Gilded Latten Bones

62

The Dead Man's big party rolled on. I led Tinnie into his lair. The temperature had risen there. The air had begun to smell because of the crowd. Penny and the Bird worked on their art. Jimmy Two Steps and Butch's little brother occupied a couple of folding chairs, out of the way, eyes closed, maybe unconscious. Old Bones might be picking their brains.

There is not much there to pick. In any sense.

The lighting was better than usual, on behalf of the artists. The lamps contributed to the rise in temperature.

Playmate's color had improved. It had more depth and sheen. Still, he would be a long-term project, and would demand a lot from the Dead Man at a time when all the rest of this was going on.

Old Bones was a miracle in defunct flesh but he did have limits.

When would he have time to work on Tinnie?

A complication that I am pleased you recognized before I had to bring it up myself. A scheduling problem I will be happy to leave in your keeping.

"Meaning?" I looked over Penny's shoulder. She had several sketches going, all of a very attractive girl. She was doing a sheet of full-body images in different orientations and hairdos. I could say nothing but, "Wow!"

Tinnie failed to poke me. She just looked astonished, and envious.

You are allowing imagination and expectation to carry you away. It is the daring choice of costume that makes the woman so striking. Miss Tate and her niece would appear equally impressive in that apparel.

I said nothing but thought the younger Miss Tate might have an edge on the elder.

Amusement.

"I'm not dead. I notice things."

I watched Penny work. She was talented and quick and had no trouble being close to me while she used charcoal and a variety of Amalgamated's writing sticks to shape her squad of fantasy girls.

The Bird had a color portrait going. It made an ugly, lazy-eyed son of a bitch look like he was about to bark, lean forward, and take a bite.

Tinnie seemed at a loss. I caught the edge as the Dead Man asked her to step back and stay out of the way.

I asked, "Who is this wad?"

A composite of details from many minds. I am not certain but he may be the boss of the resurrection men.

"How did we get to that?"

Mr. Bird, under my direction, is creating a portrait composed of bits taken from the minds of everyone who has come into range since I awakened. Resurrection men are part of what is going on and an angle going unexplored. They gather the bodies that get reengineered. This man could be of special interest. If we can find him.

He was right. It was an approach that had not occurred to me.

Most of our visitors never heard of him. A few have, under the singleton name Nathan. None of our friends, or anyone else, know that they have actually met him but some may have done so without realizing it.

And that, with his wondrous ability to make unlikely connections click, was why the Dead Man was so valuable. I said, "He looks a little like Barate Algarda."

It felt like the warmth went out of the room. His Nibs took a seat behind my eyes, studied the painting through my prejudices.

Not Barate Algarda. The eye. The nose. The scar. The man had a burn scar on the right side of his head, including part of his ear. Ask the Windwalker to come in here.

Tinnie started to follow me. She stumbled, stopped, turned, found a folding chair that she opened and carried back into the shadows.

Damn! Maybe I could get Old Bones to teach me that trick.

Strafa stared at the Bird's masterpiece. The artist himself was on break, nursing a bottle of spirits. Strafa said, "I don't know him. He does look familiar." Unaware that green eyes smoldered in the darkness behind us, she held on to my left arm with both of her hands. Those were shaky.

"I thought he looked like Barate Algarda." I could not call the man her father.

She started. She squeezed harder. "He does, a little! That's weird." She let go. She moved to view the painting from different angles.

I have what I need. You may take her back, now.

I asked Strafa, "So what do you think?"

"I think it's weird."

"Too bad. Well, that's all we needed." Crossing the hallway, I asked, "Do you know anyone who calls himself Nathan?"

"No." Two steps. "Wait! I think Dad's grandfather's name was Nathan. He died when I was four. I remember pulling myself up by the edge of his coffin so I could look." In the doorway to Singe's office, she added, "He didn't have a burn scar."

"Thanks."

Back in the Dead Man's room, I asked, "Any chance this guy could be a vampire?"

Miss Algarda was truthful. She does not know him. I doubt that he is a vampire. His face does resemble that of the man Miss Algarda saw in a coffin when she was a child, though.

Vampires did not last around TunFaire. Their suspected presence will unite classes and races like nothing else. Just a suspicion could lead to a frenzied hunt.

This situation has the potential to turn as ugly as a vampire hunt. Which argument may lie behind the Hill's go-easy attitude.

Vampire hunts always got out of hand. Innocents ended up with chopsticks through their hearts. The last full-blown vampire hunt had happened when I was nine. It had done more damage than any natural disaster since.

"Let me ask the General about that."

Ask him to come view the painting.

Block did not recognize the villain. He did concede that dread of an outbreak of mass hysteria might be the motive behind the hands-off orders being passed around. Might be.

He was, innately, almost as suspicious as Deal Relway.

Block having returned to his firewater, the Dead Man mused, We need to see Barate Algarda and his daughter, here. That is a task the Windwalker will have to undertake.

"That might be a tough sell."

Hardly. She will be compliant to any request so long as you are a gentleman when you present it and you explain the reason for it.

I'd never had that kind of power in a relationship. It was scary.

Miss Algarda is ceding that power in trust. If you breach her trust you will reap a whirlwind more cruel than you can imagine.

"Way to build me up, Chuckles."

It might be valuable to interview your intern, too.

"Intern?"

The boy. Cyprus Prose. I will ask the Miss Tates to bring him in. Making the elder Miss Tate a part of a race against time might go a long way toward improving her attitude. The younger Miss Tate will want to look out for her man.

I was skeptical.