our personal lives becoming ever more complicated.

I said, "We aren't in a good position to argue, 'Do as I say!' "

"True. But there is a difference."

"About the warehouse."

"Barren. Not even dust or cobwebs. People and elves around there won't talk about it. Ratpeople will. Palace Guards took everything away. Some stayed around to chase off Director Relway's Specials and General Block's forensic sorcerers. The ratpeople say there's a plan to demolish the building, now."

I muttered, "That wouldn't be legal. The Lifeguards can't tell people what to do outside the Palace."

It shouldn't be hard to trace where that much stuff went.

Strafa had the answer already. The ratfolk had told her.

"It went into the Knodical underground."

"What?" The Knodical was a Royal house well separated from the Palace. Over the past few centuries its main function has been to house the Royal mistresses.

"Hired ratpeople broke stuff up into firewood, cullet, and landfill. Human bits went to a crematorium. The rest went into the Knodical."

"I see," I said. "Everything but the sense."

"It doesn't make any, does it? You don't create dozens of witnesses while trying to destroy evidence."

Not if you can't get rid of the witnesses.

"So something else was going on."

"Maybe it was about purification."

Strafa got up, stepped over, eyed my lap like she was thinking about making herself at home.

"Not in here, please," Singe said without looking up. "General Block thinks we are brushing up against a conspiracy against the Crown."

I waited expectantly. Strafa dropped her snuggle scheme and joined the wait.

"Well?"

"His goal may be to destroy wealth."

Strafa and I leaned toward her. "Whose goal?"

"Gods, think! Rupert! Suppose there is a plot against the Royals but it's well hidden. The patchwork men are part of it. Maybe they are supposed to create panic and make the people in charge look incompetent. But Rupert doesn't have to know who the bad guys are to break their toys. If they want to stay in business, they have to buy more. So they risk exposing themselves making purchases. Which will cost a lot of money."

All of which sounded weird but might make sense in a context where the Crown came down hard and hogged everything.

Strafa said, "They don't think they can trust anyone."

"Say that's right, Singe. So what?"

"I was speculating. It won't make a lick of difference to you or me."

"You think?"

"I think. In fact, I think we should forget the whole thing. I think we should concentrate on business. Morley, I smell you. Come in."

Dotes entered, not the least chagrined.

Singe said, "The Grapevine is a class restaurant. Cherish and nurture that. Let the professionals dance with the devils and deal with the rest."

Odd stuff coming out of that girl's mouth.

Morley deadpanned, "You're right, Singe. I have The Palms to worry about, too. It made a comeback after the wine snob set moved on."

Singe's whiskers twitched. She knew Morley was messing with her.

He said, "And I had openings planned near two other theaters. One would do seafood."

I played along."You're talking seriously upscale there, brother. Hard to keep that stuff fresh all the way up the river."

He looked past me. "I was going to ask your lady friend to come in as a partner. She could fly in shrimp and crabs, scallops, sea bass, squid, octopus, prawns, that kind of stuff, fresh every day."

Strafa chuckled. "Entrepreneurship comes to the magical realm. Let's reduce everything to the commercial and mundane."

"What about it?" Morley asked.

"It wouldn't be practical, Mr. Dotes. I can neither fly that far nor can I lift the masses that would be required."

"It was a thought. My other idea would be an ethnic foods place."

That caught Singe's interest. "That would be better. More people can afford pork buns or curries, or something they ran into once while they were doing their five, than could possibly want to put out a fortune so they can brag that they ate a squid."

"Easier to get the ingredients, too," Morley said.

"What is a squid, anyway?"

Dotes said, "That's one for you, Garrett."

I explained about squid, great and small. "Some are littler than your pinkie. Some are big enough to brawl with whales. I think the whales usually start it."

"Ratfolk aren't famous for being picky eaters, Garrett, but I would have to be damned hungry to chomp down on something like that."

"Batter it and fry it in butter, it's not so bad."

"What are we even talking about this stuff for?" Morley demanded.

"You brought it up. Going to make Strafa rich, remember?"

"I'm going crazy here. I have to get out. I need to start doing something."

"Right behind you, boss. Here's how we'll start. You go run down the hall to the kitchen, turn around and run to the front door, then charge on back in here. All without resting. I'll time you."

"Will you ladies kindly cover your ears? I'm about to say bad things about Garrett."

Singe snickered. "That means he knows he'll collapse before he completes the first lap."

Morley did not disagree. He couldn't. And he wasn't happy about it.

For the first time in the epoch that we had been friends I was in better shape than him.

Singe asked, "Are you done, now? Can I get some work done before the outside world butts in again?"

"You can," I said, more curious than ever about what was taking so much of her time and required the use of so much paper and ink.

Singe shook her head as though she despaired of seeing us survive to enjoy our tenth birthdays. She commenced to begin to ignore our very existence.

I grumbled, "Go ahead. Be that way." I thought about sampling some dizzy water, or maybe some premium beer. But what was the point if I had to go it alone? And if I was going to make myself sick all over again?

Morley asked, "What are the chances those villains will forget about us now?"

"Dumbass question, brother. How the hell would I know? Near as I can figure, they ought to have zero interest in me and only incidental interest in you. Unless you can remember why those absurd people were after you in the first place."

"Garrett, if I knew, you and Bell both would have heard a long time ago."

No doubt. No doubt.

Someone knocked.

Singe sighed, set her pen down, grumbled, "And so it begins."

83

Our visitor was General Block. He was in a good mood. He did not ask for alcohol. He reckoned black tea would be entirely adequate.

"Breakthrough?" I asked.

"We found out where the custom glassware came from. Weast Brothers, in Leifmold. Shone and Sons handled the importing using Dustin Lord Shippers. The purchasers paid cash and collected the materials from the dock using their own transport. They purchased seventy-two items that came in three shipments, the first about a month after the thing at the World Theater went quiescent."

Quiescent? Where did he ever hear a word that big?

"Is there a connection?"

"I doubt it."

Strafa said, "There weren't half that many pieces in that warehouse."

"There were twenty-six. We have friends in the crew that moved them. Only a few got broken."

"That's all interesting," I said. "But helpful how?"

"Helpful because we now know where they were manufactured. A team of Specials is headed down there already. So. What about you all? Come up with anything?"

He looked straight at Strafa. He knew she had been to the warehouse again.

She said, "We didn't find anything. Not even a speck of dust. What did your sorcerers find?"

"Some useless specks of dust. Professionals cleaned that place out."

I asked, "Any ideas about why the cover-up?"

"I know exactly why. So I'm told. I'm on my way home from the Palace. I took a serious ass-munching from Prince Rupert. He made it perfectly clear--for the benefit of witnesses who didn't think I knew they were watching. The Crown is determined to avoid a popular panic. Therefore, this business is too important to be handled by the Guard."

I snorted.

Block nodded. "Experts off the Hill say TunFaire is unstable and volatile because of high unemployment and strained racial relations resulting from the conclusion of the war with Venageta."

Singe said, "When have our lords of the Hill ever cared about that?"

Block raised a hand. "Truth has nothing to do with any of this. They did make one good point. The real hot weather will be here soon."

I could put a cot in there with the Dead Man.

"The orchestrated manipulation of a populace already hot, worried about jobs, and troubled by arcane happenings, might provoke riots and witch hunts."

"Glory Mooncalled," I said.

Block looked at me like I was nuts.

"Just speculation. There was a rumor a couple years ago that he was back, then a whole lot of nothing, like maybe somebody clamped down. This could be some kind of urban guerrilla warfare."

"You do have an imagination, Garrett. If there is any political angle, the source is more likely inside the human rights movement."

I glanced at Morley.

He shook his head. "No way. I don't know what I was doing when they captured me. But I wasn't on a mission from the Elven Defense League. Those people are nuts."

Block asked the question. "So you were taken captive, then?"

"I . . ." Morley frowned. "I guess. It stands to reason. Ugh!"

"What?"

"I had a flash vision of somewhere dark and smelly. What you would expect where you keep people locked up."

Singe was all over him immediately. "Describe the smells!"

"Back off, people! It was just a flash. There isn't anything there to get hold of yet." He met my eye, glanced eastward.

It was a shame, indeed, that the Dead Man was on hiatus.

For no reason I understood at the moment, I asked, "Where is Penny? Anybody seen her?"

No one had. A flurry of activity ended seconds later when Strafa looked into the Dead Man's room. Penny was in there with the Bird. Bird was teaching her to paint.

Back in Singe's office, I asked, "When did the Bird show up?"

No one knew. Concerned, I hustled to the kitchen to ask Dean. Dean had no idea, either, but had Playmate and Dollar Dan in there with him. Dollar Dan said, "That painter guy came the same time I did. The young girl let us in."

Interesting. "Thanks." I hustled back to the others, where I told Singe what Dollar Dan had said.

"I'll talk to Penny. She's careful about strangers but she should keep us posted about friends."

Block asked, "Anything else you people want to tell me?"

Ah, hell. He was getting that look.

I said, "Tell me what you have. I'm one hundred percent open this time so I'll give you anything you don't already have."

He did not believe me but he played along, telling me some of what the Guard had. I told him, "That's already more than we know here. What could you possibly think we're holding back?"

"You must be. You're constitutionally unable to . . ."

"Captain, stop!" Thus spake the Windwalker, Furious Tide of Light. "It would seem that you have a constitutional handicap of your own."

Captain? Block said, "Yes, ma'am." Meekly.

Singe said, "We could have something more later. You are the first of our contacts to visit us today."

I was trying to recall what I was hiding so I could keep my stories straight.

Block changed the subject. "Prince Rupert wants to see you, Garrett. He said to tell you."

"Why?"

"Going to offer you a job again. Lurking Felhske isn't as straight-arrow as he hoped."

I shrugged. "Not interested."

"You'll have to tell him yourself."

"I don't have time. I'm busy here."

"Garrett! The Crown Prince wants to talk to you."

"If it's that important he knows where to find me."

Block looked at me like he had caught me pissing on an altar.

I was being outrageous. But I figured Rupert was too busy to take umbrage.

Somebody knocked.

84

Somebody proved to be cousin Artifice Tate. Singe brought him into the office. He handed her a worn leather courier case. It had the Tate crest embossed on it but almost completely rubbed off. "These people can stand witness to the fact that I delivered this. Please look inside, then tell everyone what that is."

He talked bold but didn't meet any eyes.

Singe opened the foxed brown case. She removed papers. She read. She said, "This is the Amalgamated corporate response to our contention that we did not receive our quarterly dividends. These are deposit receipts, all legally executed. And, note, dated today. There is a letter of apology from a Nestor Tate admitting no malice, stating that because of outside distractions the chief accountant overlooked a number of dividend payments. Possibly, further, due to misbehavior by a family member who should not have had access to the financial offices."

So. It was my fault because Tinnie had stuff besides business on her mind. But if it couldn't be pinned on me, then a straw man did something bad. "They're going to put it onto Rose."

Artifice said, "Maybe. If it is her fault."

I glanced at Morley. Once upon a time he and Tinnie's troubled cousin Rose had had a fiery thing.

He said, "First Law."

"And some luck."

Singe said, "Thank you, Artifice. Inform your uncles that we are impressed with the quickness and graciousness of their response. Would you care for refreshments before you go back into the heat?" She was busy writing again.

"No, thank you. But I'd like something written to acknowledge the fact that I did make it here and you got what I was supposed to deliver."

I was going to like this Tate. He had attitude. Very subtle attitude.

"Already done," Singe said. "General, will you and the Windwalker add your chops? To make this exchange completely legal?"

Those two did as requested while I boggled. My little girl knew exactly what to do and was so businesslike nobody thought to demur.

She was getting scarier by the hour.

Block had on a half sneer that told me he saw me slipping to errand boy status around here.

Artifice did some shallow bows and headed for the front door armed with his ragged case and notarized receipt. Clever Garrett volunteered to let him out, fooling nobody. Including Artifice, who told me, as I opened the door, "I'm sorry. I don't have anything for you from Tinnie. She suddenly don't have time for anything. She does play stuff all morning, then works the books at night." He sucked in a bushel of air, released it in a long, sad sigh. "Man, I think she gave up. She moved her stuff back to the compound when the ratgirl wouldn't let her see you. Marmie said she heard her crying last night."

He reached out, rested a hand on my left shoulder. "I don't know what I ought to be feeling, man. She's hurting. But I think you done your part. She dug the hole. I'm supposed to be on her side 'cause she's family, but . . . What I'm trying to tell you is, whatever, the family won't be as unhappy with you as you probably think. We're gonna be all right with you. Unless you do something dumb now."

I wondered if I would ever actually see Tinnie again.

"Thank you." Which surprised him.

Would we become enemies? He was trying to say no. And I couldn't see it happening. Business trumps with the Tates. These days their principal business is manufacturing the wonders that spring from Kip's mind. And bad man Garrett has an undue influence over the genius boy.

Glower and grumble some might but they would not munch any feeding hand.

It might be gods help us all, though, if Kip ever ran dry.

All assuming everything went on the way it appeared to be headed now.

Is fear of your girl's family a good enough reason to keep a relationship going?