Whispering Nickel Idols (18 page)

Winger and Jon Salvation got up and left, obviously on a mission. Saucerhead left soon afterward. Then Dean appeared. He said the rain had eased up enough for pixies to fly. If any flying had to be done. He went away and returned shortly with a toddy for my other hand.

I began to feel more upbeat. My tummy was full, the toddies were warming me, and Singe was tending my dents and dings. “Careful with the ribs.” The concussion seemed to have faded.

Old Bones had turned off all my pain. Singe is no light-fingered nightingale. She poked, prodded, dug, gouged. “Nothing broken. This time. I need your shirt off to see how bad you are bruised.”

Several of Morley’s men were on hand, looking nervous and inclined to be elsewhere. One snickered. Puddle’s hulking shape made a sharp gesture. The others kept it to themselves after that.

I focused a thought, wondering what they were doing here.

It will be done as soon as possible. I must install memories in the one named Puddle that will permit him to carry information to Mr. Dotes without his recalling having had contact with me.

“What happened to me?”

My mind filled with outside recollections.

One of Morley’s boys had found me on his way to work. He’d been late. A woman was responsible. Married. To somebody who wasn’t him. He wouldn’t have noticed me if I hadn’t been pointed out by some street kid.

He told Morley that his friend Garrett was in the gutter down the street, bleeding in the rain. So I’d tried to reach The Palms after realizing that I couldn’t make it home.

A rescue team went out and scraped me up. There.

Puddle and the boys departed, zombielike. Dean made sure they all left the premises. I recalled the terrible bad breath. And decided never to mention the kiss of life. Puddle has trouble with his breath.

I find myself in a quandary.

“Yeah? That anywhere near Ymber? Dean. How about another toddy?” I’d apologize to Max Weider someday. Rare though they be, in some moments beer isn’t the best choice.

Dean looked to the Dead Man momentarily before stating, “You get one more. Then there’ll be no more drink.”

“The quandary?”

I must see Colonel Block or Deal Relway. I will need them to help me get into the minds of the servants of A-Laf.

“Then you turned Puddle loose too soon. Him and his crew could spread the word about how they brought me home and it don’t look like I’ll make it and you won’t wake up to help. Or send that stack o Watch in the corner.”

The front wall reverberated to a major pixie launch.

I will correct that oversight. Dean. Take a few coins to the front door to express our gratitude to Mr. Dotes’ men.

Let Miss Pular put you to bed now, Garrett. You need not worry. As you surmised, Teacher White blundered badly.

“Makes you wonder if
anybody
could be that dumb, don’t it?”

Never underestimate the reserves of stupid lying within this city. Nevertheless, an amble through Mr. White’s mind might prove interesting.

I wanted to ask what Skelington had revealed, but Singe didn’t give me time.

I know where to find you. Dean, see to the door, please

36

I slept like a baby, thanks to my partner. One of his lesser minds managed my breathing. The samsom weed caused a sleep almost as deep as a coma. I had visitors during the night and was unaware of it. They included the herbalist who named what I’d been given but who knew of no antidote except good luck, time, and lots of water. He was amazed that I was still alive, so the luck did seem to be in.

Skelington knew Teacher White got the sleepy weed from a character named Kolda. Skelington believed there was an antidote and he thought Kolda had it.

Also in were a witch and a healer of the laying-on-of-hands variety. Neither did me any immediate good. Both agreed that I should drink water by the gallon. And Old Bones got to visit with a witch even though I’d been unable to deliver. He never explained why.

Others came in response to rumors of my ill health but waited till sunrise. Except for Tinnie Tate. She found a way to put the contrary aside when life got down to its sharp edges.

I woke up long enough to say, “Sometimes dreams do come true.”

Tinnie Tate is one incredible redhead. All the superlatives apply. She’s the light of my life — when she’s not its despair. In some ways she’s the gold standard of women, in some the source of all confusion and frustration. The trouble with Tinnie is, she doesn’t know what she wants any better than I do. But she won’t admit it.

She was there. And that was enough for now. She looked thoroughly distressed — until she realized that

I was awake. Then her demeanor turned severe. “When you do that, the freckles just stand out.”

“You’re a bastard even on your deathbed.”

“I’m not gonna die, woman. ’Cept maybe from lack of Tate.”

“And crude to your last breath.”

“Cold. It’s so cold. If I just had some way to keep warm …” She was a step ahead.

Only one weak candle provided light. It was enough. For the hundredth time I was stunned and awed that this woman was part of my life.

How can I rail against the gods when once in a while they back off and let wonders like this happen? Nothing happened. The Dead Man was right there in my head, disdaining discretion.

37

It don’t matter who spends the night, snuggled up or otherwise. Pular Singe will drop in before the birds start chirping. And blame it on Dean. Or the Dead Man. Which was the case this time.

“You are needed downstairs.”

I doubted it. His Nibs could have summoned me without troubling Singe. I grumbled, growled, muttered, disparaged some folks’ ancestry. But by the time I arrived in what Old Bones had turned into an operations center, I knew all he wanted was my managing my own breathing so he could free up the secondary mind keeping me huffing and puffing.

There was a vast, ugly conspiracy afoot, designed to confine me to the house. So I wouldn’t get involved in anything strenuous, like, say, discouraging somebody who wanted to twist little bits off of me.

I sat. I watched folks come and go. I breathed. Smiley didn’t fill me in. This was how he worked. He gathered information. He looked for unexpected connections. Usually, though, I’m the main data capture device.

Dean brought food and tea. I ate. And sat some more while people came and went. I wondered who was paying them. Being a natural-born, ever-loving blue-eyed investigator, I intuited the answer. And felt the wealth sucking right out of me. My associates have no concept of money management.

I wondered who all my guests were. Some were complete strangers. Not Relway Runners, Combine players, Green Pants thugs, nor even part of the Morley Dotes menagerie.

“What are we doing?”

The Dead Man didn’t answer Ymoeu.
You believe Teacher White’s men took your roc’s egg?

“I had it before I turned unconscious. I didn’t have it when I woke up.”

Exactly.

“Excuse me?”

I sent Mr. Tharpe to the place where you were held, immediately after I determined where it was.

His examination of the site and the corpses suggests third-party involvement

“Huh?”

When drugged you were supposed to remain able to do Teacher White’s dirty work. The you who staggered away from there may not have been intended to wake up at all. You have contusions and abrasions unaccounted for in your memories. There are indications that someone attempted to strangle you.

“How do you figure all that?”

Circumstantial evidence. Your condition. The fact that Spider Webb was strangled with your belt. It was still around his neck when Mr. Tharpe arrived. The other man was strangled, too. There were bruises on his throat. Similar bruises are on your throat. More suggestive is the fact that the bodies and other evidence were gone when Miss Winger went up there this morning.

“Teacher is in deep gravy and don’t even know it? Who?”

That would be the question.

“A question, certainly.”

We may be able to ask Mr. White himself soon. His associate Mr. Brix has told us where to find him.

“Who’s Mr. Brix?”

The man you know as Skelington. His name is Emmaus P. Brix. With the middle initial standing for nothing. Ah. Mr. Tharpe has achieved another success.

Two minutes later Saucerhead’s associates from Whitefield Hall, Orion Comstock and June Nicolist, stumbled in, struggling with a wooden box obviously heavy for its size. Dean appeared immediately, armed with a specialized pry tool. Another product of my manufactory.

Singe paid Nicolist and Comstock, painstakingly recording the transaction. Neither seemed troubled by the Dead Man. They thought he was still hibernating. Despite the crowd, all of whom seemed part of the Dead Man’s club.

These gentlemen have not been here before. They may not come here again.

“Oh.”

Orion Comstock took the pry bar from Dean. Nails shrieked as they came loose.

Kittens screamed all over the house. I heard them run, in confusion, upstairs, then back down into the kitchen.

Ah. As I suspected.

“What?”

To whom do you suppose they will think you are speaking?

I covered by heading for the hallway. Dean said, “I’ll go. You need to be here.” He sounded upset.

Singe, too, seemed troubled. Her exposed fur had risen. That doesn’t happen often.

There was even an undercurrent of revulsion in my connection with the Dead Man. Then I started to hear new voices. Inside my head.

I edged nearer Comstock and Nicolist.

The wooden box was lined with sheets of lead. Inside sat a matched pair of shiny metal sitting dogs, each nine inches tall.

Jackals, Old Bones opined.
Almost certainly carrion eaters
.

“You guys get these from the Bledsoe?”

Comstock eyed me suspiciously. “That was the contract, wasn’t it, slick? You saying —”

“Just startled. Saucerhead trusts you — I trust you. The ones I saw weren’t sitting.”

Comstock shrugged. “We seen some that was standing and some that was lying down. One was suckling pups. But Saucerhead said you wanted ones that was sealed up already. These are them.”

“That’s true. You did fine.” I started to shove my mitts into the box.

Stop! Disappointed whispers echoed afterward.

“Careful there, slick. You don’t want to touch them things with your bare skin.” I stopped. Cold rolled off the statues.

Nicolist showed me the outside edge of his left little finger. “That was just an accidental swipe.”

A piece of skin was missing, a quarter inch wide and three quarters long. Cruel bruising surrounded the wound.

“Aches a bit,” I supposed aloud.

“A bit. We need to get out of here, Orion. Runners are bound to turn up.”

A concern that hadn’t occurred to me, though it was inherent in the situation. “I’ll let you out. And thanks, guys. You really helped out. We’ll come to you first next time we have a tough job.”

Orion and June exchanged looks, shrugs, and headshakes.

I used the peephole. I didn’t see anything remarkable. Except that my door-fixer-upping technician,

Junker Mulclar, had pulled his cart up behind one that must have brought the metal dogs. I told Comstock and Nicolist, “Nobody there but the people who always are. Move out cool and nobody will notice.”

They went to the street. Mr. Mulclar hoisted his toolbox to his shoulder. He was wide, short, dark, craggy, an ugly man who counted a dwarf among his ancestors somewhere. He owned one of those faces that need shaving three times a day just to look dirty.

Junker is overly fond of cabbage, in both kraut and unpickled form. Whenever he stays in one place long that becomes overwhelmingly evident.

“Good morning, Mr. Mulclar. It seems to be the hinges this time.”

“Call me Junk, Mr. Garrett. Everybody does. What happened?” He rumbled enthusiastically at the nether end. He didn’t apologize. All part of the natural cycle.

“Same as always. These bad guys were bigger than usual, though.”

“No! That can’t be.” He punctuated with a minor poot. “That door I put in last time ought to stand up to —”

“It isn’t the door, Mr. Mulclar. It’s the hinges. And if you saw those guys, you’d preen like a peacock for ten years because your work stood up so well.”

Mulclar indulged in a rumbling chuckle, proud. Then rumbled in the opposite direction. The air was getting thick. Junk didn’t notice. “You got some spare room in your basement? Space you ain’t using? On account of I’m over here a whole lot anyway and my wife is throwing me out …” He cut a competition class ripper. “Not sure why. Maybe she found a new heartthrob. Anyways, then I’d be right here whenever it was time to service my mainest account.”

“That don’t sound like such a bad idea, Junk.” Hard to converse when you don’t want to inhale. “But I already have more people living here than I can manage. And, nothing personal, but I owe them all more than I owe you.”

“So it goes. I’ll stay with my cousin Sepp. Or myRsiipste! r. “” It’ll all work out. Though I’m going to have to diversify. With all this law and order going on they ain’t so many doors getting broke down.”

Junker Mulclar is a genius with hands and tools. There aren’t enough like him in the Brave New

TunFaire of postwar Karenta.

I gulped in some fresh air as a whiff breezed past. “Junk, I’m going to do you a favor. If you swear on your mother’s grave you’ll fix my doors forever.”

Rumble! “Sure, Mr. Garrett. I thought we had that deal already.”

“You know where the three-wheel manufactory is in Stepcross Pool?”

“Sure.”

“You go find the green door, tell the man there I said you should see Mr. Dale Pickle. Take your tools. They’ll give you all the work you can handle, and then some. And a place to stay, if that’s what you need.”

My business associates, all of whom possess percentages bigger than mine, agree that we should take care of our workers. Max Weider built his brewing empire by valuing and rewarding the people who made it happen for him.