I asked, “What happened to Saucerhead and Winger?”
“Winger is in your office,” Singe told me. “Saucerhead went looking for her friend and to find someone the Dead Man wants to consult.”
“Who? Why?”
“I was not invited into the planning.”
The way things usually work around here. “Winger is in my office? Gods! I hope she’s empty.”
“She is now.”
Dean muttered something about the ever-expanding population of the house and disappeared. I thought he was off to whip up something to eat. Instead, he dragged his sorry ass off to bed.
I settled in the Dead Man’s room, leaning against the wall. There were no seats available. Nor would be soon, I suspected. I was ready to collapse from exhaustion. Yet again. But I didn’t want to miss anything.
The Dead Man was working some Loghyr mojo on our dysfunctional family guests. Assisted by a gaggle of cats.
Chodo was more alive than ever. I stared. I wasn’t frightened. I felt creepiness instead. In times gone by there’d always been terror when I was near the kingpin.
“Am I over that?” Seemed like a good time to find out if my sidekick was paying attention.
Unlikely. Changes are going on inside Mr. Contague. The impact of the kittens is much greater in the company of their high priestess. Which the girl has become by default, as sole survivor of her temple. A-Lat herself is hidden inside the child. And inside the Luck. Too scattered to have much power. Which is our great good fortune. We would not stand up to her otherwise. Nevertheless, the effect here will not be one hundred percent. And there is little chance of permanence.
I made grunting sounds. Deities make me nervous. There are a zillion of them, all real, all at cross-purposes, all unpleasant. Ninety-nine out of a hundred have no interest whatsoever in the well-being of mortals. Particularly if the mortal is named Garrett. And there was little evidence that this encounter would turn out positive-despite A-Lat’s salutary impact on Chodo’s madness at the moment.
“Can I note that more than one heart is in agony here?”
Careful what you wish for. Some may not enjoy being cured. Not till later did I realize he was painting me with that brush.
I told anybody who cared, “I’m going to bed. We can wrap this up tomorrow.” I had some thinking to do, too. I do that best without distractions.
72
Singe wakened me. She’d brought tea. “Don’t you ever let up?” I was accepting no peace offerings today.
Somebody kicked me in the back of the legs. “Shaddup!”
“So that’s it, huh? Trying to catch us up to something again.”
“No. The Dead Man wants you.”
I got kicked again. “This don’t seem like a hot sell, Miss Tate,” I grumbled at the bushwhacker. “If this is what I’ve got to look forward to.” Which got me kicked again. In my own bed. I suffered the slings and arrows, rewarded my long-suffering with a hot cup of tea.
Ten minutes later, biscuit and mug in my left hand, half a foot of sausage in my right, I trudged into the Dead Man’s room. Dripping grease. I was groggy but no longer cross-eyed with exhaustion. I was looking forward to the day I had my old self back.
“Looks like I’m the first man on the job.” Sleeping folks were strewed everywhere.
Excepting Singe, Dean, and I. And the Luck.
Yeah. Several dozen cats were on the bounce.
“Weather any better? Can we move these parasites out?”
Probably not. Not comfortably. Unless you move fast.
“Huh?”
An associate of Mr. Dotes brought a message while you were loafing. There was an overwhelming implication of paybacks for all the times I’d complained about him snoozing when I had a strong desire for a little genius backup.
“What’s on your mind?”
Iwish to propose that you have fulfilled your abiding obligation to Mr. Contague.
“What? He’s just… he’s still…”
He remains confined to his wheelchair. It is unlikely that he will ever leave it. Only a Loghyr mind surgeon can repair damage done by a stroke. Loghyr mind surgeons were rare as roc eggs even when our tribe was bountiful. But Mr. Contague is possessed of a powerful will. I would not bet heavily against him accomplishing anything — if he can stay out of the hands of those who wish him ill.
“Meaning family?” Family was snoring a yard from my feet. Belinda and Singe had quaffed a few quarts after I went upstairs.
Family, yes. But Miss Contague was not the worst of his tormentors. He possesses recollections of being force-fed by persons other than his daughter. Persons most likely associated with Merry Sculdyte. Who was not always forthright with his brother.
“Merry was working against Rory?”
At cross-purposes, certainly. Mr. Contague recalls incidents that distinctly suggest an enduring hatred by Merry toward his brother. There are deep shadows in Sculdyte’s mind. He is twisted and torn because he loves Rory, as well. You will find the details in the written history. That is not important at the moment. Decisions about what to do with Mr. Contague and Mr. Temisk are.
“Huh?”
Have you not been considering what to do next?
“Sure.” Though not very hard. Chodo and his pal couldn’t hang out here forever. And I couldn’t see Chodo going back home. That would put him back where he started. But my conscience wouldn’t turn him loose on the world again, either. Nor would it allow me to tell Old Bones that I was satisfied that I no longer owed Chodo.
Ianticipated as much.
Uh-oh. He was up to something. And was way ahead of me in whatever his scheme was.
“You say he’s more or less sane now?”
As much as can he. To roughly the baseline that existed at the time of his stroke. More than that is beyond even the Luck of A-Lat. And that will persist only so long as he remains within the influence of the child and the kittens.
“So what do we do with him?”
Exactly.
“Well?”
Waiting on you, Garrett. I owe him nothing. I would hand him off to Colonel Block. Along with his memoirs. Then he issued one of his cryptic, one-hand-clapping pronouncements. There is a workable answer implicit within the existing situation, though it is as complicated as the situation itself
All right. He’s a little windy for a perfect master.
Passing everything and everyone off to the law was, no doubt, a rational final solution. And one I wish I was hard enough to invoke. But I’m me. Garrett. The old softy. “What about his family?”
Also as healed as can be. But wounds leave scars. And scars never go away.
“Hey! What about that message from Morley?”
PAN id=title>
Whispering Nickel Idols
A GARRETT, P.I. NOVEL
By
GLEN COOK
This one is for my mom, who was a rock in aturbulent stream.
With thanks to Jim K. and Ellen W.
1
There I was, galumphing downstairs, six feet three of the handsomest, ever-loving blue-eyed ex-Marine you’d ever want to meet. Whistling. But it takes me a big, big bucket to carry a tune. And my bucket had a hole in it.
Something was wrong. I needed my head examined. I’d gone to bed early, all by my own self. And hadn’t had a dram to drink before I did. Yet this morning I was ready to break into a song and dance routine.