"Dean, take a quick head count here. How many kids? How many can even have kids? We don't need to give a damn about posterity because we don't have no posterity."
Dean sighed. "Perhaps not. You can't even learn not to talk with your mouth full."
He should have been somebody's mother. He was a worse nag than my mom ever was. He was more determined, too.
"I'll be in there with the rest." I left him.
I visited the front door first and used the peephole to check the stoop. Sure enough, the grolls and Dojango were seated out there, gossiping in grollish. Dojango Roze was Morley's size but claimed he and the grolls were triplets born of different mothers. Morley backed him up. I'd always considered that a bad joke, but after having wallowed in the mythological for a few days I had no trouble imagining one of our religions boasting some dire prophecy about the coming of triplets born of different mothers.
I took one cautious peek into the small front room. No owl girls. Maybe they left with the Goddamn Parrot. I wasn't surprised to see them gone.
I headed for the Dead Man's room. "You put out the Cat?"
Upstairs asleep.
The cherub, I noted, remained immobile. And visible. Sarge and Puddle were looking it over. Curious. "And the owls?"
Gone. Bored. But they will return. I fear they may be so simple they will think of nowhere else to go.
"That could make life interesting."
Pshaw!
"Thought you didn't like cats?" Morley said.
"You know me. Big soft spot for strays."
"Two-legged strays. Of the under twenty-five and female sort."
I turned. "How you hanging, Puddle? Sarge? The new business going all right?"
"Fugginay, Garrett. Only problem is da kind a people ya got ta put up wit'. All dem highfalutin, nose-in-da-air types, dey can be a real pain in da ass."
"Hell, people are the big problem in any line of work."
"Fugginay. 'Specially dem Call guys. Dey's gonna find some a dem cut up inta stew meat... "
Morley cleared his throat.
"Fugginay. Boss, you really need us here?" Puddle, doing all the talking, had been keeping one nervous eye on the Dead Man. The Dead Man can be salt on the raw nerves of folks without clear consciences.
"Wait out front with the Rozes. Try to keep them from getting into another brawl." Dotes shrugged my way. "Every time I turn around some damned human rights fool is starting something with Doris or Marsha."
"Sounds like a problem that will cure itself, given time. Good for the human race, too. Eliminate the stupid blood from the breeding stock."
"There aren't enough grolls and trolls and giants in the world to accomplish that, working full time. I dug up your treasure." He indicated the sacks scattered around us.
It wasn't likely that he'd done any digging with his own hands. These days he was acutely conscious of the line between management and labor.
Just for grins I remarked, "I see you've gotten your share already."
He gave me exactly the look I expected. Little boy caught with hand in cookie jar. Only, "I took some to pay the guys to dig and carry and guard. They don't work for free, Garrett."
Not when they were exhuming a treasure. I was surprised that any of it had made it to my house.
I poked around like I knew what I was doing. Morley couldn't know that I had no real idea of the size of the treasure, or of its makeup.
He said, "Instead of playing games you could ask your partner."
I could. But where was the fun in that? "He's a tenant here, not a partner. Tell you what. Since you've been such a big help I'll see that you get something unique in all TunFaire. Maybe in the whole world."
"I'm not taking the parrot back."
Damn! Everybody is a mind reader anymore.
When he wants to bother, the Dead Man can move stuff with his thoughts. The treasure sacks tinkled and stirred. "Big mice around here." What was he doing?
Morley asked, "What's this all about, anyway? How did you find a treasure right here in town?"
"Eyewitness to the burial told me all about it. It was her way of paying me to do a job." Which, I had to remember, had not been completed to her satisfaction.
Morley didn't believe me. "Those coins are ancient, Garrett."
There are artifacts here which we dare not market as they are.
"Huh?"
There are crowns and scepters and other royal insignia that today's Crown would demand if its agents became aware that they have been recovered.
"What? Karenta didn't even exist then. Even the Empire was still up the road. It would take some really bizarre legal reasoning to... "
Nevertheless.
"Of course." Silly me. Logic, right, and justice had nothing to do with it. Royal claims are founded rock solid upon the inarguable fact that the Crown has more swords than anybody else. "You didn't give your guys anything unusual when you paid them?"
Morley shook his head. "I've handled treasures before, Garrett. You need somebody to break that stuff down and move it, I know somebody who'll make you a deal."
No doubt. And he would get a couple points back for steering the fence.
That's the way it works.
I said, "I know people who might be interested in the coinage for its collectible value. How about we just bid out the rest as a lot?"
Not a good idea. That might put us at risk, as we would be identifiable as the source of the whole. Also, many of these items have value well beyond the intrinsic.
"But this stuff has been out of sight for ages. Nobody ought to even remember it."
Put the material under my chair and elsewhere out of sight. Give Mr. Dotes his fee.
"No need to get testy. I was just ribbing him."
I am aware of that, as is Mr. Dotes. The cleanup is necessary, as we are about to receive guests who may ask embarrassing questions should those bags be lying about, dribbling coins and bracelets.
"Huh?" I started slinging sacks. Morley helped, paying himself off as he went. He was not unreasonable about how much he hurt me. "What kind of guests, Chuckles?" Off the top of my head I couldn't think of anybody with nerve enough to push through the group on my stoop just so they could aggravate me by pounding on my door.
But somebody started hammering away.
Priests, the Dead Man sent.
Help!
59
Not just priests. A whole gang of priests, some of them quite well armed. I looked them over as I let a few come inside, a courtesy they obtained only at the Dead Man's insistence. None of them looked like they were used to the streets. Maybe that explained the numbers and the weapons.
"Who's minding the store, guys? Thieves are going to be carrying off everything but the roof tiles."
A guy so old they must have carried him over squinted. He grunted. He dug inside his cassock till he located a pair of TenHagen cheaters thicker than window glass. He readied them with shaking, liver-spotted hands. Once he got them on, he pushed them way out to the end of his pointy nose, then leaned his head back so he could examine me through them. He grunted again. "You must be Garrett."
His voice was a surprise. It was not an old man's voice. And it belonged to somebody used to telling others what to do. But I didn't recognize him. I had thought I knew the faces of the key people at Chattaree.
"I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Father."
The old man tilted his head farther. "They did say that you are lapsed. Perhaps even apostate."
No argument there. They were right. But who were they? I had had a brush with the powers at Chattaree, but I'd thought that was forgotten. Maybe not. Maybe all those saints have nothing better to do than to keep track of me and to report me to the priests.