Whispering Nickel Idols

25

Singe wakened me at some godsforsaken hour, chivied in by Dean, who couldn’t face direct evidence confirming or disclaiming the prurient imaginings slithering round the interior of his hard black skull. The fact that his imaginings were exactly that, and only that, meant nothing.

By the time we’d retired neither Belinda nor I was sober enough for anything more energetic than sleep.

Singe’s attitude was sour enough.

“What?” I snarled. The morning light at play on my curtains shrieked that it wasn’t anywhere near noon. In fact, it had to be closer to dawn, a time when only mad dogs and madmen got after the early worm.

“A messenger brought a letter from Colonel Block.”

A kitten crabbed out of the covers, stretched, hopped down, and stalked proudly out of the room. Belinda made “Leave me alone!” growls and burrowed deeper into the covers. “Do I need to sign or something?”

“No. It was just a letter.”

Then why was she waking me up now? “Then why are you waking me up now?”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“Sure, you did.”

Feelings bruised, Singe left. I didn’t care. There is no courtesy and no compassion before noon.

I didn’t care, but I couldn’t get back to sleep.

When Belinda started snarling about the tossing and turning and threatened me with an amateur sex reassignment, I surrendered to my conscience and dragged on out.

I sipped black tea thick with honey. No help. I kept seeing two of everything. If I hadn’t spent five unforgettable years as a Royal Marine, I might’ve suspected double vision to be nature’s revenge on fools who believe rational behavior includes hauling out at sunrise in less than apocalyptic circumstances.

Singe bustled around, doing chores, so Dean could do even less real work to earn his board and bread. She was fanatically perky and cheerful. And her coconspirator had put the butcher knives out of reach.

“You are awful in the morning,” Singe declared.

Exercising maximum restraint, I chirped, “Yep.”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“I could say, ‘Eat mud and die!’ But you’d get your feelings hurt. I have more consideration for you than that. So how about we get together with this critical communique?”

Dean and Singe installed me in my office with hot black tea, biscuits, and honey. I got started. More or less. Weighted heavily toward the less.

“What does the note say?” She’d tried to read the message but Colonel Block’s clerk had inscribed it in cursive. She can’t read that yet.

She’s a fast learner, though she’ll never teach Karentine literature. Which consists mainly of sagas and epics inhabited by thoroughly despicable people being praised by the poets for their bad behavior. Or passion plays, which are hot today, but which are moronic if you read them instead of watching them.

“It says the priest at the temple of Eis and Igory, in the Dream Quarter, is from Ymber. It says the Watch wouldn’t be disappointed in their old pal Garrett if his curiosity caused him to visit this Bittegurn Brittigarn, whose thoughts about guys in green pants might be of mutual interest.”

“Meaning they do not think the priest will talk to them and they have no convincing excuse to pull him in.”

“Basically.”

“Garrett, what would the world be like if everyone was as caring as Dean?”

“It would be knee-deep in hypocrisy, standing on its head.”

“Which still makes him better than most everyone else.”

“Glory be, girl. Don’t you go turning into a street preacher.”

“The more I become a person, the more I get upset by how people treat each other for being different.”

“I don’t want to get into a debate.”

“Too early in the morning?”

“No. Because I’d have to play devil’s advocate and argue that stranger means danger. Which nobody can say is wrong. We’ve all got those harsh moments somewhere in our lives.”

“Very good, Mr. Garrett,” Dean said from the office doorway. “Indeed, flawless.”

“We can’t afford it.”

“Sir?”

“Whatever you’re buttering me up for. Hey, I don’t want either one of you outside today.” I heard Belinda beginning to stir upstairs.

Dean and Singe looked puzzled.

“The Dead Man. ” I told them, “We’ve had several visitors the last couple days. The kind that pay attention. They’ve probably picked up on the fact that he isn’t doing much singing or dancing right now. Folks tend to get bold when they think he’s snoozing.”

Dean looked numb. This was his nightmare. He loathes the Dead Man. But we need the Loghyr’s protection. People carry grudges.

“It would help if you two took a real shot at waking him up while I’m out there, one lonely man, a flawed white knight holding the fragile barricade between honor and the chaotic abyss.”

Belinda appeared behind Dean. “Gorm, Garrett. You couldn’t be more full of shit if they pounded it in with a hammer.”

Dean headed for the kitchen. He came right back with everything Belinda needed to tame a hangover and get set herself for another glorious day of crime and corruption.

She announced, “Whatever Garrett claims, it’s a lie. He was snoring before I got my shoes off.”

Dean was pleased. Though he’d heard it before, from me. But that was different. My version didn’t signify. He preferred not to believe me if that could be avoided.

I asked, “What am I supposed to do with you? Besides get you out of here before Tinnie hears rumors?”

She hadn’t considered that. But really didn’t care.

“Take care of it, Dean,” I said. “Try to avoid making a millennial-celebration kind of production moving her out.”

The old man gave me a look. It said I had the advantage of him, this once. And he didn’t like it. “I’ll handle it, Mr. Garrett.”

I might ought to put on my chain mail underpants.