Glen Cook - Red Iron Nights

Couldn't be many coaches like it.

I fought it for fifteen minutes but it was a struggle foredoomed. Eventually I swung my legs off the bed, got up, and hunked downstairs. So much for good intentions. I donned a cloak and, marvel of marvels, a hat. The hat was Dean's. I didn't think he'd miss it.

Saucerhead came to see what I was up to. "I'm going out for a while. Shouldn't be long." I scowled at the closed door to the small front room. "Tell Dean that if that cat's still here when I get back, they both go out in the rain."

I went to see a friend. His name was Playmate. He was nine feet tall and black as coal, big enough to make Saucerhead nervous. But he was as gentle as a lamb and religious to boot. He was in the stable business. He owed me. Early in both our careers I'd saved him from human sharks.

He never ceased to amaze me. No matter what time I showed, no matter how inconvenient my appearance, he was always glad to see me. This time was no exception. "Garrett!" he boomed when I strolled into his stable. He dropped a curry comb and bounded toward me, swept me up in a ferocious hug. He turned me loose only after I started squawking like a bagpipe.

"Damn, Playmate, sometimes I wish you was a woman. Nobody else is excited to see me."

"Your own fault. Come around more often. Maybe you wear out your welcome."

"Yeah. It's been a rough year. I've been neglecting my friends."

" 'Specially that little bit, Maya."

I forgot my mission momentarily. "You've seen Maya? I thought she left town."

"Been a while, come to think. She used to come around, help out some, just 'cause she liked the horses."

"I knew there had to be something wrong with her."

The look he gave me told me more than he could have said in words. Maya had cried on his shoulder. I couldn't really look him in the eye. He said, "You've been having troubles all the way around, I hear. Miss Tinnie. Somebody named Winger."

He was implying it, so I said it. "Yeah. I have a way with the girls. The wrong way."

"Come over here and sit. I have a pony keg I've been nursing. Should be a sip or two left."

Which was all right by me, except it would be warm brew. Playmate liked his beer warm. I prefer mine just about ready to turn to chunks. But he was offering beer. Right then I had an inclination to surround several gallons. I settled on an old saddle, accepted a big pewter mug. Playmate plopped his behind on a sawhorse.

"Trouble is," he told me, "those gals all been growing up, getting interested in something besides fun."

"I know." It's hell, getting older.

"Don't mind me. It's the preacher getting out."

I knew that too. Back when I saved his bacon, he'd been thinking of getting into the religion racket on his own. He'd have done good but wouldn't have gotten very big. TunFaire has a thousand cults. Always there are plenty of disenchanted would-be believers eager to sign on with the thousand-and-oneth. Playmate had taken a look around, decided that he was insufficiently cynical and dishonest to make a real go of it. He may be religious personally, but he's practical.

"The preacher is right, Playmate. And it's maybe him I need to talk to."

"Problem?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so, soon as I saw you."

What a genius. With Playmate I commit the same sin as with Morley. I don't go around unless I need help.

I resolved to do better in the future.

Right, Garrett. Duck! Here comes a low-flying pig.

I laid it out for Playmate. I didn't hold back. My story upset him so badly I was sorry I hadn't softened it some. "Who'd want to go and do something like that, Garrett? Killing little girls."

They hadn't been little, but that was beside the point. "I don't know. I mean to find out. That's where I thought you might help. That coach outside Morley's wasn't any junker or rental. I don't think there's another like it. Nearest I've ever seen is Chodo Contague's coach. And it didn't have the gaudy silver brightwork."

Playmate frowned at every mention of Morley Dotes. He didn't approve of Morley. He frowned again when I mentioned Chodo. If Playmate was the kind to keep a little list, the first name on his would be Chodo Contague. He sees Chodo as a cause of social ills rather than as an effect.

"Custom coach?"

"I'd guess so."

"And similar to Chodo Contague's."

"A little bigger and even fancier. Silver trim and a lot of carving. Tell you anything? Know whose it is?"

"Don't know that, but I can make a good guess who built it. If it was built in TunFaire."

Bingo! I almost let out a whoop. Maybe I did let out a whoop. Playmate looked at me oddly for a moment, then grinned shyly. "Helped some?"

"As soon as you tell me that coachmaker's name."

"Atwood. Linden Atwood."

That name meant nothing to me. At my income level I don't buy many custom-built coaches. I don't hang out with those who do. "Where would I find Mr. Linden Atwood, coachmaker?"

"Tinkery Row."

Excellent. That narrowed it right down to a whole neighborhood where potters potted, tinkers linked, and at least one wainwright wrighted wains. The neighborhood lies south of the Tenderloin and north of the brewery district, stretching east to west beginning a few blocks in from the river, and parallels a street called Tinker's Lane. That is one of the oldest parts of town. Some artisan families have been established there for centuries.

Playmate glanced toward the stable door. "Going to be getting dark soon. You figure on going down there right away?"

"Yes."

"That's not a nighttime neighborhood. Pretty soon they'll all close up, have supper, then the menfolk will head for the corner tavern."

"So it's late. It's already too late for five women. The Dead Man thinks this guy won't kill again for another eleven or twelve days, but I don't count on it."

Playmate nodded, conceding the point. "I'll walk with you."

"You don't need to do that. Just tell me where—"

"Trouble follows you. I better go with you. Takes a certain touch to deal with Atwood, anyway."

"You've done enough." I didn't want to put Playmate at risk. He didn't deserve it. "My job is dealing with people."

"Your style is maybe a touch too direct and forceful for Atwood. I'll walk you down."

Arguing with Playmate is like arguing with a horse. Don't get you anywhere and just irritates the horse.

Maybe if he would get into another line I'd visit more often. Any line where there weren't so many horses around. I don't get along with those monsters. Their whole tribe is out to get me.

"I'll get my hat and cloak," he said, knowing he'd won before I conceded. I looked around, wondering where he'd hidden the circus tent he'd wear. I spied a horse eyeballing me. It looked like it was thinking about kicking its stall down so it could trot over and dance a flamenco on my tired bones.

"Don't waste time. The devils have spotted me. They're cooking something up."

Playmate chuckled. He has one big blind spot. He thinks my problem with horses is a joke. Boy, do they have him fooled.

We stopped to have supper, my treat. Which strained my budget severely. Playmate ate like a horse, but not cheap hay. "You're on expenses, Garrett."

"I was just figuring on cleaning the Watch out of pocket change, not driving them into bankruptcy."

He got a good laugh out of that one. Simple pleasures for simple minds.

Tinkery Row is all light industry, single-family operations that produce goods without producing much smoke. The nastier stuff is down south, the nastiest across the river. The air gets chunky and takes on flavor when the wind is from the east, past the smelters and mills. Their stench can make you long for the heavy wood and coal smoke of winter or the rotten garbage of summer.