Gilded Latten Bones

58

My panic went to waste again. Singe did not admit redheaded doom. Neither did she bring in her brother and the lady rats who nannied Morley Dotes. What she did admit was General Westman Block and two nervous villains so obviously low-life that they might as well have it tattooed on their foreheads. One was the younger of the pair who had come after me and Tinnie. The red tops had tracked him down. Reason suggested that the skinny, shaky little weasel must be Jimmy Two Steps.

Singe came back, took her seat, drank some beer. Crush came in. "Is it all right if I hang out in here till DeeDee and Mike get over that guy? I'll stay out of the way."

"Fine by me. Singe, all right if she looks at your books?"

Of course it wasn't all right. And any animus she felt toward Strafa she was willing to dump on tasty young Hellbore. But she said, "Please be gentle. And make sure your fingers are clean."

Then the General joined us. "Garrett, I hate to beg but, gods damn! I need to drink something."

Which reminded me, "Singe, how about fuel for that lunatic artist Jon Salvation brought?"

"Something will arrive soon."

How did she know that? She hadn't left the house and Kolda went before the Dead Man put in his request.

Old Bones must have sent word to someone outside. That was the only thing that made sense.

She continued, "General, would you like to try the Weider Dark Reserve? It's a limited production brew that few outside the Weider family get to taste."

"How can I resist? Count me in, Miss Pular."

Singe, Singe, you wonder child. Even the head of the whole damned tin whistle tribe considers you a real person. Which thinking I masked with a stone neutral visage.

Block was impressed despite having been around Singe since her adolescence.

It felt good, seeing my baby treated like one of the gang instead of a freak or half-wit vermin.

Big thumping at the door. I had heard the wolf cry so often that Tinnie and all the freckle speckled redheaded Tates in the world could be out there and I wouldn't raise more than a half-assed whimper.

Nor did I need to. Singe opened up for her brother, Dollar Dan, and two ratwomen. They brought distilled spirits enough to keep the Bird fueled for weeks. Singe hijacked a bottle. She poured a half mug for the General. "There's a real drink."

Crush volunteered, "I'll take some of that, please."

"No," Singe said. "You're too young for dizzy water."

Crush was startled. Then she laughed. Then, shaking her head, she went back to looking at Singe's books.

John Stretch joined us, looking Block askance. Dollar Dan and the ratwomen took up space in the hallway outside the room where Morley was holding court.

Singe told me, "I suspect that pretty young girls who ask for something that will impair their judgment seldom hear the word no."

Crush raised a hand in a gesture of agreement. She had found something to fascinate her. She handled the book reverently.

Crush fascinated Westman Block. But he would not cross that line.

Odd. Women definitely interested the General. I never heard of one getting close. No doubt there was a sad old story. There were plenty of those around.

He emptied his mug quickly and did not refuse a refill. He said, "The resurrection men are back at work." Like that dovetailed into the conversation.

Singe gave her brother her mug, filled with summer ale. He lifted that to me.

Strafa generated a squeak that drew the attention of everyone but Crush. I didn't find out why because, after another pull of the water of life, Block said, "Those men in the gray wool tights and pullovers with the wooden headgear from the incident on the north side? They were fix-ups made from pieces of dead people."

Jaws dropped. Crush let her book fall to her waist. Strafa made gurgling noises.

"Way to introduce a subject," I said. My mug was empty. I decided to give the dizzy water a try.

"Blame the drink," Block said. "I'm not supposed to let that get out."

Interesting. More Civil Guard disobedience.

Clear as iron, Block and Relway were way not happy with outside pressure. Their scorn for the rules suggested that they had gotten quiet assurances from Prince Rupert that he would notice nothing if somebody did babble too much after a mug of beer.

Somewhat nimbly, Singe moved into the hallway again, headed for the door. She needed to be nimble to get through the crowd.

I took a long sip of firewater and tried to run a census. I couldn't come up with a firm number but there had to be seventeen or eighteen warm bodies cluttering the place.

I was way out of practice for the social life. A little beer, a few sips of ardent spirits, and I was totally relaxed. I no longer had a care. Nothing troubled me. I looked at Strafa without a professional thought in my head.

She looked back. One eyebrow lifted slightly. Her small mouth betrayed a ghost of a smile of invitation, agreement, or triumph.