I sipped tea and nibbled bacon and snacked on halfway stale bread dipped in bacon drippings while I tried to get my mind wrapped around the notion that the Dead Man had moved voluntarily. That would make twice in my lifetime. Last time was when I moved him in here.
Give him another generation and he'd be dancing in the streets.
I glanced at the keg in the cold well. Tempting. But it was too early. And I had work to do.
I shivered. Events had left me a mighty hill to climb.
"Shut up in there!" I barked at Mr. Big, who was singing the marching song of ten thousand verses, each of which begins, "I don't know but I've been told... "
I poured tea, stirred in a spoon of honey, found a muffin young enough not to scar the hardwood if I dropped it, migrated to my office. "Good morning, Eleanor."
The lady in the painting smiled enigmatically, bemused by my morning dishabille. She didn't surprise me when she didn't have anything to say.
The Goddamn Parrot was stuck on a verse about ratgirls. It didn't flatter them. He must not have been completely comatose last night.
Me, I thought better of ratgirls since meeting Pular Singe. Hers was an acquaintance worth nurturing.
"So, darling. Did the Dead Man take off so he wouldn't complicate my life now that I'm involved with righsists? Or did he feel unfulfilled and had to find himself and realize his potential?" That was a chuckle. Without continuous nagging Old Bones has the potential of an iceberg. He'll slide downhill if he isn't at the bottom already. If you give him a push.
I finished my muffin and tea, went for another cup. I took the scenic route back to the office. The Goddman Parrot shut up as soon as I gave him some breakfast. Nestled in my chair again, I told Eleanor, "Listen to this and tell me what you think." I started where I thought it began, did Black Dragon, Crask and Sadler, Belinda, Relway, shapeshifters, the Weiders, Marengo North English, Tama Montezuma.
"So what do you think? Is it all connected? Or have I stumbled into several things all going on at the same time?" Occasionally it helps to bounce the facts off Eleanor or the Dead Man even though neither is inclined to respond. Sometimes the pieces fall into place.
I twisted and kicked and whacked away at the facts with a big faded steel hammer to conjure the mess into a couple of complete scenarios. I was sure neither had much to do with reality. Neither made sense of what was happening.
"I prefer the chaos theory," I told Eleanor. "Shit's flying everywhere and it's by chance a lot is raining down where I'm standing. I'm what ties the whole mess together... Oh. Right. Isn't this exactly what I've been waiting for?"
Eleanor's smile turned more teasing than enigmatic. She knows how thrilled I am when somebody pounds on my door.
I don't always hear them, though. The door, replaced often lately, is heavy. I'm thinking about getting one of those mechanical bells so I can be sure there's somebody out there to ignore.
59
"Gods, Garrett," Colonel Block growled. "You been on a three-day bender?"
"You're looking good yourself. We saw one another just yesterday. Remember?"
"You really go to hell overnight, don't you?"
Maybe I did look a little ragged. "All right. So maybe I need a shave." I let Block come inside.
He doesn't come around unless he has something on his mind. "That would be a start."
"Want a cup of tea?"
The Goddamn Parrot broke off crunching sunflower seeds long enough to excoriate the head of the Guard, then the head of the household.
"Can I drown that thing in it?"
"I'll brew you a bucket if you'll do it and take the rap. What's up?" I shepherded him into my office. He helped himself to a chair.
"I wanted you to know what Relway got from the prisoners. And your thoughts about last night. Relway's devotion colors what he sees."
"It was pretty straightforward." I told him what I knew. Once I would've held out just because he was the law. I'm mellowing with age and accumulated head lumps. I concluded, "What I don't have is a clue what it adds up to."
"I find it productive to forget the big question while I root out little answers."
"Uhm?"
"Instead of worrying about what it all adds up to, work on why the shapeshifters chose the Weiders. There are a hundred questions you could ask. You can paint the big picture one brushstroke at a time."
He wasn't offering advice that was new. But there was a subtext, an unspoken message. He was reminding me that collecting brushstrokes would involve me in my least favorite pastime.
What I need to find is a way to cruise through life without having to work.
"So what's the word? Did Relway collect any brushstrokes?" He must have tormented up some random flecks of color.
"He's got a bunch of words for you, Garrett. But there ain't many of them ones you want to hear. The big thing is, we didn't get anything out of the shapechangers."
I must have looked doubtful. I don't know why. Maybe I'm getting cynical. If you can't believe the secret police, whom can you trust?
"Really, Garrett. Before Relway got back to the Al-Khar the prisoners tried to escape."
"The place is a sewer any sane person would want to get away from, but how—"
"They're shapeshifters, Garrett. They can't turn into mice or roaches or anything that's not as heavy as they are but they can turn skinny or plastic enough to slide between bars and—"
"I get the picture. Damn! We should've seen that coming." I selected a quiver of choice expletives, used them up. This could turn real bad if those things could turn into furniture or the carpet underfoot. "So they're all loose again—"
"Not all. Three got away. And they were hurt. The others died trying. Relway says you can study the bodies if you want to."
"Did they all have tattoos?"
"How did you know?"
"Wild and lucky guess. Let me guess some more. The tattoo was a dragon with a Karentine military seal worked in. It was hard to see even when they weren't trying to hide it."
"You've seen them before." He was squinting now, suddenly troubled.
"I have. Relway told me he'd try to find out what the tattoo means."
"He probably hasn't had time."
"My guess is that they're some special ops mercs left over from the war."
"That would be my guess, too. Which means that I made this walk mostly for the exercise. I'm not telling you anything new."
"Exercise never hurt anybody. I'm told. Come on in the kitchen. We'll get that tea." I was sure he had more to say. But maybe it was something he didn't want to tell me. I asked him to come along because in my house we try not to leave visitors unattended. Especially not Winger or officers of the law. Both are almost certain to get into stuff I'd really rather they didn't.
I poured. Block communed with his inner demons. I asked, "Do you prefer the uniform?" He wore a slightly fancy version of the vaguely military, undyed linen outfit recently adopted by the Guard. It did little for the dignity of his office. Most rightsists street thugs dressed better.
Block accepted tea. "We don't have much of a budget. So it's become a point of pride. Shows people we're dedicated."
Maybe. "Anything useful come from those changers?"
"No. Except that someone from the Hill, names I can't mention, want the dead ones." And there it was, his secret burden.
"And I thought you were saving them just for me."
Block sneered. "A bunch of shifters turning up stirred a lot of curiosity."