Glen Cook - Cruel Zinc Melodies

Singe made a brief, weird snorting noise. Her excuse for a laugh.

‘‘Go,’’ I told her. ‘‘Once your brother gets here we’ll adapt the plan.’’

‘‘You think he will just drop everything and run to help you?’’

‘‘I have a bottomless war chest. And it’s honest work.’’

Besides being a crime lord, John Stretch is a ratpeople community leader. Successful crooks are the only real leaders the ratpeople ever produce. The broader society won’t tolerate anything more.

Most people, if they think about ratpeople at all, would rather they just went away. Unless they can trick up a way to exploit them.

I throw what work I can to John Stretch. Not that I’m any reformer.

Poor humans have it better. Men can sell their strength and violence. Women can sell their flesh. Not many folks want to boff a ratgirl. And ratmen aren’t long on strength, only on sneak.

Pular Singe is mistress of the one special skill a handful of ratfolk can market. She’s a tracker. The best there is. She can follow a fish underwater. That and her knack for bookkeeping are what she brings to the team.

She went out.

Dean came in. ‘‘Suppertime.’’

‘‘What are we having?’’

‘‘Chicken stew.’’

I gave him the look.

He ignored it. He’s immune.

‘‘Yesterday: fish stew. The day before: rabbit stew. Before that: beef stew. I’m sensing a pattern. What next?’’

‘‘Pigeon? Snake? I’ll come up with something.’’

‘‘How about a new job? Could you come up with that?’’

‘‘Not working the slave’s hours I put in here. I don’t have time to look.’’

Children. Stop squabbling. Pick up your toys and do your chores.

Singe likes having her brother visit. She enjoys socializing but doesn’t have the nerve to meet people on her own.

She came back with John Stretch before I could finish supper, have a cup of tea, and get my ego mildly bruised by my partner, who would not tell me what he had discussed with his student.

John Stretch stands four and a half feet tall. Five when he forces himself as upright as he can get. His real name is Pound Humility. To my human eye, he has only his rat-ness in common with Singe.

They have the same mother but different fathers. Which means nothing in their matrilineal society. The females have little control once they come into season. John Stretch was born in the litter before Singe’s. Unusually for their folk, they get along like brother and sister.

John Stretch was dressed flamboyantly, in bright colors and high sea boots. His shirt was a rusty orange. It had fat, loose sleeves. The laces in front were loose. His trousers were baggy, too. They were black. And patched.

He was trying to keep a low profile, though. The shirt had arrived hidden inside a ragged brown coat so long its hem was wet.

When he’s in public John Stretch swaggers and is loud. At my house, with nobody to impress, he’ll turn mildly intellectual. He’s marginally less smart than Singe. And less driven to learn and excel. Even so, he has a knack for insights into motivation, human and rat.

And he has one incredibly useful extra talent.

He can reach inside the heads of ordinary rats. The way the Dead Man taps into mine. He can read them and, I think, can control them. Thus, he can know what they know, see what they see, and smell what they smell.

I extended a hand. John Stretch shook. He still had trouble with the mechanics. I said, ‘‘Let me guess. Singe went straight to the kitchen.’’

‘‘Yes.’’ His sibilants were harsher than Singe’s. But he was polishing them. He worked on his Karentine almost as fiercely as she did. He’d leave a mark. If he survived. ‘‘She said there is something I can help with.’’

‘‘On a strictly cash for labor basis.’’ I explained what I wanted to do.

‘‘The bugs are how big?’’

‘‘The one I saw up close was about this long.’’ I resisted the temptation to exaggerate.

‘‘Sounds like some good eating. For regular rats,’’ he hastened to add. ‘‘They like roaches.’’

«Then they’re living large in this town. TunFaire has the finest herd of roaches anywhere.’’

I caught a mental sneer from my deceased sidekick. He disagreed. He wasted no time telling me where they were bigger and better, more numerous and tasty, though.

John Stretch disagreed, too, offering as proof testimony from rats off foreign ships. Then Singe arrived with mugs and a pitcher. The mugs came fully charged with proof that mortal men are beloved by the gods. At least, by those gods who favor fermented barley.

Singe and John Stretch are bottomless sumps when it comes to beer.

I asked, ‘‘How much organizing time would you need?’’

‘‘A few minutes,’’ John Stretch said. ‘‘Getting a pack of rats together does not take long if you know where to look.’’

It wouldn’t in this berg. If you had a magic whistle.

‘‘Then I’ll just holler whenever Playmate comes up with a coach.’’

‘‘Sounds good to me.’’

We got serious about the beer. Singe asked me questions about my childhood. ‘‘What’re you, writing a book?’’

‘‘I have one written already. Now I need some stories to put in it.’’

‘‘Huh?’’ Maybe that made sense to her.

«You know that Jon Salvation who follows Winger around?»

‘‘The Remora? The playwright? What about him?’’

‘‘He just finished his second story about her adventures. They are making the first one into a play.’’

‘‘I don’t believe it. Stuff like that doesn’t happen in the real world. Damn! Who’d come knocking at this time of night?’’ I looked at my sidekick.

He didn’t help out.

Singe was wobbly already. She mumbled something about it not really being all that late.

Dean was preoccupied in the kitchen.

I pried myself out of my chair.

I opened up after a look through the peephole, mainly out of habit. ‘‘What the hell are you doing here?’’

Colonel Westman Block stepped forward. I let him come. Because the Dead Man sent, Let him enter if he wishes. He has no ulterior motive.

That I did not buy. Block is head of the City Watch and Civil Guard. Lurking behind him, like shadowy, avenging devils, is the Unpublished Committee for Royal Security. Whatever their handle may be this week.

They change names but never stop being the secret police. And they’re having a huge impact on TunFaire’s darker side.

Block said, ‘‘I’ve been to the Hill. Enjoying a first-class ass-reaming. A certain sorcerer’s overly indulged second son is locked up in the Al-Khar. All he did was rape some foreigner’s four-year-old daughter. Prince Rupert showed up during the chat. I don’t know how he knew what was going on. Maybe Deal. But he told the Windsinger to be grateful that we didn’t cut the little asshole’s pecker and balls off.’’

Prince Rupert had a set of his own.

‘‘So you thought you’d drop by, mooch a beer, and fill me in?’’

‘‘I did want to ask why a known criminal was seen entering your house an hour ago.’’

‘‘So now I’m a known criminal?’’ I failed to steer him away from the Dead Man’s room. Once he invited himself in he had no trouble seeing John Stretch.

‘‘I’m not convinced. Deal has fewer doubts.’’

‘‘Deal thinks everybody but Deal Relway is a crook. And he’s keeping an eye on himself.’’

Block chuckled. ‘‘Letting you run free is more profitable than pulling you in. We’re like gulls behind a ship. We follow you and pick off the fish you turn up in your wake.’’