Whispering Nickel Idols (31 page)

The Dead Man heard my thinking about the Bledsoe and whispering nickel idols.
Creative. Consider deep-sea disposal. With the charged jackals sealed into slow-rusting containers. The idols would discharge their darkness very slowly, down in the darkest deep.

That was supposed to be a joke.

We could call that part of the ocean the Depths of Despond.

“I got it. We’d have a lot of depressed fish. Not to mention the big uglies that live down there. Picture a school of really cranky krakens.”

An interesting fabulation. But I have another concern. One we can discuss with Colonel Block once our present troubles clear.

“Yeah?”

Two things concern me.

“Is this an auction?”

Three things. But your attitude, like the disposal of the nickel jackals, can abide a less stressful moment. I figured staying quiet would cause him to get to the point.

It worked. He felt impelled to fill the vacuum
. First, the child, Penny Dreadful, has not responded to the seeds I planted in her mind. Second, we have had no contact with Miss Winger for several days.

“You gave her work?”

I did. As mentioned. I have her examining Mr. Temisk’s back trail.

“You paid her up front?”

A percentage.

“Big mistake. She won’t turn up till she thinks you’re asleep. Then she’ll try to con me about something you supposedly promised her.”

You are too cynical. But we will table that, too. Singe’s brother approaches. His thoughts are veiled, but he is troubled.

I opened the door. The snow hadn’t let up. John Stretch looked as miserable as a ratman can get. “In, brother,” I told him. “That’s incredible.”

“It is like nothing my folk remember. Some wonder if stormwardens are not feuding.” Singe met us at the door to the Dead Man’s room. She had hot cocoa for her brother. “How about it, Old Bones? Is this weather natural? Is there any precedent?”

There is no obvious storm sorcery. Yes, there have been worse snowfalls. But Mr. Pound did not come here for small talk about snowfalls.

Mr. Pound?

John Stretch shook like a dog drying off.

“Creepy, ain’t he?”

“Some. But he is correct. I came to report that there is war in the streets.”

I considered a crack about a chance to get rich selling snowshoes to the combatants.
Hush. This will be important
.

“Who’s fighting?”

“The Syndicate. The part that belongs to Rory Sculdyte. And the Unpublished Committee for Royal Security. They hit the Sculdytes hard, everywhere, at the same time.”

I was surprised Relway had started so soon. Though, surely, he’d had plans roughed in ahead. He thought that way.

“I expected something. But not so soon.”

“They have killed most of the Sculdyte crew. Rory and Merry and a few others have escaped, so far.” The Palms was boarded up. Had Morley gone underground?

You are correct. We must be on guard. The Sculdytes could make a connection between us and their parlous circumstance. And you were seen entering with Mr. Temisk and Mr. Contague. If they were recognized, we will draw a great deal of interest.

“Count on Mr. Mulclar. Dean. How are we fixed for supplies? Honestly.”

It seemed we were good as long as we could survive without stewed apples and beer.

We couldn’t hold out forever, though. And forever wouldn’t be long enough if Block and Relway wanted to root us out. Assuming they survived their current adventure.

Aloud, I wondered, “Do you suppose they went now because they’d have a better chance of getting away with it in this weather?”

Given the devotion of Mr. Relway’s department, the weather should prove an advantage. News will be slower to reach those inclined to interfere. People who are loath to get their feet cold or wet. Colonel Block and Director Relway are bright enough to recognize a window of opportunity. But that is their crusade. Ours is... I am no longer certain what ours is. The adventure has been exciting but anticlimactic.

I was no longer sure, myself. I’d done my bit for Chodo but didn’t feel I’d discharged my debt. I hadn’t rescued him. Harvester Temisk had enjoyed more success, though not yet as much as he’d wanted.

I hadn’t done well with the Green Pants Gang, either. Though any threat they’d posed had been negated. The Watch knew them now.

They came to TunFaire in quest of converts and wealth. They will not create a bigger Ymber now. Inadvertently, they may cause considerable good. All because Dean was a pushover for a girl with sad eyes and a sadder story.

“We still need to talk to that kid. She might be a villain herself.”

An interview should prove instructive. Particularly if she approached Dean in hopes of provoking exactly what has happened. She could be using us to fight A-Lat’s war with A-Laf.

That would mean Penny Dreadful carefully figuring us out before she conned Dean into taking care of a bucket of kittens. You hate to think a kid that young could be so calculating.

“Having any luck working the kinks out of Chodo’s mind?” I knew he’d planned to try.

There has been little opportunity. The deacon is a multiple-mind project himself. He possesses secrets, still. For example, why a firestone would have been slung at you or The Palms. Neither of our guests sees the sense, but both believe the deed must have been done by one of their own. No one else had access to the stones. They are kept in the heart of A-Lafs temple.

“Yet our boy here had one in his pocket. And Temisk bought flake as a pharmaceutical and a murder weapon.”

Even among true believers there is corruption.

“And the sky is blue on a sunny day.”

More cynicism.

“Always. Rooted deeply in everyday observation.” I chuckled. The Ymberian deacon had become a gathering point for kittens. He wasn’t pleased. But the more furious he became, the more cats arrived.

He may suffer a stroke.

“Good old apoplexy. That would save some trouble.” You need something to occupy you.

Oh-oh. Smelled like a job assignment creeping up. “I was thinking about going over to check on Tinnie.”

And I was thinking you might prepare a report on the Tersize Granary for Mr. Relway and Colonel Block.

“Redhead trumps. Have Singe do it.” Those guys were busy, anyway. He didn’t like my idea. Singe was too slow.

Singe didn’t like it, either. It would get in the way of her quest to get rid of the beer supply.

“Too bad pixies can’t write.”

Pshaw!

The wee folk were in semihibernation because of the weather. Even Melondie Kadare, now, despite her determination to support Singe in her mighty quest, had been put away at the insistence of her family.

67

I was exhausted — again — by the time I got to the Tate compound. The snowfall continued, light but persistent. A teenage cousin whose name I couldn’t remember let me in. He pretended he was pleased to see me. I pretended I didn’t know every male Tate and all their forebears nurtured an abiding desire to see me suffer some debilitating misfortune. Or that Tinnie would come to her senses.

The boy made chitchat. He seemed terribly young and inanely naive. I couldn’t help reflecting that if these were the war years, he’d already be engaged in part-time basic training in anticipation of his call to the colors.

“It was a bad day,” I told Tinnie. “Mostly a bad day. You weren’t in it. How did yours go?”

She tried giving me the grand glower with rheumy eyes. I was on her list for barging in when she was at less than her ravishing best.

“Don’t start that. You were there when I was dying. Now I’m here.”

“I just have a bad cold.” Sounded like it, too.

“Tell me about it,” she suggested. Once I had, she said, “We should’ve suspected the Tersize people. There had to be a reason they bought a business that has no market for its product.”

“They still do some legitimate baking and milling. You know them?”

She shrugged. “I never liked them much.”

There would be more to the story. Maybe some history.

She grabbed my hand. “Don’t mind me. I’m glad you’re here. You must be exhausted.”

I nodded but didn’t go on about it.

“My father wanted me to marry one of the Tersize boys when I was fifteen. He wanted the business alliance. He didn’t have his heart set on it. I got around him.”

I couldn’t imagine her not manipulating any men before she was out of diapers.

She mumbled, “I know some of the answers to the questions you still have.”

“Great! How about the meaning of life?”

“Life’s a bitch. And then you die.” A moment later, she started snoring. So I held her hand and fell asleep myself.

A teenage niece popped in. Food and drink were her excuse. Tinnie’s people are busybodies, too. Only there’re more of them. This was a fifteen-year-old edition of the professional redhead. Sizzling. And knowing it. And stoked up with all the attitude I would’ve expected of Tinnie at that age. She was disappointed in us old folks. Antiques, just holding hands. And snoring. Not doing anything embarrassing.

Tinnie rips a mean log. Naturally, she’ll never admit an accomplishment so unladylike.

We ate. I said, “You were going to give me the answers to all my questions. After which I’ll launch the cult of Saint Tinnie the Delectable.”

She said, “Kyra, invite yourself out. Please.”

“Please” as an afterthought, in the command form.

Showing a pout that guaranteed she’d lurk in the woodwork, eavesdropping, the apprentice redhead departed.

“Don’t be such a chicken, Garrett. Grab hold of my hands again.”

“But then you’ll kick me.”

“I might.” She smiled. But she didn’t mean it.

Time to be a little less me. “Sorry.”

“You can’t help it. Your mouth takes over when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Of course you are. You’re scared shitless that I’ve gotten up enough nerve to decide what I want from you and me.”

Good point. I’m always afraid that will happen and I’ll respond by shoving both feet a yard down my own throat. But I was afraid we’d never work it out, too. “Some,” I confessed. “Because chances are, someday you’ll have an attack of good sense and make me go away.”

“That, probably, would be best. Half the time I just slow you down. But I’m spoiled. I grew up overindulged. I can’t picture my life without you in it.”

Gah! This was gonna get deep. “I know what you mean. I can’t, either.”

“But that isn’t what I want to talk about. That just came out.”

Sure. The woman has no self-control whatsoever.

“I wanted to talk about Penny.”

“Oh?” I squeaked. She saw the relief flood me. She managed a credible scowl. The effect of which was lost when she had to blow her nose.

“All right. What about Penny?”

“She isn’t really a priestess.”

“No! The surprises never stop.”

“Knock it off, smart-ass. She isn’t a priestess because she wasn’t ever invested. She was too young. She’s still too young. She’s only thirteen. Though you’d never believe it if you saw her undressed. Which damned well better never happen, even after she does turn fourteen.”

“I’m missing a detail or three to pull all that together.”

“She turns fourteen — she’s officially an adult. In her cult, that means it’s time to be a holy semipro. Putting it out to honor the goddess — and add a little cash to the temple pot — until she finds a husband.”

“Ymber must have been interesting, back in the day.”

“You would’ve loved it. You would’ve been in church every damned day instead of just for weddings and funerals.”

Could be. If the religious catch wasn’t too big. “I could surprise you.”

“You could, but I doubt it. You’ll never be anything but sixteen when it comes to that. You can’t see beyond the moment.”

She wasn’t entirely incorrect. But we were getting personal again.

She said, “That’s not what we need to talk about. I shouldn’t fuss about that. She won’t let you get near her, anyway. She’s scared to death of you.”

“Huh? But I’m just a big old huggy bear. Why be scared of me?”

“Because —”

“Tinnie.” Theses words were scarcely louder than a whisper.

Penny Dreadful, pale as the weather outside, peeked round the frame of Tinnie’s open bedroom door. She did look scared as hell.

“Are you sure?”

“I have to do it sometime.”

68

I retreated toward the dormer window on my side of Tinnie’s four-poster. That put the bed between me and the immigrant urchin priestess princess.

She oozed around the doorframe by degrees. Somebody had run her down, stolen her rags, scrubbed and rubbed her, washed, combed, trimmed, buffed, and polished her, then stuffed her into something old of Kyra’s. Yep. She’d worked wonders disguising herself as a boy.

“I’ve seen you before,” I said. As a girl Penny Dreadful looked familiar.

Tinnie slapped my hand. “Stop drooling, big boy. She’s still a baby.”

“You’re wrong this time, sweetness.” Then, “Where do I know you from?”

The girl shivered, turned pale again. Which made her look like the ghost of Belinda Contague’s past.

That was it. She resembled Belinda, though her hair, clean, was auburn with a hint of natural curl.

My ancient talent for leaping to conclusions coalesced. “Chodo Contague was your father.”

Tinnie gasped, choked on some phlegm. “You’re insane, Garrett,” she hacked.

“Probably. But —”

“You’re right,” Penny said in her tiny, frightened voice. “My mother said, how did you guess?”

“In this light, dressed like a girl, you look a lot like your sister.”

“Belinda... she wouldn’t... she... ”

“You talked to her?” Belinda hadn’t ever mentioned Penny or a half sister. Or any visit from somebody running a lost-relative scam.

“She wouldn’t see me.” Penny grabbed the bedpost kitty-corner from me, her knuckles whitening. “When our temple was besieged my mother told me about my father. Which is against the rules. We’re not supposed to know.