Glen Cook - Old Tin Sorrows

You slick talker. Pay attention. Talk like that, it's eight to five you'll wind up getting comforted by a vestal virgin. Just be harmless, helpless, and in need of mothering, and pour on the sincere.

Well, what with one thing and another, I talked myself right into something without consciously planning it. Fifteen minutes later we were in her bed. Fifteen minutes after that I was trying hard to stay harmless, helpless, and in need of comfort.

There's something reassuring about just lying around holding somebody after you've been bruised and abused and treated like a wolf treats a fox that isn't fast on its feet. But there's also something about being comforted by somebody put together like Jennifer that makes you forget they shoved you through the meat grinder sideways—hide, hooves, and all.

We'd been whispering, mostly just talk, innocent enough but she couldn't he still. She was relaxed enough now, considering. She moved, seemed startled, asked, "Is that what I think it is?"

Body pressure left no doubt what she meant. "Yeah. Sorry. Can't help it. Maybe I'd better go." I didn't make any move to leave, though. Not me.

"I can't believe it. No. It's impossible."

It wasn't impossible at all.

For a while I forgot the painting, the storm, all my aches and pains. I even got to sleep some. Though that was more like catnaps between tests of the limits of possibility.

I knew I was going to hate myself in the morning.

It was just my body that hated myself in the morning. It felt about a hundred and two years old. My head was fine, not counting my cold. I kissed Jennifer on the forehead, nose, and chin, headed for my own quarters while it was still early enough that I might not be noticed.

Wayne and Kaid were on duty still. Sort of. Kaid was nodding. Wayne was sprawled on the fountain surround, snoring. Cook was in the kitchen cursing. I heard her all the way to the fourth floor. I wondered what was bothering her. I was sure we'd all know before long, what with her closed-mouth, stoic ways.

I went up, through the loft, down. I glanced across as I started into my hallway. The blonde stared at me from the hall to the General's suite. I waved feebly. She didn't respond. "Oh, boy." I headed for my door.

For a second I thought she'd gotten there before me. Then I realized it was the painting. It seemed so creepy, I turned it to face the wall.

"You have a nice time?"

Morley was in a big overstuffed chair. He looked like he'd been asleep.

"Ghastly."

"That's what puts that smug look on your face. I'll remember that. Get cleaned up. It's almost time for breakfast."

Him eager for one of Cook's breakfasts? "I'll give it a skip and take a nap instead."

"You're working, Garrett. You don't take time off to nap whenever you feel like it, do you?"

"That's the beauty of being your own boss." He was right. More right than he knew, really. I could go get some sleep, sure. And if somebody got killed while I did, I'd be haunted for years. "Yeah. All right."

Now he looked smug. Bastard. He knew right where to poke me. I went into the dressing room, threw some water on my face, mixed up some lather, hacked and slashed. Morley planted himself in the doorway. He watched the show awhile, then said, "I'd better move on the cook fast. Or you'll have every woman in the place wrapped up."

"You're out of luck. She was my first conquest."

He snorted.

I said, "I had to move fast because I knew you'd head for her like a moth to a candle." I wiped my face. "On the other hand, I won't stand in your way. She's definitely your type. I'll sing at your wedding."

"Don't think you can provoke me into a battle of wits with an unarmed man."

"Huh."

"I know it's your diet talking. Maybe I ought to talk to the cook about that. Dietary improvements could do your General more good than squadrons of doctors and witches."

"Got you on the run already?"

"What?"

"Last recourse, old buddy. You start talking about red meat and celery juice and boiled weeds."

"Boiled weeds? You ever actually buy a meal at my place? I mean, pay for it out of your own pocket?"

I was tired enough to forget how well he does sincere. I made the mistake of offering an honest answer. "I don't recall doing that. Every time it's been on the house." And not that bad, but who was going to admit that?

"And you complain about free meals. You know how much it costs to gather those ‘weeds'? They're rare. They grow wild. They aren't cultivated commercially." He put on a lot of sincere. I wasn't sure if he was yanking my leg or not. I know it isn't cheap to eat at his place. But I'd always figured that was part of the ambience. Make his customers think they were buying class.

"We're getting too serious," I said, by way of ducking possible issues. "Let's go see how she'll poison us today."

"Not the best choice of words, Garrett, but let's."

Sometime back a hundred years ago, Cook whumped up one big breakfast and she'd been re-warming leftovers ever since. The same old greasy meats and biscuits and gravy and all that, so heavy it would founder a galleon. Your basic country breakfast. Morley was in pain.

He concentrated on biscuits and muttered, "At least the storm passed."

It was quiet out. The rain had fallen off to a drizzly mist. The wind had died down. It was getting colder, which I didn't interpret as a positive omen. I figured it meant the snow would be back.

Jennifer didn't show, which I didn't find mysterious and nobody else mentioned, so it must not be unusual. But Wayne wasn't around either and he wasn't the kind who missed his meals. "Where's Wayne?" I asked Peters, who looked groggy, crabby, and like he still hurt plenty.

He gave me the answer I was afraid I'd hear. "He pulled out. Soon as there was enough light, just like he said. Kaid said he had his stuff all packed and at the front door. He was raring to go."

I looked at Kaid. Kaid looked like I felt. He nodded, which seemed to take all the energy he had. I muttered, "And then there were three."

Peters said, "And I'm having a hard time talking myself into sticking."

Cook rumbled, "What are you boys on about now?" I realized she probably hadn't heard. I told her about Chain. And when I thought about Chain I wished I hadn't, because Wayne the gravedigger was gone and that meant either Peters or I or both of us would have to hike over to the graveyard and wallow in the mud till we got Art Chain planted. I knew Morley wouldn't do it. He hadn't hired on for that, as he'd remind me with a shit-eating grin while he kibbitzed my digging style.

Eight hundred and some thousands apiece now. And all the survivors improbable suspects.

I thought about burning my copy of the will right there. But what good would that do if they didn't know it was the last copy? Then I had a terrible thought. "Was the will registered?" You can do that to keep your heirs from squabbling. It means filing a copy of the document. If Stantnor's was registered, then the villain did not have to worry about my copy or about the General having torched his.

They all looked at each other, shrugged.

We'd have to ask the General.

I started to say I wanted to see him, but a racket out front cut me off. It sounded like a cavalry troop arriving.

"What the hell is that?" Kaid muttered. He shoved himself off his stool, started moving like he was forty years older than his seventy-something. Everybody but Cook toddled along behind. Cook didn't leave her bailiwick for trivia.

We swarmed onto the front porch. "What the hell?" Peters demanded. "Looks like a damned carnival caravan."

It did. And the mob with the garish coach and wagons boasted every breed you could imagine.

None of the vehicles were pulled by horses or oxen or even elephants, which you sometimes see with a carnival. The teams were all grolls—grolls being half giant, half troll, green, and from twelve to eighteen feet tall when they're grown. They're strong enough to tear out trees by their roots— big trees.