Gilded Latten Bones (22 page)

She said that straightforwardly, without a hint of the fierce sensual aura she had used to taunt men, back when she was daddy’s girl. She stated a fact and left it for me to digest.

“You’re going too fast...”

Singe returned with two pitchers and four mugs. She meant to do some drinking and did not plan to do it by herself. I sniffed a pitcher. “I’m in.” She had brought summer ale as well as the dark.

She told me, “You pour. I have to get the door.”

My stomach plunged to the deck.

58

My panic went to waste again. Singe did not admit redheaded doom. Neither did she bring in her brother and the lady rats who nannied Morley Dotes. What she did admit was General Westman Block and two nervous villains so obviously low-life that they might as well have it tattooed on their foreheads. One was the younger of the pair who had come after me and Tinnie. The red tops had tracked him down. Reason suggested that the skinny, shaky little weasel must be Jimmy Two Steps.

Singe came back, took her seat, drank some beer. Crush came in. “Is it all right if I hang out in here till DeeDee and Mike get over that guy? I’ll stay out of the way.”

“Fine by me. Singe, all right if she looks at your books?”

Of course it wasn’t all right. And any animus she felt toward Strafa she was willing to dump on tasty young Hellbore. But she said, “Please be gentle. And make sure your fingers are clean.”

Then the General joined us. “Garrett, I hate to beg but, gods damn! I need to drink something.”

Which reminded me, “Singe, how about fuel for that lunatic artist Jon Salvation brought?”

“Something will arrive soon.”

How did she know that? She hadn’t left the house and Kolda went before the Dead Man put in his request.

Old Bones must have sent word to someone outside. That was the only thing that made sense.

She continued, “General, would you like to try the Weider Dark Reserve? It’s a limited production brew that few outside the Weider family get to taste.”

“How can I resist? Count me in, Miss Pular.”

Singe, Singe, you wonder child. Even the head of the whole damned tin whistle tribe considers you a real person. Which thinking I masked with a stone neutral visage.

Block was impressed despite having been around Singe since her adolescence.

It felt good, seeing my baby treated like one of the gang instead of a freak or half-wit vermin.

Big thumping at the door. I had heard the wolf cry so often that Tinnie and all the freckle speckled redheaded Tates in the world could be out there and I wouldn’t raise more than a half-assed whimper.

Nor did I need to. Singe opened up for her brother, Dollar Dan, and two ratwomen. They brought distilled spirits enough to keep the Bird fueled for weeks. Singe hijacked a bottle. She poured a half mug for the General. “There’s a real drink.”

Crush volunteered, “I’ll take some of that, please.”

“No,” Singe said. “You’re too young for dizzy water.”

Crush was startled. Then she laughed. Then, shaking her head, she went back to looking at Singe’s books.

John Stretch joined us, looking Block askance. Dollar Dan and the ratwomen took up space in the hallway outside the room where Morley was holding court.

Singe told me, “I suspect that pretty young girls who ask for something that will impair their judgment seldom hear the word no.”

Crush raised a hand in a gesture of agreement. She had found something to fascinate her. She handled the book reverently.

Crush fascinated Westman Block. But he would not cross that line.

Odd. Women definitely interested the General. I never heard of one getting close. No doubt there was a sad old story. There were plenty of those around.

He emptied his mug quickly and did not refuse a refill. He said, “The resurrection men are back at work.” Like that dovetailed into the conversation.

Singe gave her brother her mug, filled with summer ale. He lifted that to me.

Strafa generated a squeak that drew the attention of everyone but Crush. I didn’t find out why because, after another pull of the water of life, Block said, “Those men in the gray wool tights and pullovers with the wooden headgear from the incident on the north side? They were fix-ups made from pieces of dead people.”

Jaws dropped. Crush let her book fall to her waist. Strafa made gurgling noises.

“Way to introduce a subject,” I said. My mug was empty. I decided to give the dizzy water a try.

“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?”