Down These Strange Streets

SHADOW THIEVES A Garrett, P.I., Story by Glen Cook

Glen Cook is the bestselling author of more than forty books. He’s perhaps best known for the Black Company books, which include The Black Company, Shadows Linger, The White Rose, The Silver Spike, Shadow Games, Dreams of Steel, Bleak Seasons, She Is the Darkness, Water Sleeps, and Soldiers Live, detailing the adventures of a band of hard-bitten mercenaries in a gritty fantasy world, but he is also the author of the long-running Garrett, P.I., series, including Sweet Silver Blues, Bitter Gold Hearts, Cold Copper Tears, and ten others, a mixed fantasy/mystery series relating the strange cases of a private investigator who works mean streets on both sides of the divide between our world and the supernatural world. The prolific Cook is also the author of the science fiction Starfishers series, as well as the eight-volume Dread Empire series, the three-volume Darkwar series, and the recent Instrumentalities of the Night series, as well as nine stand-alone novels such as The Heirs of Babylon and The Dragon Never Sleeps. His most recent books are Passage at Arms, a new Starfishers novel; A Fortress in Shadow, a new Dread Empire novel; Surrender to the Will of the Night, a new Instrumentalities of the Night novel; and two new Garrett, P.I., novels, Cruel Zinc Melodies and Gilded Latten Bones. Cook lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

In the action-packed tale that follows, Garrett learns that when trouble comes knocking at your door, sometimes it’s better not to answer.

I WAS HALF ASLEEP IN THE BROOM CLOSET I CALL AN OFFICE. SOMEBODY hammered on the front door. Odd that they should. I wasn’t home much anymore.

This time I was hiding out from the craziness that comes down on the newly engaged. My future in-laws dished me make-crazy stuff relentlessly.

I began disentangling myself from my desk and chair.

Old Dean, my cook and housekeeper, trundled past my doorway. He was long, lean, slightly bent, gray, and almost eighty, but spry. “I’ll get it, Mr. Garrett. I’m expecting a delivery.”

That was one impatient deliveryman. He was yelling. He was pounding. I couldn’t understand a word. That door was fortress grade.

Dean did not use the peephole. He assumed the noise came from whoever he was expecting. He opened up.

All kinds of tumult rolled on in. Dean shrieked. A deeper, distressed voice bellowed something about getting the frickin’ frackin’ hell out of the way!

I started moving, snagging an oak nightstick as I went. That gem had two pounds of lead in its kissing end.

More demanding voices joined the confused mix.

I hit the hall fast but my ratgirl assistant, Pular Singe, was out of her office faster. At five feet Singe was tall for her tribe. Her fine brown fur gleamed. She slumped a bit more than usual. Her tail lashed like an angry cat’s but she emptied a one-hand crossbow as calm as sniping at the practice range. Her bolt hit the forehead of a thing whose ancestors all married ugly. It was a repugnant shade of olive green, wide like a troll, and wore an ogre’s charming face. It smelled worse than it looked. It filled half the hallway. Its forehead looked troll solid but Singe’s quarrel was unimpressed.

What kind of toy had she found herself now?

She stepped out of my way, whiskers dancing.

Big Ugly finished collapsing. Two of his friends clamored right behind him. One tried to get hold of a very large, equally ugly human being who was down and squashing Dean because Singe’s victim had fallen forward onto him. The guy was still breathing but wouldn’t stick with it long. He had several serious leaks.

I laid into the hands trying to drag him. Bones crunched. Somewhere beneath it all Dean groaned piteously. I gave the final villain a solid bop between snakish yellow eyes. He took a knee after gifting me with a straight jab that flung me two-thirds of the way back toward the door to Dean’s kitchen kingdom. From her office Singe called, “I was counting on you to last a little longer.”

Females.

I glanced in as I headed back for more. Singe was cranking a device that would span her little crossbow, which apparently had the pull to drive steel quarrels through brick walls.

One ugly was just plain determined to take the big man home with him. The other scrabbled after a wooden box said fellow must have dropped. I made sure my feet were solidly arranged on my downhill end and waded in.

I gagged. The guy on top of Dean, though breathing, had begun to rot.

My partner quit daydreaming and got into the game at last.

One ugly responded by voiding his bowels. He grabbed Singe’s victim by an ankle and headed out. I whapped his pal till he gave up on the box, then stomped on the ally his buddy had given up dragging as he went through the doorway. Despite the bolt in his forehead, that one retained the ability to groan.

With generous assistance from a wall I launched my pursuit, but ended it leaning on the rail of the stoop.

Singe bustled out beside me, anger smoking off her. She pointed her weapon. Her bolt ripped right through one creature’s shoulder. The impact spun him and knocked him down. “Whoa! This sumbitch has some kick! I think I just sprained my wrist.” She watched the uglies trundle up Macunado Street. “I will go reload, then we can get after them.”

Besides her genius for figures and finance, Pular Singe is the best damned tracker in TunFaire.

“The Dead Man couldn’t control those guys.”

“You are correct. That is not good.” Singe eyed the fetid mess blanketing Dean. The big man had ceased to resemble a human being. His sailor’s rags had begun to drift out of the mess.

Nothing mortal ought to decay that fast.

“I’m sure the Dead Man will tell us all about it.” Which was a subtle test to see if my partner was paying attention.

A little blonde watched us from across the street, so motionless she didn’t seem to be breathing. She clutched the string handles of a small yellow bag in front of her. She wore a floppy blue hat somewhere between a beret and a chef’s cap. Her hair hung to just above her shoulders, cut evenly all the way round. A wisp of bang peeped out from under the hat. She wore an unseasonably heavy coat made up of sizable patches in various shades of red, gold, and brown. Its hem hovered at her knees. Quite daring, that, as her legs were bare. Her eyes were big, blue, and solemn. She met my gaze briefly, then turned and walked uphill slowly, goose-stepping, never moving her hands. I guessed her to be in the age range large nine to small eleven.

Singe said, “She has no scent.”

Nor any presence except in the eyes of you two. Most unnatural.

That was my partner, the Dead Man.

A sleepy voice said, “I see her, too. I’ll follow her.”

Penny Dreadful, human, girl, teenager (a terrible combination), the Dead Man’s pet, and the final member of this strange household, had decided to drag herself out of bed and see what the racket was all about.

As Penny pushed in between us, Singe turned a blank face my way that was all too expressive. I was in no position to grumble about anyone lying in bed since it usually takes divine intervention to roust me out before the crack of noon.

Penny is fourteen, shy around me but brash toward everyone else. She used to be the last priestess of a screwball rural cult. She lives with us because we stashed her once for her protection and she never got around to leaving. The Dead Man is fond of her inquiring mind.

“Let’s deal with this mess before we do anything else. Penny, get the field cot set up in my office. We’ll put Dean in there.”

She grumbled. That’s what teens do when they’re told to do something. All life is an imposition. But she went. She liked Dean.

Singe said, “Let us shut the door before the second wave shows up.”

She helped drag the injured raider. The door needed no major repairs. The damage was all cosmetic. I was pleased.

Dean and Singe’s victim were less encouraging. Dean was unconscious and covered with yuck. I worried that he had internal injuries. “I’ll get Dr. Harmer in a few minutes.”

No need, my partner sent. The solution to several problems is at hand.

I stood up, bemused, though this was not the first time my stoop had hosted a raft of violent idiots. I was bemused because my telepathic sidekick was bemused. He was bemused because he had been unable to get past the surface thoughts of the raiders.

The door resounded to a tap.

Singe’s head whipped round. She pushed me out of her way, cracked the peephole for form’s sake, then opened up for her half-brother, the ratman gangster John Stretch. Behind him loomed his lieutenant, Dollar Dan Justice, the biggest ratman in town. All five feet three of him. More henchrat types lurked in the street.

John Stretch said, “We heard there was trouble.” His whiskers wiggled as he sniffed out the story. He was a colorful dresser, wearing a yellow shirt, striped red-and-white trousers, and high-top black boots. Dollar Dan, though, was clad plain as dirt.

Singe babbled.

John Stretch patted her shoulder. “Two of them? With poisoned bolts? No? Too bad. What can we do?”

The Dead Man asked for someone to hustle a message to Dr. Harmer. And could someone please track the ones that got away? The wounded one had left a generous blood trail. I said, “I could use some help moving Dean. And some cleaning specialists to clear the mess.” Meaning the rotting remains.

John Stretch said, “I hope my women can stand that.”

Which said a lot about the pong. Ratfolks find most smells I don’t like to be lovely fragrances.

Dollar Dan got busy lieutenanting while his boss and I chewed the fat. The crowd in the street broke up. One ratman headed downhill to get the doctor. The nastiest bunch headed the other direction, never asking what they should do if they caught up. Two more sniffed around the spot whence the blonde had watched. They couldn’t find a scent.

Singe said, “I will take that once we finish here.”

Her brother didn’t argue so I didn’t. He said, “I will ask Dollar Dan to go along. No one will look out for you better, Singe,” he added when she gave him the fisheye. “So let me be selfish.”

Garrett. Please bring that box in to me.

“Box?” What box?

The box that may be the reason for all the excitement.

“Oh. That box.”

That bit of art in cherrywood, coated with mush, lay snuggled up to the wall beside the umbrella stand.

“It’s all nasty.”

Limit your contact with the filth.

“Crap. Not good. We might have to redo the floor.” I scooted into the kitchen, filled a bucket with water, rounded up some cleaning rags, got back out into the hall. I found brother and sister rat people in a heated debate about Dollar Dan.

I said, “Singe, let them look out for you. It won’t hurt. It’s not a sign of weakness. And it’ll keep your brother and Dan and me all happy.”

She gave me an exasperated look but abandoned the argument.

Do not be an idiot, Garrett!

“What?” I have an old reputation as a master of repartee.

Do not open the box!

Oh. Yeah. Might be demons were willing to kill for it. It must contain something special. Maybe something dangerous.

“Right. I was distracted. Wondering why we haven’t heard from the tin whistles yet.”

An excellent question.

The red tops, the tin whistles, the Civil Guard, jump onto any excitement like a cat onto a herd of mice.

Be confident we will hear from them soon. Meantime, please bring the box so that I may make a more intimate examination.

Singe said, “Put it where they won’t think that it might have something to do with the attack.”

Yes. Of course.

“I should start my track before they get here. Otherwise, it could be tomorrow before I can get away.”

Good point. The red tops, with the Specials even worse, can be intrusive and obstructive.

John Stretch said, “Hide your weapon. They see that, they will lock everyone up.”

For sure. Our protectors don’t want us able to fight back.

SINGE AND DOLLAR DAN, WITH PENNY TAGGING ALONG, DID GET GONE before the Civil Guard arrived. I wasn’t thrilled about Penny going, but the Dead Man backed her up. I couldn’t argue with that.

John Stretch and I made tea, hovered over Dean, and waited. I asked, “How come you turned up so fast?”

“We keep an eye on the place.”

“You do?”

“Dollar Dan does, mostly. But there is always someone.”

“He’s wasting the emotion.”

“You know. I know. Even Dan knows. But I will not stick my nose in.”

“Probably best we don’t.”

“So Dan was watching when you showed up, which was a sure sign that something was about to happen.”

“Hey!”

“Does anything happen when you are not here?”

“Purely circumstantial.”

“No. Purely Singe. She sensibly sticks to high-margin, nontoxic projects like looking for lost pets and missing wives, and forensic accounting. She does not get tangled up with the undead, mad gods, or crazed sorcerers until you come around.”

He might have some basis for his argument. But it’s not like I go looking for weird. Bizarro comes looking for me.

The Guard are here and Doctor Harmer is approaching.

“And there you go,” the ratman said. “You picked a family physician named Harmer.”

“I did not. Singe did because he’ll treat rat people, too.”

“I will wait in the kitchen while you handle the Guard.”

“Thank you.”

The minions of the law would be excessively intrigued by the presence of a senior crime boss.

Be polite.

I was headed for the door. “I’m always polite.”

You are always confrontational.

“They start it.”

I do not deal well with authority. The Civil Guard is self-righteously authoritarian in the extreme.

I will spank you if you are rude.

Wow! He sounded like my mother when I was eight.

THERE WERE TWO TIN WHISTLES ON THE STOOP AND A PLATOON IN THE street. John Stretch’s henchrats had turned invisible.

Dr. Harmer was just dismounting from his pretty little buggy. His driver, his gorgeous half-elf wife, stuck with the rig in case somebody tried to kype it among all the red tops.

“Lieutenant Scithe. How are you? How’s the missus? Have you lost weight?”

“I was living a good, boring life in a tame district. Then you swooped down off the Hill.”

Scithe was a tall, thin man in a big, bad mood and an ill-fitting blue uniform to match. He didn’t talk about his wife. He didn’t ask about my fiancée.

My whole damned life works this way. Anything happens, whatever it is, it gets blamed on Ma Garrett’s oldest boy.

My partner gave me a mental head slap before my mouth started running.

Dr. Harmer shoved through the press, a thin, dark character with merry brown eyes, unnaturally white teeth, and a devilish goatee. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“Dean is in my office. He got smushed under this thing and a guy even bigger who turned into that pile of goop.”

That pile was getting smaller. Some was evaporating. Some was seeping through the floor, where it could lie in the cellar and make the house stink forever.

The doctor snorted. “I’ll look at Dean first.” He eased along the hallway, stepping carefully.

Scithe said, “We should have been here sooner. If we’d known you were back we’d have had somebody watching. And I had to ask the Al-Khar about special instructions.” The Al-Khar being Guard headquarters.

The Dead Man laid a mental hand on my shoulder.

“The Director said we didn’t need the Specials.”

Oh, good. The secret police would let me skate. For now. They’re so nice.

“How thoughtful.”

The Dead Man squeezed, just hard enough.

Scithe asked, “So what’s the story?”

“Same old, same old.”

“Meaning you’ll claim you don’t know a thing.”

“Not quite.” I told it like it happened, every detail, forgetting only the cherrywood box, Singe’s artillery, and John Stretch, who was probably devouring everything in my larder while he waited.

Scithe squatted beside the thing with the bolt in its forehead. “Still breathing, here.” He tapped the nock of the quarrel. “I could use a better light.”

The tin whistle who had come in with him said, “The wagon just rolled up, boss. I’ll get a lantern.”

A big brown box had pulled in behind the doctor’s rig. It had crowns, keys, nooses, and whatnots painted on to proclaim it a property of the Civil Guard supported by a royal subsidy.

Scithe asked, “Any theories, Garrett?”

“Only what’s obvious. He probably wanted to see the Dead Man. Somebody didn’t think he should.”

“They got their wish. What does the Dead Man think?”

The Dead Man is frustrated. He could not penetrate the minds of any of the attackers. Not even that one who is wounded and unconscious. Yet. That is a him, is it not?

I replied, “More or less.” Mostly a whole lot more.

Scithe said, “I see ogre and troll and bits of other races.”

“Trolls and ogres don’t mix.”

Scithe shrugged. “I see what I see. Which is that somebody with a huge ugly stick whaled on all his ancestors for five generations back. Then he fell in a barrel of ugly and drank his way back to the top.”

Trolls will cross with pygmy giants on occasion. However, a more likely explanation would involve rogue researchers and illegal experiments.

The three strains of rat people exist because of old-time experimental sorcery.

That stuff is worse than murder. You can get away with murder if you make a good case for the son of a bitch needing killing.

Scithe’s man came back. His lantern flung out a blinding blue-white light. Scithe got busy. He used chopsticks to poke, prod, probe, and dig into pockets. Nothing useful surfaced. He moved on to the stench pile. “Check this out.”

He held up what looked like a two-inch lead slug three-eighths of an inch in diameter, pointed at one end. It had four lengthwise channels beginning just behind the ogive. The channels contained traces of brown.

“A missile?”

“Maybe. Definitely poisonous. But delivered how?” By whom, and why, were out there floating, too.

Dean’s delivery has arrived.

I stepped outside.

Jerry the beer guy had pulled up in front of the doctor’s rig. He was making conversation with the delectable Mrs. Harmer. He noticed me, said something to a couple red tops hating him for knowing the beautiful lady well enough to gossip with, and got them to volunteer to show off by helping carry kegs.

They brought in three ponies of froufrou girlie beers. Jerry indicated the crowd outside and the mess in the hallway. “You’re back.”

“What does that mean? Never mind. Just drop those by the kitchen door.” I didn’t want anyone to see John Stretch.

“They keep better if they stay cool.”

“Put them in with the Dead Man, then.”

Jerry and his helpers tiptoed around the mess and entered the demesne of the Dead Man.

I said, “Anywhere out of the way.” I glanced at the cherrywood box, on a shelf with mementos from old cases. “What’re they for, anyway?”

“Dean wanted to test some varietals for your reception.”

“Well. That sneaky old fart.”

A tin whistle pointed. “Is that him?” He’d gone as pale as paper.

My partner is a quarter ton of defunct nonhuman permanently established in a custom-built oak chair. First thing you notice, after his sheer bulk, is his resemblance to a baby mammoth with a midget trunk only a quarter the length you might expect.

Most visitors don’t look close. They’re petrified by the fact that he can read minds.

One red top fingered the whistle on the cord around his neck. The talisman didn’t help. “Too cold in here, brothers.” He beat a retreat. His pal trampled on his heels.

Jerry didn’t get left behind.

The Dead Man is a Loghyr. They are exceedingly rare and exceedingly deliberate about giving up the ghost. This one has been procrastinating since he was murdered more than four hundred years ago.

DR. HARMER TRIED SMELLING SALTS. THE CHARACTER IN THE HALLWAY didn’t respond. Scithe finally had a flatbed haul him off to Guard headquarters after Harmer slapped a patch on his forehead leak. The bolt stayed where it was.

Scithe left us a promise to share information, worth the paper he never wrote it on. Jerry left a real receipt. I found it a home on Singe’s desk, snuggled up with Dr. Harmer’s bill.

The doctor went away, too, leaving Dean in a drugged sleep.

I let John Stretch know it was safe to come out.

Ratwomen cleaning specialists turned up fast. They had been waiting on the tin whistles. They had nothing flattering to say about the mess. They wrapped their faces with damp cloth and misted the fetid air with something that smelled like the spice in hot peppers. They used garden tools to scoop goop into pails they covered securely before sending them to be chunked in the river. They avoided contact with the goop.

John Stretch and I visited the Dead Man.

“Too cold in here,” the ratman complained.

“Singe’s fault. She claims the colder we keep him the longer he’ll last. And he don’t feel it.”

“I am sure she knows what she is talking about.”

“She knows everything about everything. So, what’s in the precious box?”

Air.

“Excuse me? Nothing? A guy died. Two more got hurt.”

It is a red herring. The real box is somewhere else.

“You came up with that, how?”

With great effort and stubborn determination, reasoned out from what little I retrieved from the creature Lieutenant Scithe took away.

The Dead Man likes his strokes. “That was some good work, then.”

The ladies are returning. It would appear that they enjoyed a limited success.

I let them in. Penny scooted past me and the cleaning women. Singe joined me in the chill.

“I hear you got lucky.” I flipped a thumb at the Dead Man.

“The gods smiled. Just barely. There was no trail for the girl. That means sorcery. We followed the wounded creature. Those things were not with her. We were tracking them when we saw her come out of the Benbow.” The Benbow is a staid old inn in the shadow of the Hill, used by out-of-towners who have business with the sorcerers infesting that neighborhood. “I sent Penny in. She oozed some girl charm and found out that she had just missed her pal Kelly, who calls herself Eliza now. Eliza shares a third-floor suite with her aunt, Miss Grünstrasse. They arrived in TunFaire yesterday.”

Penny joined us. “I had to check on Dean.”

“Doctor says he’ll be fine. Anything to add?”

“The manager is a little guy who looks like a squirrel. I put on some cute. He let me talk to people. Eliza came from Liefmold. There’s something not right about her. She doesn’t talk. Her aunt has a fierce accent. That’s when the squirrel got that I wasn’t really their friend. He sent somebody upstairs, probably with a warning, so I cleared out.”

The Dead Man touched me lightly to let me know I had no need to know about how she had charmed the Benbow staff. He didn’t want me going all dad.

“I pretended I didn’t know Singe or Dollar Dan when I left so they could see if anybody followed me.”

“Good thinking.”

Singe said, “A kitchen boy tried. Dollar Dan scared him so bad he wet himself.”

“He’s not useless after all.”

Singe glowered. She wasn’t ready to concede that. And Penny . . .

Aha! The kitchen boy’s interest hadn’t been his employer’s idea.

Come here. All of you.

The Dead Man can tease out memories you don’t know you have. He’ll put his several minds to work sniffing along several distinct trails and tie everything together in startling ways.

There is nothing beyond the obvious. Our victim, Recide Skedrin, interested at least two parties enough to involve them in murder. It is likely that he was a red herring himself.

How did he know all that, suddenly?

Penny, please stand in for Dean while he recovers. Garrett and Singe will assist where necessary.

Someone had forgotten who was senior executive.

Go open the door, Garrett.

THE MAN ON THE STOOP WAS SHORT, FLABBY, AND NERVOUS. HE HAD LARGE, wet, brown doggie eyes. He felt like a guy who had lived a life of sorrow. His clothing was threadbare and dated, twenty-years-ago chic. My appearance startled him.

He had been trying to decide whether to knock. He squeaked, “Who are you?” He had a lazy, girly voice and an accent so heavy you needed a machete to cut through it.

To Singe’s office, please.

The newbie did not know about the Dead Man, who reeked of wicked glee. This twitch must be an easy read.

“How come you’re camped on my stoop, little fellow?”

“Uh . . .”

He would be the source of the Dead Man’s unexpected knowledge.

He invested a few seconds in wondering if he should go with the lies he had rehearsed. While he strategized, Singe arranged papers so she could take notes. She was amused.

I don’t care if they lie. The Dead Man can burgle their minds while they’re exercising their capacity for invention.

Our visitor asked, “With whom am I speaking?”

He came without knowing? “Name’s Garrett. The most handsome blueeyed ex-Marine you’re ever likely to meet. This is my place. You sure you got the right one?”

He is, in the sense that he believes this is where he may find the object of his quest.

“Mr. Garrett, I represent the Council of Ryzna.” He spoke Karentine like he had a mouth full of pudding and acorns. Lucky me, I had a partner who could pass on not only what the man wanted me to know but also what he was thinking.

He realized recently that he is mostly under his own supervision. He has developed personal ambitions as a consequence.

Little man clicked his heels and bowed slightly, a habit they have in his part of the world. “Rock Truck, Rose Purple, at your command, sir,” is what I heard. I shrugged. I’d heard stranger names. He made sure I knew his father was a player back in the old country. His family had been exploiting the masses for centuries.

I listened. If the silence lasted long enough he might fill it with something interesting.

“Recide Skedrin came to see you.” He pronounced it Ray-see-day Skaydrene . Very Venageti.

The one who died.

I knew that. I am a trained observer. “I don’t know that name.”

“That does not surprise me. He was no one. Mate on a tramp freight carrier trafficking between TunFaire and Liefmold. A wicked young woman, Ingra Mah, recently deceased, seduced him and persuaded him to smuggle a Ryznan national treasure from Liefmold here for her. She hoped to auction the item on your Hill.”

Well. That would make it a sorcerer’s toy, likely with major oomph. People wouldn’t be dying, elsewise.

He is telling the truth and your reasoning is sound. However, the full story also has a political aspect. The Dead Man added some visuals he had shoplifted.

I’d have to work out the man’s name later. They don’t put them together our way, down south. It sounded like he had done some translating. There might be a job title in there, too.

Little man produced a dagger. He said, “I am going to search . . .”

Singe said, “Really, Mr. Rock. Such bad manners.”

He seemed startled to see her. The Dead Man had blinded him.

I took his dagger, careful not to touch the blade. That bore streaks in several colors, none obviously dried blood.

It went briskly. The Dead Man did not reveal himself. Singe did not leave her desk. Rock squeaked when I put him in a chair. He pouted and massaged his twisted wrist. He had extra water in his eyes.

“We’ll have no more of that. Why are you haunting us?”

“I am here, at the behest of the Council, to recover the Shadow.”

“The Shadow.” You could pick up the capital without a hint from the Dead Man.

“What do you know about Ryzna, Mr. Garrett?”

“It’s a town in Venageta with a nasty reputation.”

“Sir! Ryzna is Venageti by compulsion, only because someone let besiegers into the city under cover of a bright, cloudless noonday sun, whilst all men of substance were . . .” He burbled history more than a century old.

His ancestors were the traitors. The Venageti failed to reward them to their satisfaction. They see an opportunity to turn the tables in the theft of this Shadow.

All right. I never let the fact that I don’t know what’s going on get in the way of getting on with getting on. “What’s this Shadow gimcrack? And why look for it here?”

Any chance there was something in that box after all?

No. This would be something so powerful that any of us would have sensed it. The genuine box is lined with iron, lead, and silver. The Shadow is an aggregation of the souls of Ryzna’s departed sorcerers. Their powers combined, without the personalities. Its importance to Ryzna and Mr. Rock is narrowly envisioned. The universal ambition there is to use it to control Ryzna. The deceased thief, however, realized that it could be a potent tool useful to any sorcerer anywhere.

She must have lacked wizardly talents herself. She would be busy trying to take over the world if she had some.

Exactly. Mr. Rock sees the Shadow as something abidingly dark and strong. He is in love with the potential.

So. To review. A freelance socialist decided to redistribute the wealth by purloining the Shadow of Ryzna. Rock got conscripted to bring it back because he was considered too dumb to see the personal opportunities. He’d been sandbagging. He’d decided that no one deserved to use that toy more than sweet old Rock Truck, Rose Purple, his own self.

Rock wasn’t my kind of guy but he was, for sure, a type I run into a lot.

“The Shadow is . . . No. To you what it is matters not. What does matter is that it belongs to the people of Ryzna and we must have it back. I am prepared to pay four thousand silver nobles for its return.”

That got my attention. And Singe would have grinned if rat people had something to grin with.

I said, “That’s good.” Four thousand would make me a nice dowry.

“That is very good.” Then he went stupid, like I might have forgotten the original thief’s reason for sending her plunder to TunFaire. “The Shadow is no good to anyone outside the Ryzna Council.”

Not even true in Ryzna. The Venageti held Ryzna down with the Shadow until a sloppy guard too young to think with his head let the Ingra woman get to it.

Ingra Mah sounded like a talent. Too bad she let somebody get behind her.

“Let us be exact, Mr. Rock. What do you want? We don’t have your Shadow. But we could look for it. That’s what we do here.”

“Recide brought you a box.”

“It was empty. And he didn’t live long enough to explain.”

The creatures pursuing Mr. Recide were associated with Mr. Rock. There were five, assigned by the Ryzna Council to assist Mr. Rock and to keep him walking the line. They were not responsible for Mr. Recide’s death.

Five. Two hurt. One of those in the hoosegow. Rock’s keepers as well as consorts. Good to know. And the original thief? Was she really dead? Had she been slick enough to break her trail by faking her own demise?

“Oddly enough, I believe you, Mr. Garrett.”

At the same time, Old Bones sent, He believes she is dead. He sent a picture from the little man’s mind.

Ingra Mah had gone the way of Recide Skedrin. Rock had arrived on scene soon after the process began. The Dead Man assured me that, though Rock was a thorough villain and fully capable, he was not responsible.

Truck continued, “Recide and his ship’s master moonlighted as transporters of questionable goods.”

“They were smugglers.”

“Bluntly put, yes.”

“Why come to my house?”

“I can only guess, Mr. Garrett. Either he was directed to do so before he left Liefmold or he made inquiries on arriving and thought you met his requirements. My inquiries suggest that you have important contacts on the Hill. On the other hand—and this is the way I see it—he may just have wanted to lay down a false trail while his ship’s master delivered the actual Shadow elsewhere.”

“Say I find your gimcrack. How do I collect my four thousand?”

“I have taken rooms at the Falcon’s Roost. You may contact me there.”

Ugh. The Roost is a downscale sleaze pit not far from the Benbow. You don’t have to fight off the hookers and grifters to get in or out, but its main clientele are ticks on the belly of society who perform unsavory services for those who shine from the Hill.

A man with more than four thousand nobles would be able to afford better.

Rock indicated his dagger, now resident on the edge of Singe’s desk. “May I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

He collected the blade, moved past me as though to leave, then turned and said, “I am going to search . . .”

Penny hit him from behind with a pot. “Supper’s ready, guys.”

I told her, “Keep your wrists a little looser. You don’t want to end up with a serious sprain.”

She gave me the fisheye but joined Singe in helping me go through Rock’s pockets. We didn’t find anything, so we chunked him out on the stoop, minus one deadly knife.

That became a trophy on the same shelf as the cherrywood box.

Then we convened in the kitchen.

I SETTLED AT THE TABLE AGAIN. SINGE ASKED, “WHO WAS AT THE DOOR?”

“Scithe. He thought we should know the prisoner died without talking. And wondered a lot about how a home invader ended up with a quarrel in his forehead.”

“A good man. Has a sense of justice. Are you surprised about that thing dying?”

“He was lucky to hang on as long as he did.”

Penny asked, “What next? How about we go back to the Benbow? After Dan scared Bottle . . .”

“You got his name?”

“He was cute.”

“Don’t I have worries enough?”

Singe snickered. Penny ignored all annoying parentish behavior. “How’s the soup, old man?”

A little spicy. “Excellent. You paid attention when Dean showed you how.”

“Thank you.” She managed to sound surly while looking pleased.

Singe said, “My turn,” and pushed back from the table.

Penny grumbled, “That’s just sick spooky, the way she hears and smells stuff.”

Singe came back with a folded letter closed with wax and a Benbow seal. “That was the blond child. Still with very little scent.”

Nor any detectable presence. Though I felt unsettled. Vertiginous. Almost nauseated.

The letter was addressed to Mr. Garrett in a bold hand. “What did she say?”

“Nothing. She handed that over and walked. She can’t be human.”

I chewed some air, thinking. “Was there a clay smell? Anything like that?”

“No. But I will consider the implications.”

“What is it?” Penny asked, being the only one who couldn’t read over my shoulder.

“A request that I join a Miss Grünstrasse for a late dinner and a bottle of TunFaire Gold.” Which is the city’s finest vintage.

Penny asked, “Do I have time to clean up?”

I didn’t get to explain that the invitation was just for me.

Penny, this is one of those times when you should have Garrett and Singe assist you.

There was going to be a revolution around here. Or maybe a counterrevolution.

SAILOR RECIDE SKEDRIN HAD BEEN A JUNIOR PARTNER IN A VESSEL RUMORED to be a smuggler. His ship and crew deserved a look. But, “I was too honest with Scithe. He’ll have Specials poking every shadow on the waterfront.”

Your appointment at the Benbow is of more immediate import. Lieutenant Scithe will begin making rounds of the public houses soon.

We were about to go, even Penny surreptitiously armed. She suddenly decided to head upstairs.

Singe dealt with the waterfront angle already.

She said, “My brother let me send Dollar Dan. Dan won’t be noticed down there.”

A rat on the wharves? Not hardly. He wouldn’t draw a second glance.

“We set? Penny! Come on!”

Do find out why people feel free to commit murder inside our house.

“Gah! I just came here to relax!”

Singe swung the door open but didn’t step out.

It was raining. Hard.

Penny thundered downstairs with umbrellas, hats, and canvas coats.

THE BENBOW HAS BEEN THERE FOR AGES. IT PUT ME IN MIND OF A CHERRYCHEEKED, dumpy little grandmother of a sort I’d once had myself. It was warm, smelled of hardwood smoke and ages of cookery in which somebody particularly favored garlic. It had settled comfortably into itself. It was a good place occasionally disgraced by the custom of a bad person.

The right side, coming in from the street, was a dining area, not large, empty now. Most guests preferred taking their meals in their rooms. To the left stood a fleet of saggy, comfortable old chairs and divans escorted by shopworn side tables. Three old men took up space on three sides of a table there, two playing chess while the third grunted unwanted advice. There was no bar. Management preferred not to draw custom from the street.

The stair to the guest rooms lay straight ahead, guarded by a persnicketylooking little man with rodentlike front teeth. His hair had migrated to the sides of his head. His appearance begged for him to be called Bunny or Squirrel.

He rose from beside a small, cluttered table, gulping when Penny took off through the dining area.

His voice proved to be a high squeak.

Penny paid no attention.

Bunny sputtered. Then he recognized Singe for what she was. His sputter went liquid.

I presented my invitation.

“Oh. Of course. I didn’t actually expect you.” He threw a despairing glance after Penny, then another at Singe. It pained him to say, “Please come with me.” There is a lot of prejudice against ratfolk.

Miss Grünstrasse occupied a suite taking up the west half of the third floor. I huffed and puffed and wondered if I was too old to start exercising. Bunny got his workout by knocking.

The blonde opened up. She stepped aside. For all the warmth she showed she could have been baked from clay. Her eyes seemed infinitely empty.

Singe went first. I followed. The door shut in Bunny’s face. The girl threw the bolt, moved to the left side of the sitting room. She stood at parade rest, but with hands folded in front. She wore a different outfit without the coat. Her sense of style had not changed.

“Ah. Mr. Garrett. I was not sure you would respond. I do appreciate the courtesy. Indeed, I do.”

I did a double take.

“Sir? Is something wrong?” Fury smoldered in the glance she cast Singe’s way.

“Sorry. Just startled.” In low light she resembled my prospective grandmother-in-law, one of the most unpleasant women alive.

This one was huge and ugly and smelled bad, too.

The smell was a result of diet and questionable personal habits.

Her accent was heavier than Rock’s, with a different meter.

“Come, Mr. Garrett. Be comfortable. Let us chat while Squattle prepares dinner.” She spoke slowly. Each word, though individually mangled, could be understood from context.

I sat. Singe remained standing. There were no suitable chairs. Neither did she shed her coat, which was psychological warfare directed at the niece. The blonde adjusted her position after I settled.

“Now, then, Mr. Garrett. The Rock Truck, Rose Purple, visited you today. He was, without doubt, a fount of fabrication. He will have laid his own crimes off on others.”

Rock was my client, in his own mind. I volunteered nothing.

“So. Very well, then, sir. Very well. Eliza and I have come to your marvelous city to reclaim a precious relic.”

“The Shadow.”

“Indeed. Exactly. The Rose Purple did not misinform you completely, then. Remarkable. Yes. The Shadow. Of negligible intrinsic worth, it nevertheless has substantial moral value among folk of a certain sort. We are here, at the behest of the Venageti Crown, to recover the royal property.” She studied me from narrowed, piggy eyes, vast and truly ugly. “That would not be a problem, would it, sir? You won’t judge me simply for being Venageti?”

“No. We won the war.”

“Excellent. Excellent. I endured my own sorrows during those bleak seasons, I assure you. As did we all. Well, sir. Can I count upon you, then?”

I frowned. That didn’t make sense. I confessed, “I don’t get what you’re asking.”

“In the spirit of the new friendship between our peoples, you will return the Shadow to me, the Hand of Begbeg.”

All Venageti rulers have Beg in their name. The one who quit fighting called himself Begbeg, which means King of Kings or King of the World.

“I don’t have your doohickey. I don’t know where it is. I don’t know what it is. I wouldn’t recognize it if it bit me on the ankle. And I don’t much care.”

“Sir!”

“I do know that somebody tried to bust into my place, somebody else made him dead, and one of those somebodies got dead himself, later on. Cutie-pie there watched everything from across the street. You probably know more than I do.”

“But Recide brought you a box.”

“He did? Singe, did you see a box?”

“I did not.” She was distracted. Beyond Miss Grünstrasse’s pong, the suite was replete with unusual odors.

“Really, Mr. Garrett. You dissemble. Eliza saw the box.”

I looked at the blonde, as still and perfect as ornamental porcelain. Had she, indeed? Unlikely. Why say so, then? “She has magic eyes, she could see inside my place from where she was standing.”

“You waste your time trying to provoke her.”

Little bits was not my target.

Someone thumped the door with grand enthusiasm.

BUNNY LED THE DINNER DELIVERY. HE WAS IN A BLACK MOOD. HIS PRINCIPAL assistants were a boy and girl in their early teens. Penny was the girl. The boy, presumably Bottle, was more damned dangerously good-looking than she had hinted. He was blessed with way too damned much self-confidence, too.

Two more staffers brought folding tables, one at which to dine and another whence the kids could serve.

A sad old frail who might be Bunny’s mate bustled in. “Found it!” She unfolded a chair designed to fit someone equipped with a tail.

The crew set four places atop clean linen. Eliza sat down but did not seem pleased.

We ate, mostly in silence, duck and some other stuff, none of it memorable. Neither was the wine, though it was a TunFaire Gold. Singe was the only one who knew what to do with the arsenal of tools.

Eliza ate just enough to claim participation. She never spoke. Her eyes were not shy, however.

Finally, over the bones, Miss Grünstrasse observed, “I will miss the food here. So. Mr. Garrett. You hope to gain some advantage from holding out on the Shadow. How can I change your mind?”

“You can’t. I don’t have the damned thing.”

The woman laughed. Tremors surged through her flab. “Very well, then. Very well. What will it take to encourage you to find it?”

“I don’t know what to look for. But Rock offered four thousand silver nobles for it.”

Miss Grünstrasse began to quake all over. “The Rose Purple? Four thousand? That prince of liars! That latest in an endless procession of thieves! He will abscond on his account, wherever he is staying.”

Odd thing to say. Silence followed. Eliza seemed especially interested.

Miss Grünstrasse changed approach. “You have barely touched your wine, Mr. Garrett. Is there a problem? The publican assured me that it is the finest vintage TunFaire offers.”

“He would be correct, too, but I’m a beer snob.” The modern obsession with spoiled grape juice is inexplicable. As someone once observed, beer is proof that the gods don’t always get off on tormenting us.

“Beer, sir? I understand that TunFaire is famed for the variety and quality of its brews. Have you a favorite?”

Why not be difficult? “Weider Wheat with a blackberry finish.”

“Eliza, see what Squattle has available.”

The blonde inclined her head, rose, and left the suite as though driven by clockwork. I asked, “What’s the story with her? Is she even human?”

“Oh, yes. She is, sir. Yes, indeed. Just quite serious. My niece. My intern, as well. Completing her elementary training. A remarkable child. Brilliant beyond her years. She will become one of the greats.” Aside, “What is this, girl?”

Penny had set a plate in front of her. “A pumpkin spice turnover, ma’am. Specialty of the Benbow.” She served me and Singe. Bottle followed with a cloth bag from which he squeezed a rum-based syrup.

Penny asked, “Should we ready one for the young miss, ma’am?”

Miss Grünstrasse was disgruntled. She was not accustomed to being a common “ma’am.” “Keep it in the warmer. She may not want it. She doesn’t eat many sweets.”

I asked about Ryzna, Venageta, and the Shadow. Miss Grünstrasse evaded or tried to sell me on the sheer marvel of helping reclaim her missing gimcrack.

“Do we have an understanding, Mr. Garrett?”

“I haven’t heard a word about potential benefits to me and mine. Other than this fine dinner.”

She was not pleased. That was not the response that was her due. “Very well, sir. Very well. I do have to remember that I am outside that realm where my wishes have the weight of law. Very well. Bring me the Shadow and I will pay you an eight-hundred-noble finder’s fee.” She raised a hand to forestall the remark she expected. “Genuine Full Harbor trade nobles, not the fairy gold of the Rose Purple’s will-o’-the-wisp promise.”

I remained unconvinced. I looked unconvinced.

“Come with me, then, sir. Come with me.” She got up, beckoned like someone Eliza’s age eager to show a friend a secret.

I followed reluctantly, and got more reluctant when she headed into an unlighted bedroom. A light did come up momentarily, though. I glanced back. Boy, girl, and ratwoman looked puzzled but alert.

“Come along, Mr. Garrett. I promise not to test your virtue.”

She had a sense of humor?

I relaxed a little.

“Do close the door, though. In case my niece returns. I would rather she remained unaware of this.”

“Does she speak or understand Karentine?” Lacking a knowledge of the language might explain her disinterest in communication.

“Not that I am aware of, sir. But the child is full of surprises. Lend a hand, will you?”

She wanted a trunk dragged out from under the unmade bed. The bedding smelled like Miss Grünstrasse, only worse. I couldn’t help wondering if she wasn’t suffering from something malignant.

We swung the trunk onto the bed. She said, “Step away while I work the combination.”

The latch of the trunk glimmered with a tangle of lethal spells.

I wondered if those who mattered knew we had a foreign heavyweight among us. A Venageti heavyweight who, likely, had survived our Hill folk in the Cantard.

“The war is over, Mr. Garrett. And my mission now is more important than any vengeance.” She opened the trunk and removed a tray filling two-thirds of the trunk’s depth. Beneath lay silver coins, rank against rank, side to side, standing on edge. Hundreds and hundreds. There was gold, too, but she hadn’t offered me gold.

Eight hundred nobles is a lot of money. And this was the real magilla.

“Take a coin. Any coin. Test it.”

“I can see they’re real.” They had the Full Harbor reeding that discourages counterfeiters.

“Even so, take one. Have it examined.” She waited while I helped myself. “Eight hundred nobles, Mr. Garrett, and the rest for expenses and a shopping spree before we go back to the gloom of Venageta.”

I hate it when bespoke villains show a human side.

“Come, Mr. Garrett. Let us return to the sitting room before your assistant loses her composure . . . First, though, assist me with the chest.” She reinstalled the tray. She reset the locking spells, which smelled of death. I helped swing the trunk down. She positioned it with exact care.

Being in front, I missed the smug look she swept across Singe, Penny, and Bottle.

We settled at the table.

Miss Grünstrasse began to frown and fret and smell worse, which troubled Singe. The woman started muttering. “Where is that girl? Why does she do this?”

I’d picked up enough Venageti in the war zone to puzzle that out. Miss Grünstrasse was not pleased with her wonder apprentice.

She said, “I apologize, Mr. Garrett. Eliza gets distracted.”

Eliza finally did turn up, carrying a tray with eight mugs aboard, in precise formation. She set the tray beside me. I said, “You are a treasure, Eliza.”

I might have been furniture.

I noted moisture on her shoes. Singe’s nostrils and whiskers twitched. She smelled something that hadn’t been there before.

I sniffed the beers, evidently one each of what Bunny had available. Two I passed to Singe.

Penny delivered Eliza’s pumpkin turnover. Bottle did the sauce. The girl fiddled, frowned, sniffed, tasted, then damned near smiled. She devoured the whole thing, taking dainty bites. Miss Grünstrasse was impressed. “We’ll be seeing more of those.”

Penny and Bottle began clearing away. Penny sensed a change and wanted to get a head start.

Singe began complimenting the house’s selection of drafts, pretending to get tipsy. Foreigners wouldn’t know that some ratfolk can suck it down by the barrel.

Once the kids were away, Singe began babbling about needing to get back to the house fast. We had a garderobe that a ratgirl could use. She didn’t want to embarrass herself.

Miss Grünstrasse smiled indulgently. “Please consider my offer, Mr. Garrett.”

“That’s guaranteed. I’m getting married. I could use the cash.”

“I’ll be here till the Shadow turns up.”

“I’ll have a confab with my partners as soon as we get back to the house.”

That sparked a big smile. Then, “I will be here.”

SOMETHING WAS HAPPENING IN AN ALLEY JUST YARDS FROM THE BENBOW. Senior Lieutenant Scithe was there, up late buzzing like the mother of all flies.

I stuck my nose in. That cost us a half hour spent answering pointless questions about how Singe, Penny, and I could possibly be found in the same city as a spanking new double homicide.

The victims were creatures like those who had invaded my house. The thing that had gotten Recide Skedrin got them, but they were melting slower. Similar lead pieces had gone in where the rot began.

Singe pointed with her folded umbrella.

I asked, “Lieutenant, might that busted box have something to do with this?” Said box was a ringer for the one recently added to the Dead Man’s collection, but lined with layers of metal. It had been ripped open.

“It’s got a weird feel. We’ll let the forensics wonks have a sniff.”

Singe got a sniff of her own.

Scithe turned us loose. Out of earshot, Singe said, “It stopped raining while we were inside, but the pavement is still wet. The girl smelled damp when she brought the beer.”

“And that box was dry inside.”

“She said nothing to her aunt.”

“She didn’t. I feel like running all the way home.”

Singe and I were rattled, but Penny had other things on her mind. She said she would catch up at the house. She and Bottle were going to meet up for an egg cream.

Singe wouldn’t let me get stupid.

“Here.” I fished out the coin the fat woman made me take. “I want to see some change. And be careful.”

Penny laughed, waved the noble in the air, and then dashed away.

Singe promised, “She will not spend it all.”

THE DEAD MAN SENSED OUR AGITATION WHILE WE WERE GETTING THE door unlocked. Come straight to me. Dean is fine.

He asked no questions. He dived straight into our minds, slithered through the muck. He expressed no concern about Penny.

I asked, “Am I off? Or is that Eliza kid a killer?”

Given what you brought, what I got from Rock Truck, and subject to what I may get from Penny, yes. She is not what she seems. Give me a minute to digest.

He took five.

Why did the woman send the child out? Being distracted enough to have done so in Karentine?

I had overlooked that.

The answer might be implied from her lack of scent, her absence of presence, and the deep nausea I felt when she came to the door.

“Grünstrasse wanted her out because she interferes with mind stuff.”

Excellent.

“And she wanted a peek inside my head.”

Which she got. Clearly, though, her talent holds no candle to mine. She could not discern details or specific thoughts but did see that you truly do not have the Shadow. She saw that Penny was with you. She may have been alerted to my existence.

That might not be a bad thing. She would want to stay away.

Did she develop suspicions of the girl? Did she note the evidence you did when the child returned? If Eliza fails to volunteer a satisfactory explanation, the aunt should become extremely nervous. If she learns of the incident outside, she might suspect a sudden alliance between Eliza and Rock Truck.

I do wish I could have her in for a consultation.

I wasn’t sure how he might connect Rock and Eliza but wouldn’t bet against it. He conjures correct answers from gossamer and fairy dust, drawing on centuries of observing how human bad behavior takes shape.

Proof of that hypothesis will be Mr. Rock returning here.

“You think he’ll panic and come to us because he doesn’t know anyone else.”

Yes.

“He’s lethally stupid.”

That was obvious from the beginning.

“What was in the box in that alley?”

Singe opined, “The same thing that was in our box here.”

Air. Yes. Almost certainly. Somewhere a ship’s master lies dead, murdered for nothing. Rock Truck and Miss Grünstrasse are chasing a phantom. The Shadow never came to TunFaire.

“Is Ingra Mah dead?”

Whether she tricked the child into killing someone in her place or she was killed herself after being robbed by a third party does not matter here. I do, however, fear that dreadful times will soon commence somewhere between Ryzna and Liefmold. Someone will try to use the Shadow and it will begin using him. Or her.

YOU MAY TURN IN, GARRETT. WE ARE DONE FOR THE DAY.

“Not till Penny gets home, we aren’t.”

Diffuse amusement.

The Dead Man began to commune with Singe. I visited Dean. That old boy was sleeping normally. He had a magnificent shiner but looked likely to be back in the saddle tomorrow.

PENNY TURNED UP SOONER THAN I EXPECTED. SHE WAS LIVID. “I WANT YOU to stomp that Bottle into meat jam!” she snarled. “That . . . ! That . . . !” Her language failed the gentility test.

“What happened?”

“We got to the place he wanted to go, and suddenly he didn’t have no money! Suddenly he did have four hungry friends, one of them a bimbo named Tami.”

“Life’s a bitch.”

“You think it’s funny.”

I did. But she wouldn’t get the joke. Hell, I wouldn’t hear the real punch line for eight more hours.

“Go see the Dead Man.”

“He already sucked everything out of my head. I’m gonna go cry myself to sleep.”

ROCK TRUCK TURNED UP SO EARLY THAT NOBODY BUT SINGE AND THE DEAD Man were awake. The Rose Purple was on the run. He was wet, filthy, terrified, and exhausted. Singe let him in, planted him in a chair, and told him, “Don’t move.” She went back to the front door, went outside, and waved.

Dollar Dan wasn’t there but another ratman did ooze out of a shadow. She gave him instructions. Then she came upstairs to roust me, like the whole thing couldn’t wait till a civilized hour.

While she was charging back and forth, up and down, Rock from Ryzna learned that her word was law. Hard as he tried, he could not get out of that chair.

Singe had heavy black tea steeping when I got to the kitchen, still crosseyed sleepy. “Not ready, Garrett. My office. See the man. I’ll bring it.”

I was still trundling those hallway miles when the Dead Man sent, Answer the door. Disconcerted.

The knock happened as I freed the first bolt. I opened. Scithe boggled. I said, “You got here fast.”

“Huh?”

He did not get our message.

“Serendipity?”

Scithe stepped back. Big word. Might be dangerous.

“Singe sent a runner. We caught a bad guy.”

That just baffled him more. I stepped aside. Scithe and his henchman entered. Singe came out of the kitchen with a tray, half a dozen cups and tea still steeping. Scithe said, “We came about . . .” His eyes glazed.

I got a message myself, as did Singe, who nearly fumbled her tray.

Scithe closed in on Rock and rested a hand on his right shoulder. “This is the devil? Four counts of murder? He don’t look the type.” He bent down to whisper, “You’re in the shit deep, sweetheart.”

Rock squirmed. His big brown eyes ached with appeal.

I said, “Bad news, Rock. It was all for naught. The Shadow never came to TunFaire.”

The Rose Purple made noises like a man trying to shout with a gag in his mouth. I think he was upset.

Scithe asked, “He’s not going anywhere, is he?”

“Only if the other villains rescue him.”

Chuckles all around. The other villains were about to have troubles of their own.

Scithe said, “I got to get moving on this. Ah!”

Penny had come down. She looked grimmer than I usually feel at such an absurd hour. She grabbed a cup. Singe poured. Penny added lots of sugar. “’S goin’ on? Cha’ wan’ me for?”

Scithe said, “You were in Torah’s Sweetness last night. Got rowdy.”

“So? Wanna make sumpin’ of it?”

“I do.”

I said, “He does, Penny. Everybody there ended up a drooling moron after you left.”

“Huh? Crap. You ain’t gonna put that on me.”

Her eyes glazed.

She settled on the nearest chair afterward. “There must’ve been twenty kids in there. They didn’t have nothing to do with any of this. Why would somebody do something like that?”

“She wasn’t after them. She expected me to bring that coin home. When her curse homed in on it, Old Bones and I would stop being the threat we turned into when she found out that we didn’t have the Shadow.”

“She would’ve got Singe and Dean and me, too.”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t get all hard-ass about me going with Bottle?”

Her heart wasn’t in that, though.

“I am. That worked out nicely.” Neither I nor the Dead Man chalked that up to luck, though. We believe in intuition. Something down deep had moved me to shed that coin.

I could have done a better job than I did, though.

Scithe asked, “You coming with, Garrett?”

“You inviting?”

“If you don’t get underfoot and don’t run your mouth.”

“I agree for him,” Singe said. “I will smack him if he gets out of line.”

Scithe considered her with eyebrow arched.

“I’m coming, too.”

“Me three,” Penny added.

Scithe sighed. Civilians.

WE GOT STARTED AFTER THE SPECIALS ARRIVED. THREE TOOK CHARGE OF Rock Truck. The rest went to the Benbow with us.

BUNNY WAS UNHAPPY. MISS GRÜNSTRASSE HAD DECAMPED DURING THE night. Her tab was not in arrears but she had left her suite a wreck. It looked like a fight had taken place.

Singe reported, “The fat woman had words with her niece.”

I asked, “Can you track her?”

“Under water. She was extremely distressed. It did not go well for her.”

THE TRAIL LED FIRST TO WHERE THE FAT WOMAN HAD INTERCEPTED THE Specials taking Rock to headquarters. That resulted in a kidnapping, not a rescue. Witnesses said she made it quick and ugly, with no assistance from children. Her trail ran on to the waterfront, ended on an empty wharf. The ship that had been tied up there was out of sight, current carrying it out of the Guard’s legal jurisdiction.

It began to rain again.

“They get away too often.” Scithe hunched to keep the drizzle from running down his neck.

“They’ll cut each other’s throats.” Unless the Specials caught up first. They recognize no limitations in times of murder.

“Maybe.”

“My first platoon sergeant used to say, some days you eat the croc and some days the croc eats you.”

“Yeah.” He smiled grimly. “The bitch left the kid to face the music. Let’s go find her and play a few bars.”