Cruel Zinc Melodies (11 page)

I did hurry it. Because there had been a buzz inside the wall, beside the door.

“What?” Tinnie asked.

“The pixies might be waking up.” Then I wasted breath asking, “Anybody hungry?”

Singe had reached the kitchen already. Checking to see what Dean was cooking. Because there were food odors in the air. The Dead Man had alerted the old man to our approach. Dean had a tray with mugs and a pitcher ready. Singe brought that to the Dead Man’s room. She reported, “Ten minutes, soup is on.”

Which turned out to be true. Almost. It was a bisque, which Dean explained is a soup made with cream instead of water.

John Stretch and the Dead Man communed. The king of the ratmen downed a second mug, then went home.

Even Singe was surprised to see him walk away from more free beer.

“What’s the story?” I asked, working hard to avoid taking notice of Saucerhead being disappointed by the bisque.

He suffered a great deal of stress today. And, being clever, he suspects that more unhappiness lies ahead.

“Say what?” Tinnie, I noted, didn’t appreciate the bisque much more than Saucerhead did. Dean would be heartbroken.

The Dead Man ushered me into the reality he had found inside John Stretch’s mind. The dimensions of the world beneath the World, and all that neighborhood, were clearer this evening? as seen through the one ratman able to read the tiny minds of unmodified rats who did not experience reality through the same mix of senses as us allegedly intelligent upright apes.

Old Bones couldn’t translate the information into anything my feeble human mind could grasp.

“So, where are we?” I asked the air. Off to the side, muttering to himself, Saucerhead finished another mug. It looked like he had no plans to go home. Had he lost his place? Was he about to start mooching sleeping space off his acquaintances?

Tinnie took the bowls and spoons to the kitchen. And didn’t return. I was too worn down to work out if that was a hint or just her being too damned tired to stay up drinking and thinking.

Lurking Felhske. The spy. From what I find in Mr. Tharpe’s mind it seems highly unlikely that anyone would enlist his skills in an effort to keep track of your doings.

I sighed. More disrespect. But true, if Singe was right. “It would be the kids Kip Prose is running with. Somebody on the Hill wants to keep track. Giant bugs, after all. That could turn out as important as the creation of ratpeople.”

That I doubt. I cannot imagine an insect being made intelligent.
You are correct. Felhske must be in the employ of someone interested in the sorcery involved in modifying the insects. So. We have reached the point where your best next step is to round up the Prose boy and bring him here.

“I don’t see him volunteering. But I have to visit the manufactory soon, anyway.” I hadn’t made a security check all winter.

Try to restrain your business and social observations when you do.

Yeah. That. Sometimes a problem. “What about the World?”

Poll the tradesmen and contractors. Get their stories about why they are not working. If, indeed, they are not. After today’s events. Then you might return to that abandoned house and see what is to be seen down below.

“I can tell you right now, it has a cellar that’s hooked into the underground world.”

The Tenderloin has been in place for ages. And the kind of people who engage in the sorts of services provided there tend to have things to hide and a natural desire to have a secret way out ahead of angry competitors, customers, or the law. There are tunnels all over.

Tunnels and secret underground chambers are common in most neighborhoods, though. Hardly anybody trusts anybody very much.

Quite likely a safe prediction.
With an edge of sarcasm.

He does know the city. In a historical context. Inasmuch as he’s been here for most of its history. He won’t be too clear on what it’s like at any given moment, though. He doesn’t get out much anymore.

Dean wandered in, looked around, shrugged fatalistically, collected the empty pitcher, and departed. He returned with the pitcher filled. “I’m turning in early tonight. I have a family obligation in the morning.”

“Really?” that did not come up often.

“Really.”

He didn’t want to talk about it.

The Dead Man didn’t clue me in.

Must not be any of my business.

26

Dean was long gone when Tinnie and I drifted downstairs. He’d left breakfast on the stove. Singe was hard at something bookish in her corner of the Dead Man’s room. Saucerhead hadn’t stopped snoring.

Tharpe had dedicated himself to getting outside all the free beer he could.

The Dead Man was awake but in a contemplative mood. He wasn’t inclined to be social.

I told Singe, “When you have time, see what we need to do to turn the small front room into workspace for you. The smell is almost gone. And we ought to keep it cooler in here.”

That brightened her morning.

I told the brightness in mine, “I'll walk you home. Then I'll duck over to the manufactory to see if I can lay hands on Kip Prose. Or get a line on where I can lay hands on him.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, you don’t want to do that. If he’s there he'll duck out when he hears you showed up.”

Probably true. “But won’t he be a little nervous about you? I figure he knows you know me.” Me smirking. But her being literal.

“Of course he does. It won’t be me that sets him up.”

“Then who?”

“Leave me in charge of the vamping.”

“I generally do.”

There was a hint of amusement in the air. His Nibs enjoying himself at my expense. I told him, “I’m not as dim as you think.”

He didn’t respond but he held a contrary opinion. Though if he peeked inside my head he knew I suspected that Tinnie wanted to keep me away from the manufactory.

They really don’t want an untamed conscience roaming around over there. That just isn’t best business practices.

Breakfast done, I readied myself for the world. Tinnie did the same. She needed to go home. She needed a change of clothing. Which observation you couldn’t have tortured out of me. Nor could slivers under my nails get me to suggest she keep a change or two at my place. Not because she’d think I was hinting at some deeper commitment but because she’d consider me presumptuous, assuming there was more going on than she was ready to admit.

And we’re both grown-ups.

Be careful out there.

“Always.” I thought he meant to beware the weather, which had turned unpleasant during the night. Tinnie and I retreated to find winter coats, she helping herself to my best while I made do with a jacket I should’ve passed on to the street people early in the last century. My sweetie told me, “I'll give it back as soon as we get to the house.”

Grumble, grumble.

We hit the street, headed west on Macunado, uphill. We made it as far as the Cardonlos homestead before the darkness closed in.

I told Tinnie, “Now you see why I’d rather not get up before the crack of noon.”

Four men had appeared, boxing us in. They looked spiffy in the latest Civil Guard apparel. And altogether businesslike. Which meant they had checked their senses of humor and humanity when they got to work.

The guy in charge was an old acquaintance. “Mr. Scithe. You moved in with the Widow Cardonlos now?”

“My wife likes it that way. She said tell you thanks for getting her moved up the waiting list, next time I saw you. So, thanks.”

“I promised. I delivered.”

“Miss Tate. Haven’t you outgrown this artifact yet?”

“It’s a disease. Won’t go away. Is that an officer’s pip on your cap?”

“Yeah. I did too good a job back when your addiction was trying to engineer the downfall of Karentine civilization. So they gave me a fancier hat and made me work longer hours. Garrett. The Director wants to see you.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“If you insist. If you don’t come, we get to hit you with sticks, hog-tie you, and drag you through the slush.”

I decided not to call his bluff. “All right. But one of your guys has to see Miss Tate home.”

Scithe betrayed a momentary longing. And who could blame him? To know her is to yearn.

Scithe said, “Mistry. Accompany Miss Tate to the Tate compound.” Making sure the Watchman knew which family claimed this flaming glory.

“Yes, sir.” Not even a little disgruntled about being handed this tough assignment.

“The Al-Khar?” I asked. “Or am I lucky enough to find him hanging out with Ma Cardonlos?”

“You wish.” Scithe glanced at the remaining two men. They’d positioned themselves so as to foil any escape attempt by the infamous desperado, Garrett. Scithe whispered, “He never leaves the Al-Khar anymore.”

He lied. I know Deal Relway. He’s a slinking weasel who’s always somewhere in the shadows, watching. He’s no desk-bound bureaucrat.

“This going to take long?” After giving Tinnie a quick parting kiss that left every guy in sight hating me for being so lucky. “I’m not dressed for the weather.”

He was kind enough not to ask whose fault that was. “I don’t know. Way I see it, that depends on you. If you’re your normal self, weather might not be something you need to worry your pretty little head about. Much.”

I sighed. Nobody in the law-and-order racket appreciates my wit.

I miss the old days. The original Watch was completely corrupt and totally incompetent. Efficiency was a word that hadn’t yet been imported into TunFairen Karentine.

“I suppose we should get on with getting on, then, Brother Scithe.” I glanced up the street. Tinnie had Mistry totally subverted already.

We talked about the weather as we walked. Scithe wasn’t a big fan of winter. “On the other hand, summer is worse,” he opined. “I spent my war in the deep desert of the Cantard. You went out in the sun in the afternoon there, your weapons started to melt.”

Army types.

My war had been all that, with bugs, snakes, crocodiles, and incredible humidity. And command stupidity. I didn’t one-up him. He’d just come back with scorpions, jumping spiders, more snakes, bigger snakes, and command authority fuckups so awful they'll be remembered throughout the ages. Those Army guys are like that. I just said, “Winter, you can always put something else on. Including another log on the fire.”

“That’s the way I see it.”

“Can I ask a question? Professional courtesy kind of thing?”

He was alert and suspicious instantly. “Yeah?”

“Ever heard of a character called Lurking Felhske?”

He appeared to give that an honest think. After being startled because I hadn’t asked something weightier. “Can’t say that I have. No. Put the question to the Director. There aren’t many actors in this burg he doesn’t know.”

I filed that usage of actor in my mental dictionary.

The Civil Guard had evolved to the point where it was deploying its own inside language.

“I'll do that. If I can get a word in edgewise.”

“You’ve talked to him before.”

“Listened. Several times.”

“All right. Here’s one for you. The people building that theater down there. The World. I hear they plan to put together a whole chain of theaters.”

“Sure. Max Weider is behind it. He’s thinking if he goes a little down-market compared to other theaters, and he’s got a bunch of theaters, he’s got him a fresh way to move a lot more of his product.”

Scithe went off on a rant about how that was typical of Weider’s class. I reminded him, “You don’t like that kind of people, you shouldn’t make deals with me. I should let natural forces work on your wife’s place on the three-wheel waiting list.”

What I’d said sounded weird. But Scithe sometimes spouts strange nonsense about class and social standing. He thought we all ought to be absolute equals because we’re all born or hatched out naked.

One of Scithe’s men said, “It’s all envy. The subaltern forgets that some folks pick better parents than some others. And some people were behind the door drooling instead of being in line when the brains were passed out. And some people got talents when some others don’t. And some got ambition when some others don’t.”

“That'll be enough, Teagarden!” Scithe snapped. He admitted, “I loathe myself for working the system so Vinga could get a better number.”

“And she’s getting close to the top.” I didn’t observe that he hadn’t been reluctant when we made the deal. I didn’t mention his having accepted a job where he was in charge of other men - and obviously proud that somebody thought well enough of him to put him there. I just nodded when Teagarden said, “Only way you’re gonna have a world with universal equality is if you got one where there’s only one guy left standing.”

That is so blazingly obvious that I’ve never understood how some people can’t see it.

Every nut notion that ever was is floating around TunFaire somewhere, keeping itself alive inside at least one human head. Most are like diseases. The benign ones spread slowly. The deadly ones spread fast. The more virulent they are, the more quickly they consume their carriers.

I’m no thinker. I never cared about much as long as there was beer and a pretty girl somewhere handy. Though I do have a hyperactive sense of right and wrong. Which irks my business associates. And sometimes makes me slap on the rusty armor to go tilt at windmills.

The Al-Khar isn’t far outside my neighborhood. We got there before the discussion could get much deeper.

“The place hasn’t gotten any prettier, I see.” Which wasn’t entirely true. Prisoners get exercise cleaning it some now.

The city prison is ancient. It is built of a soft, yellowish sandstone that absorbs dirt and flakes away with changes in the weather. It won’t last another two hundred years? even assuming responsible upkeep and the absence of civil unrest or war.

Scithe admitted, “This
is
the house where Ugly was born.”

27

It’s another world inside the Al-Khar. Someone who hasn’t been there can’t begin to imagine it.

First, the place is a cathedral dedicated to the religion of bureaucracy. And always has been. Deal Relway and Westman Block have ground away, but even after sustained, relentless attention from Prince Rupert’s hounds, whole departments still suck up funding in order to monitor the performance of departments devoted to keeping an eye on departments tasked to keep an eye on. Here and there, like a blind pilgrim caught in a maze, is somebody actually trying to accomplish something. And having big trouble getting there because of the friction of the Al-Khar culture.