Glen Cook: Cruel Zinc Melodies

‘‘Tinnie?’’

‘‘It’s all hearsay to me. I haven’t been to the site.’’

‘‘Ladies?’’ Bobbi and Lindy were content to sit quietly and elevate the temperature of the room. The Dead Man offered no remarks. Singe sat in the corner with her dim candle, working her books.

Her rat eyes do let us save on lighting costs.

Tinnie took the opportunity to apply a pinch meant to keep me focused.

Alyx admitted, ‘‘What I’m telling you is hearsay to me, too. Daddy won’t let me go to the construction site.’’

Tinnie observed, ‘‘He doesn’t want her associating with the kind of guys who work construction.’’

I snickered. ‘‘That’s because he started out as that kind of guy himself. So. Alyx. What do you want? Other than to indulge in one of your special efforts to get Tinnie mad at me?’’

‘‘Daddy wants to talk to you about what’s going on.’’

Max has been good to me. His retainer, meant to inhibit floor loss and general misconduct at the brewery, has kept me solvent through numerous dry spells.

‘‘Can I catch a ride?’’

‘‘We’re not headed home. We’re going to Tinnie’s. To rehearse.’’

They had a play already?

Tinnie said, ‘‘No, we’re going to the manufactory. There’s more room. And more privacy. The walk will do you good.’’

‘‘I’m so pleased you’re always looking out for me.’’

‘‘You’re very special to me.’’

‘‘What if I slip on a patch of ice?’’ She was right. It had been a long winter and I’d spent most of it avoiding going outside.

‘‘I’ll bring fresh flowers, lover.’’

Dean finally wandered in, armed with refreshments. Two steps into the room he froze. His jaw dropped.

He’s old. Around seventy, I’d guess. He’s skinny, shows a lot of bushy white hair this year, and has dark eyes that can twinkle with mischief. On rare occasions. More often they’re alive with disapproval.

‘‘Damn!’’ I murmured. ‘‘The old goat is human.’’

Tinnie wasn’t his problem. He sees her all the time. And he knows Alyx. He’s never anything but polite when she’s around. But the other two . . .

He pulled it together before he turned into a creepy old man. ‘‘Good afternoon, Miss Tate. Miss Weider. Ladies. Would you care for something sweet?’’

They all said no, they were watching their figures. And doing a fine job, I have to report. I stayed busy helping them do that. As did Dean. His eyes all but bugged out when the ladies started getting back into their cold-weather duds.

Back from the front door, I asked, ‘‘What happened to you, Dean? You looked like you got a sudden case of young man’s fancy.’’

‘‘The one with the marvelous chestnut hair.’’

‘‘Bobbi.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Her name is Bobbi. Bobbi Wilt. Tasty, huh?’’

He showed me a scowl but it wasn’t his best. ‘‘It’s remarkable how much she resembles someone I used to know.’’

Someone who’d had a huge impact. Dean was so distracted he was ready to walk into walls.

He has worked for me since I bought the house. In the beginning he lived with one of his brigade of homely nieces. Then it just made sense for him to move into one of the extra rooms upstairs. That kept him from bringing the nieces round, trying to fix them up. He never said much about his olden days. He was in the Cantard the same time as my grandfather. They never met. He knew folks on my mother’s side.

None of which matters now. Dean cooks for me and keeps house. And works hard at filling in for my judgmental mom.

Dean shook like a big old dog that just ambled in out of the rain. ‘‘I guess when you’re my age, everybody looks like somebody you’ve already met.’’

‘‘Who does she remind you of?’’

‘‘A girl I knew. My own Tinnie Tate. An old regret. It doesn’t matter anymore. It was a long time ago.’’

Clever. He got in a dig even there.

‘‘Must have been something special.’’

‘‘She was. She was indeed.’’ He drifted toward the kitchen. ‘‘We’re out of apples again.’’

Pular Singe is addicted to stewed apples. Dean indulges her shamelessly. Despite ingrained prejudice.

Ninety-eight of a hundred TunFairens loathe ratpeople just for existing. They can’t help it.

‘‘I’m not inclined to pay a premium because we’re way off season.’’

‘‘Noted. You aren’t inclined to pay more than the minimum for anything in any season.’’

Sharper than a serpent’s tooth, the ingratitude of a servant confident in the security of his position.

‘‘I hope you have something ready for lunch. I have to go out, soon as I fill up.’’

He paused long enough to benefit me with his full frontal scowl.

In some parts of town they’d given up trying to keep the streets clear. In others they kept after the snow with a dogged fervor. The city fathers had invoked emergency regulations to keep the more critical thoroughfares passable.

Lucky me, it wasn’t my day to help clear my block. Unlucky me, it hadn’t snowed. Today’s crew wouldn’t have much to do.

The sky was a cloudless blue. There was no wind. Light melting had begun in direct sunlight. So ice could form in all the low places once the sun went down.

It’s a couple miles to the Weider brewing complex. Not a tough walk. No hills of consequence. A few historical landmarks I never notice because they’re always there. Furniture of the world.

There were a lot of people out, enjoying.

I was in a good mood myself by the time I got where I was going. Nobody stalked me. Nobody bopped me on the noggin. Nobody even gave me a second glance.

Some days it’s the other way around. Too many days.

The big brewery stinks even in cold weather, because of the fermentation. The employees and neighbors no longer notice.

This was the mother brewery, the heart of the Weider empire. There are several dozen lesser operations around TunFaire, onetime competitors who surrendered their independence to the Dark Lord of the Hops. The lesser breweries concentrate on local and specialty products.

The queen brewery is a Gothic redbrick behemoth. It looks like a folklore hangout for vampires and werewolves. It is festooned with towers and turrets and odd little gables and dormers and lofts that have no connection with producing nature’s holy elixir.

The towers house swarms of bats. Max thinks bats are cool. He enjoys seeing them swarm out on a summer’s evening.

The whole strange place is Max’s imagination given form, weird because Max wanted it weird. And he could afford to build it that way.

A smaller version faces it from across Delor Street. The Weider family shanty.

Max originally meant that to be his brewery. When it went up it was the biggest beer-making operation in all TunFaire. Two years later it was too small to handle demand. And Max’s wife, Hannah, was pregnant for the third time. So he tossed up the monster across the way.

Max and Hannah produced five children: Tad, Tom, Ty, Kittyjo, and Alyx. Alyx was the baby by half a decade. Tragedy stalked the family, maybe punishing Max for his worldly success. Tad died fighting in the Cantard. Tom and Ty survived—with Tom gone mad and Ty condemned to a wheelchair. Kittyjo and I were an item once upon a time but she was too loony for me.

My pal Morley Dotes says the absolute first rule of life is, don’t get involved with a woman crazier than you are. A rule I haven’t always pursued with due diligence. Because of more immediate distractions.

But like I said, tragedy hounds Max Weider. Tom and Kittyjo were murdered. Hannah died that same night, destroyed by the shock.