Glen Cook - Cruel Zinc Melodies

My experience suggests the opposite. The species is naturally wicked. People just fake it till opportunity crosses their bows. Only rare, twisted souls and random mutations, like Playmate, rise above the muck.

And Playmate is no fanatic. He’ll turn the other one only once. Then he’ll bring the hammer down. If you’re obviously a bad guy, you won’t get the once.

He stared and went right on not understanding. ‘‘You’re volunteering to pay for use of a coach? Up front?’’

‘‘This is unbecoming. How long have we been friends?’’

‘‘I don’t remember. Five minutes, back when we were kids?’’

‘‘Wiseass. That’s the attitude that . . . Like I said, when did I ever not pay you?’’

‘‘Not once,’’ he admitted. ‘‘Since you’ve had Dean Creech and the Dead Man to keep you honest. And Singe to keep your books.’’

‘‘And before that, one time, you had to wait a couple days till I tracked down a client who tried to stiff me.’’

‘‘Let’s forget it. We’re all even now.’’

One thing about Play, lately. His sense of humor is severely diminished. And he isn’t very patient.

I worry that he may be suffering chronic pain, or something.

‘‘I’ve just gotten a major commission from Max Weider. He gave me a free hand. The job should be calm, cool, peaceful, and profitable. I almost feel guilty about getting paid for doing it.’’

Playmate slapped both hands onto his butt. ‘‘Where did I leave my chain-mail underwear?’’

‘‘Come on, man! It’s a walk. There aren’t even any damsels in distress. Just Tinnie Tate, Alyx Weider, and a couple of their friends who’re scared their theater won’t open on time.’’

‘‘That actually makes sense,’’ Play said when I told him what I meant to do. ‘‘It’s not the usual Garrett leap into the middle of things, flailing around till you’re the last one standing.’’

My methods are more sophisticated than that. Sometimes.

‘‘You going over to The Palms now?’’

‘‘Say what?’’

‘‘Your standard routine would be, go sucker Morley next.’’

He was speaking of my good friend, the half dark elf vegetarian restaurateur Morley Dotes. The semiretired bad guy. ‘‘Not this time. John Stretch, Singe, Melondie Kadare, maybe, and a lot of rats. Plus a coach to haul them in. I won’t even bother the Dead Man. It’ll be heroics on a budget.’’

‘‘I don’t believe you for a second. Even if you believe you.’’

‘‘You need to root around in your junk room. See if you can’t find where you left your positive attitude.’’

‘‘You could be right, old buddy. The trouble is, you really are my old buddy. I’ve known you way too long.’’

My friends. My pals. They never let up.

I had planned to visit The Palms. I hadn’t seen Morley in weeks. But Playmate’s attitude made me think it might be more useful to let Dotes lie fallow. I shouldn’t need any high-skill bonebreakers this time.

Whatever else he pretends, running his upscale club, Morley is a serious thug.

I gave The Palms a wide berth. Morley could find some excuse to come see me.

It was a nice day. I was humming as I turned into Macunado Street, betraying the fact that I have less musical talent than a wounded water buffalo.

I headed up the slight slope toward home. I wasn’t alone in suffering the happy. My neighbors were out, enjoying air that lacked the usual heavy flavor.

The long, cold winter had frozen the ugly out.

People who normally ignore me, or watch me like they expect me to turn berserk, nodded, smiled, lifted a hand in feeble greeting. I do provide local entertainment. And safety. And stability.

Some minion of the law is always hanging around, keeping an eye on me.

I spied a Relway Runner. Not bothering to be discreet. I should be grateful, or flattered, that they watch me when all I’m doing is swilling beer and feuding with Tinnie.

Deal Relway, secret police honcho, is determined to catch me doing something. Anything. Now or a hundred years from now.

Singe opened the front door. ‘‘What’s gotten into you?’’

‘‘You just did a contraction, sweetheart. You know that?’’ Ratpeople voice boxes aren’t built for human speech. They have trouble speaking Karentine at all. The man on the street won’t understand one word in ten from your average ratperson. Singe, though, has mastered the vulgate. Almost. Now including contractions.

When first I met Pular Singe she pretended to be deaf. That let her hide her brilliance from Reliance, the then master of the ratpeople underworld. Her half brother eventually replaced Reliance.

‘‘Son of a bitch,’’ she said. ‘‘Next thing you know, it’ll be standing up on its own hind legs.’’

Another contraction. And this the first I’d heard that didn’t involve a sibilant.

‘‘Are you in a bad mood today?’’

‘‘I am in a very good mood, Garrett. While you were away there were deliveries that included two hundredweight of apples, two kegs of beer, and forty-three angels in gold.’’

‘‘Huh? Angels?’’

‘‘A trade coin from the Tamedrow League. A mercantile consortium way up the north coast. These were minted in PeDiart-meng Arl. We do not see their sort often.»

‘‘Huh?’’ More piercing wit.

I’d started to slide off my afternoon high.

Singe can’t help it. She has to go all out when she knows something I don’t. ‘‘Angels are the standard monetary unit for coastal trade as far north as anybody from Karenta ever goes. Somebody must have regular connections up that way.’’

‘‘Pull the other one now. See if it’s got bells on.’’

She is one hundred percent correct.

‘‘You! You’re awake?’’

I am. Today was a tutoring day.

My sidekick and junior partner is mentoring a fifteen-year-old high priestess from a rustic cult. She’s almost a pet. Or intern.

There went a scary notion. Him crafting a small, mobile version of himself. A wicked deed I had no trouble seeing him doing.

‘‘I don’t get it. She used to be scared to death of you.’’

Without cause. While those who should be wary consider themselves immune to enjoying their just deserts.

I told Singe, ‘‘The money is from Max. An advance against expenses.’’

‘‘We have a commission?’’

‘‘Yeah. It looks pretty simple.’’ I explained. And told her what I planned.

The Dead Man tickled the inside of my head. I suggest that you do not discount the matter of the ghosts.

‘‘You see something in my head that I don’t?’’

He has developed a bad habit of assuming my permission to rummage or eavesdrop inside my skull.

No. Yet ghosts figure prominently in several reports. Though everyone seems inclined to discount their reality. And their music.

‘‘Where are you going?’’ I asked Singe. She had finished the bookwork resulting from our receipt of a pot of gold. She’s much too efficient.

‘‘To see John Stretch. You’ll need his help to make your plan work.’’

‘‘I wasn’t feeling fanatical about getting started right this minute.’’

Singe said, ‘‘The pixies are still hibernating. You will not get help from them.’’

A pixie colony lives in the void between the inner and outer brickwork in my front wall. They’re boisterous, obstreperous, obnoxious, unpredictable, and exasperating. And extremely useful. When they’re not doing their damnedest to drive me nuts. Melondie Kadare is queen of the nest. And a dedicated drunk.

‘‘Wave a beer around. They’ll fly in their sleep.’’