Cruel Zinc Melodies

68

‘‘You all right?’’ Luther the foreman asked. ‘‘You look all blurry-eyed. Like you got the hay fever, or something.’’

‘‘It’s this place. You think it’s bad when you’re here working, try staying overnight.’’

He composed himself, conveying the unspoken idea that he wasn’t interested in my whining. He had troubles of his own. He did stipulate, ‘‘It’s quiet today. The ghosts ain’t been taking shape. It’s like they ain’t got the oomph. Not one of these superstitious shits has gone bug-fuck and run out.’’

‘‘Good to hear. Lets me know I’m doing my job. Remind everybody that those spooks haven’t actually hurt anybody.’’

‘‘Not yet. Not physically.’’

Luther would find a way to contradict you, whatever you said. I hoped he was a better carpenter and foreman than he was a conversationalist.

‘‘Yeah. There’s always hope. Isn’t there?’’

Luther developed a puzzled look that turned suspicious immediately. He’d been mocked before.

My tone must have given me away.

I spent the next five hours prowling the World and its environs, attracting unfriendly looks and unflattering compliments on my choice of outerwear. I hoped Mr. Jan’s loaner coat wasn’t some priceless sartorial treasure handed down from antiquity. Because I was going to have to buy it. There wasn’t much left but rags.

Around the five-hour mark I noted that the dirty looks and unkind fashion reviews had become less frequent. And the men were working slower.

I felt a lassitude myself.

Curious.

Something was going on. But what?

One damned thing after another. One way of telling a story. And pretty much the plot for my life. I call it the barroom method. Starts out, ‘‘So there I was . . .’’ and you get on with it by inflating the facts geometrically. A trip across town turns into a high quest through the heart of darkness to put paid to the foul schemes of the Wicked Witch.

‘‘What the hell are you doing, Malsquando?’’

A principal subspecies of ODTAA is, somebody busts through the doorway swinging a blade, screaming someone else’s name. Or, as in this instance, just heating the place up because of natural-born talent. ‘‘She had gams that ran from here to there, all the way to the floor, and a voice like juniper smoke. She was the kind of gal that could get a dead bishop to kick the lid off his coffin.’’ That kind of thing.

But this redhead was only the forerunner of an invasion. They were all there. Alyx with the glint in her eye. Bobbi, breathing heavy. Lindy Zhang, in a cloud of smoke. Heather Soames, just exactly the wrong lady to be den mother. Then, tagging along behind, not attached, but looking every bit like she ought to be part of the wrecking crew, Furious Tide of Light. Looking especially delectable outside the shade cast by Barate Algarda.

‘‘Hallucinating, apparently. Because I can’t have died and gone to heaven,’’ I grumbled.

‘‘No kidding?’’ the redhead asked.

‘‘Because they ain’t gonna let your crew in there.’’

‘‘I’m thinking of converting.’’

‘‘Uhn?’’ said the quick-witted detective type.

‘‘I could get on as one of the seventy-two renewable virgins.’’

The survival instincts that got me through the war had kick enough left to stop me making any noise. I gave Tinnie a one-armed hug and a pat on the fanny, then slid forward to express my undying devotion to Furious Tide of Light.

Alyx blocked my path. ‘‘I have to admit you’re finally getting something done here, Garrett.’’

‘‘I’ve got the tradesmen doing their ever-lovin’ best just for sweet little ol’ you, Alyx.’’ I eased around her to get at the Windwalker. Which whapped Miss Tate right on the knob of her jealousy bone.

Quick calculation. Did I dare ignore the Windwalker while I tried to hammer information through Tinnie’s default stubborn disbelief? How long before Furious Tide of Light slapped me for the slight?

Inspiration!

It was my lucky day.

‘‘Ma’am. Windwalker. Welcome back. Might I introduce my fiancйe, Tinnie Tate, of the manufacturing Tates? Tinnie, the Windwalker, Furious Tide of Light.’’

That left the fair Miss Tate with her mouth agape.

It didn’t stop the gasps and giggles of her henchwomen. The Windwalker never focused on us. She murmured, ‘‘Pleased to meet you,’’ vaguely, and drifted toward where the floor planking was being installed. The workmen tried hard not to pay attention. Right now she wasn’t firing their animal instincts. But they definitely remembered her from before.

Miss Tate remained tongue-tied.

The unexpected complication now coming through the main doorway might have explained that.

Furious Tide of Light had not come alone. I’d just gotten fixed on her having shown up without Barate Algarda to hover menacingly.

A representative selection of our most dread, dire, Hill-dwelling types had followed the pitiful waif. A half dozen alert, glowering, ready-for-anything secret masters. I recognized a couple. The interior of the World went quiet as the workmen recognized some of them, too.

That whole mob belonged to a class that no rational person wants to offend, whatever the circumstances.

The refugee-looking hot thing was traveling with some of Karenta’s more dread names.

Why? What could possibly interest them here?

Did it mean anything? Anything at all?

An amazing thing happened. A thing wilder than seeing people walk through the sky or seeing actual gods getting on about their venal sacred business. Both of which I have done.

Miss Tinnie Tate deferred to another woman after that other woman had dared show an interest in Mama Garrett’s ever-lovin’ blue-eyed baby boy.

Furious Tide of Light planted herself in front of me. Because she was slight she seemed younger than she was. But there was steel in that wisp of a frame.

This apparent child was nothing of the sort. She could be a lot more harsh than could the quiet little girl who traveled with Barate Algarda.

Big blue eyes locked on mine. ‘‘Tell me everything. From the beginning.’’ The Hill folk began to form a circle around me, laying to rest the concept of Mr. Garrett hastily relocating somewhere more congenial.

Not even totally self-focused Alyx Weider managed a word of comment.

No need to be difficult with these people. That could only cause me unnecessary encounters with pain.

I did exactly what Furious Tide of Light said. Kind of.

From the beginning. Editing cautiously. Just enough to shield a few most precious souls. Especially my favorite. Me.

John Stretch wouldn’t end up having to explain his connection with ordinary rats, nor his control of the rattish horde that had, effectively and efficiently, finally gotten rid of the giant bugs.

I found it intriguing, having these folks on hand. In their presence the ever-opinionated Miss Tate actually held her tongue. Likewise, all her pack. But it was plain that the Tate woman couldn’t hold off forever.

Tinnie had something on her mind. It took everything she had to hold it while I dealt with the Windwalker. But it would come. Not even the end of the world would stop that.

I was comfortable enough with the sorceress. She was an attractive woman smack in the middle of my favorite age range: alive. And those amber eyes to die for . . . I let manly appreciation override the nerves that come when I have to deal with Hill types who have no doubts that they’re living demigods. Breathe a little heavy and those lethal attributes just sort of fade away.

Despite the volcanic potential on the Tate horizon, I leaned into the little bit with the delicious green eyes. ‘‘Who are those people?’’

‘‘People worried about their children.’’ She didn’t name names or offer to make introductions. Just as well, say I.

I gulped air. I eyed those people. Those were the parents of the Faction? No wonder Kip’s friends were screaming freaks. Just standing downwind of some of these grotesques was enough to turn you strange.

I murmured, ‘‘I’m wondering who goes with who but I’ll save that till later.’’

The weird people mumbled amongst themselves. Tinnie overheard something uncomfortable. She turned pale and started oozing away. That clued her whole crew that this might be a most excellent time not to be noticed.

She told me later that she had recognized a couple of names when they were mentioned.

Me, I recognized faces.

Some of the Windwalker’s companions had crossed my path before, in little ways. I hoped they wouldn’t remember me as a serious annoyance.

There was nowhere to run.

They began to pepper me with questions. At a glacial pace, with long, thoughtful silences between queries. I answered so honestly it hurt.

One was an old guy who looked like somebody had shrunk a big brown giant down to five feet tall without taking away any of the skin or subcutaneous fat. He asked an elliptical maze of a question I gave up trying to follow. Behind him, the main entrance stood open to the weather. Everybody would’ve been bitching about the cold breeze had it not been for the sorcerers. Then Belle Chimes popped in, looking his youngest, boldly headed for the visiting firewomen. He was four steps in and still under full sail when he recognized the situation. He made a strong U-turn without missing a beat and stepped out briskly, headed for parts anywhere but here.

A lump of indeterminate sex and execrable fashion sense, built along the lines of Rocky the midget troll, somehow left my besiegers and became an immovable fixture in the doorway before Bill got there.

Bill halted, heaved an audible sigh, slumped. The nemesis lump wheezed, ‘‘Look what Dierber found, Avery.’’

Dierber? Link Dierber? Firebringer? Frontrunner in the pack competing for the title of foulest of all the wickednesses infesting the Hill? Not good. Not good at all. Rumor said nobody knew what Link Dierber looked like. And he kept it that way.

Avery, then, would be Schnook Avery. Dierber’s companion. His partner in life and evil. His accomplice. Said to delight in torture.

How could they be the parents of a Faction child?

I glared at the Windwalker, silently demanding, ‘‘What hast thou wrought?’’ Because this situation had become fraught with scriptural foreboding in a scant few seconds.

A tall, black-clad, pallid thing resembling the oversize praying mantises of yesterday already tainted with the nostalgia of blissful ignorance, husked out, «O Frubious Serendipity! Years and years spent in the hunt, then we just go and stub our toes on him. Ring-a-ding-ding Hello, Bellman. Doesn’t look like you’re dead, after all.’’ He used ‘‘Bellman’’ as a title, like Stormwarden, Windwalker, or his own Night Whisperer.

Belle Chimes said, ‘‘I blame you for this, Garrett. It wouldn’t have come to this if you hadn’t surrounded yourself with irresistible women.’’

A sentiment I’ve heard from the Dead Man, Dean, and others.

Would that it were true.

‘‘Get to work!’’ I hollered at the tradesmen. ‘‘You aren’t getting paid to gawk at this freak show.’’

Tinnie, behind Furious Tide of Light, shook her head like she could not believe I’d just said that.

Kind of like the cat that just fell out of the tree I put on my best ‘‘I meant to do that!’’ expression. And told my sweet, violet-eyed Windwalker, ‘‘My turn. What’re you doing? I’ve got a theater to build. And we’re way behind already.’’

‘‘We all want to know what our children have been doing.’’ She seemed indifferent to the drama unfolding between Belle, Dierber, and Avery. ‘‘Tell me more about the Felhske person. I find his interest troubling.’’ Her eyes were a businesslike steel gray.

I told her what I knew. It was close to a compulsion to give her whatever she wanted. It was necessary to please her. She might give something back.

And Tinnie wasn’t there to thump on me, to keep me focused. Then I exploded, ‘‘Oh, damn it!’’

Behind Furious Tide of Light, behind Tinnie, behind the rest of the women, Heather Soames had become distracted by another opportunity to do something self-destructive. She was stalking a ghostly shimmer with her silver hat pin.

‘‘Heather! Stop that!’’

Too late.