Barate Algarda was in the gallery, too. Lurking with less success than Felhske. Could I lure him close enough for the Dead Man to snap up?
Head east. Turn south on Wizard’s Reach. Then take the alley. Try not to frighten Penny.
A pear-shaped, bug-loving teen sat on the steps to Mrs. Cardonlos’ establishment, uphill. He had fallen asleep. Thereby failing to note the magnitude of his folly. The Relway Runners avoided disturbing him as they came and went. I wondered what the hell he was doing but did not want to put him on the spot by stopping to ask.
I followed the Dead Man’s suggestion. Except for the part about not scaring Penny Dreadful. I couldn’t resist.
Round the block I went, in a direction I seldom travel. And came back into Macunado nose to nose with the Cardonlos place. I was tempted to drop in unannounced. Or maybe play a game of wild goose with the widow’s houseguests, leading them around till the spring thaw came.
I would have done it, too. A few years ago. Deal Relway be damned.
That old devil maturity had a hold on me.
Absent Barate Algarda, I toddled onward, onward, into TunFaire’s black bureaucratic heart. To the Chancellery, where I took time to enjoy the ranting of the hardy lunatics spouting paranoid conspiracy theories and political absurdities on the building’s steps. A last taste while I could get it. This tradition wouldn’t last. Some raving conspiracy theorists lack the sense to leave Deal Relway out of their formulae.
A sizable percentage of the city’s population waited impatiently while I indulged. All those potential witnesses wanted me to get on along and do something interesting.
In ages past, in the long ago, when I’d wanted to get into the Royal Library—which isnot for the use of any hairy Tom Dick who claims he’s Karentine—I’d shown up at a particular side door. A small cash transfer blinded the guard there. The unstated rule being, I’d start no fires and wouldn’t pee in the corners while I was inside.
No tip, however, ever sheltered me from the wrath of sweet Lindalee’s superiors. Who were sure thumbscrews and branding irons were too good for someone who actually wanted to look inside their books. Or maybe wanted to get close to a particular young librarian.
No reasonable man expected exemption from betrayal under the circumstances obtaining at the Royal Library. A smart man handled his business fast.
And here, now, with the weak half of an army tracking me, where was the point of expecting privacy?
47
I went to my special side door. No way a lowlife like me could walk in through the front. There are maybe fifteen Royals who enjoy that privilege.
Snootiness doesn’t keep us lesser beings out. If we’re armed with the silver key.
The old soldier watching the door was new. He didn’t know me, either. But he liked my coat. I could tell. And he was old pals with the dead king on the chunk of silver I passed him. He didn’t even speak. He just closed his eyes as a stray gust whiffed into the library. Probably planning an outing with his old pal, King Whoever.
I headed for the rare books, not sneaking. Hardly anyone visited them, though Lindalee always enjoyed their company.
For a moment I feared I might feel guilty about how I’d treated Lindalee. Maybe even about how I’d treat her now, considering I was fenced in by Tinnie.
Curses! This was worse than the hives. I was breaking out all over in abad case of growing up. And wasn’t worried about finding a cure.
I took a wrong turn. In the sense that I rounded a stack and buried my beautiful honker in the brown sweater armoring the belly of a familiar ogre. Wool on an ogre? Yes. This big boy looked like the male equivalent of the librarian stereotype. He even wore reading glasses, which are expensive. Even when their lens don’t have to be custom-ground.
The ogre didn’t move. There was no way around him. He had an acre of foot at the end of each tree trunk of a leg. The outsides of those lapped against the bases of the stacks to either hand.
In the real world ogre expressions are easily read. There is snarling while they sleep. And there’s snarling as they try to rip bits off of you. They don’t stand around looking at you like the unexpected rat dropping that just surfaced in the porridge.
That’s what this one did. He stared. Then he stared some more, upper lip rising in a sneer. He did nothing else but breathe. And take up space.
I apologized for my clumsiness and stepped back.
With my nose in brown wool I was too close to handle easily. I did him a favor by opening the range. He took advantage, latching on to various limbs. In seconds I was back in the weather, floundering in nasty slush, my spiffy borrowed coat all wet, filthy, and torn. Poindexter the literary ogre was back inside. Through the open doorway I heard him suffer harpy shrieks because he had been too gentle.
That wasn’t Lindalee being shrill. That was her boss. A lovable spinster—for whom they invented the word ‘‘harridan’’ because nothing already out of the forge was harsh enough to fit. She never did like me.
The man I’d reunited with his dead pal stuck his head outside, curious to see how far I had flown before splash-down. He looked guilty round the edges. Like he might have operated some kind of silent alarm.
So much for a cerebral line of investigation.
What now?
48
The Dead Man opened with an oblique, snide observation about pigeons coming home to roost. Singe helped me out of my wet things. She hustled the loaner coat into the kitchen for a drying session. Meanwhile, I nearly panicked, thinking Old Bones had found him a way to get the Goddamn Parrot back.
He was just being a pain.
We will access the library another way. Do we know a respected member of the community who owes us a favor?
‘‘And can read? No. People like that try to stay away from people like us.’’
Unless they go into business with us. Surely, there are those who might be induced. He offered suggestions, including Max Weider, Manvil Gilbey, even Tinnie Tate.
‘‘Tinnie? You looking to start a war?’’
I doubt there would be problems. What competition there may have been is over. I expect Miss Tate and the other woman would spend an afternoon amusing themselves by trading war stories. Or horror stories, as the mood demanded.
That was worth being nervous about.
Go to the World. See what Mr. Tharpe has to report. Ask Miss Winger to come see me.
‘‘What do you want with her?’’
Nothing. As I mentioned recently, I can use her shadow. Who will not come if he knows he is the object of my interest.
‘‘The Remora?’’ I’d thought he was just making mental bathroom noises. Jon Salvation was a standout among the dozen most useless human beings I’d ever met.
Indeed.
I shook my head. No more questions. He might give me answers I didn’t want to hear.
I will want Cypres Prose, too.
Had he mentioned that before? Maybe when I was more focused on beer? My mind wasn’t at peak today.
Or most any other day, inasmuch as you refuse to exerciseit.
‘‘Use it or lose it.’’ See. Mind at half speed. Handing him a straight line like that.
Of late, he’s made a habit of ignoring these opportunities. Leaving me to stew in my own humiliation.
I did not mention Kip Prose before. Perhaps your undermindis engaged even while the rest lies fallow.