“I want to know if I can get some help with a case.”
“Hey! We’ve got to pay the rent, don’t we?”
“It might be dangerous.”
“Talk to me, Garrett.”
I told my story.
“So you have a history with the Contagues.”
“More than one.”
“Better tell me about that, then. It could have an impact on how decisions are made at the head table.”
Belinda wouldn’t let sentiment hamstring business decisions. She was harder than her father. And Chodo seldom let emotion get in the way.
“This hall, Garrett. Where this will happen. Is it far out of our territory?”
“You know where the Bledsoe is? The charity hospital? That whole area was all government buildings in olden times. When the Empire was in charge. The hall is over there. It was something else before they turned it into a war memorial. They were more frugal in the old days.”
“Are there any pixies around there? Or anybody else who might think we’re trespassing?”
TunFaire is a hundred cities piled onto the same hapless patch of dirt, a different one for every race. Some peoples are so different, their TunFaires scarcely intersect. More often, they do, and only us big, numerous types don’t need to invest in getting along. We can be as awful as we want to be. And usually are.
“I don’t know. I only just found out that the shindig is moving there from Morley’s place. I haven’t been in that part of town since somebody got me committed to the crazy ward at the Bledsoe.”
“That must’ve been an adventure. How’d you lie your way out? Convince them you were sane?”
“I convinced them I was so crazy they didn’t want me there.”
“There isn’t much time. You’ll have to take us with you when you go. Keeping us out of sight.”
That wouldn’t work. I couldn’t walk for miles lugging a carpetbag full of squabbling pixies.
Melondie read my mind. So to speak. “Don’t be such a cheap-ass, Garrett. Hire a coach. We can get there unseen. And you can show up without looking like a refugee yourself.” Everybody nags me about the way I dress. Nobody believes me if I poor-mouth. They all think I’m rich. Just because I have those points in the three-wheel factory.
Melondie’s idea was sound. “Can somebody fly a note to Playmate’s stable?” My friend Playmate doesn’t have a coach of his own, but he can come up with one at a moment’s notice, usually. And I like to give my business to friends. Plus, as a bonus, Playmate is about nine feet tall and handy to have around when a debate turns physical.
“I suppose.” She wasn’t enthusiastic. Long-distance flights are risky for pixies. Too many things out there think they look like food.
“Excellent. I’ll write one up and we can get the circus moving.”
I spied Singe returning. A couple human kids were giving her a hard time. I didn’t go chase them. She wouldn’t like that. She wants to fight her own battles.
Melondie had none of my problems. She whistled into the gap her tribe uses to get in and out of my walls. A half dozen adolescent bugs zipped out and hummed down the street. They got behind the human kids’ heads and started tormenting them.
Singe arrived. “John Stretch says he will be thrilled to help the great Garrett with a case. He insists that he bring his own rats instead of relying on those that will be in place already, though.”
“Fine. I’m sending a note to Playmate to bring a coach.”
“You changed your mind!”
“Don’t go getting all excited. You’ll stay inside it. You’ll help John Stretch run his game.”
11
Playmate brought a huge mahogany coach. It had to belong to somebody from way up the food chain. “This isn’t going to be missed, is it?”
“Not unless we don’t let it get back before the end of the week.” Playmate jumped down to help load. “I’m more worried about getting blood all over it. Or leaving a corpse inside.”
“That wasn’t my fault. You need to take a more positive attitude.”
“Familiarity with the Garrett experience suggests that guarded pessimism is the safer approach.”
Playmate is a huge black man who looms even huger than he is.
He’s bigger than me, stronger than me, and almost as handsome. His big shortcoming is that he’s a wannabe preacher who isn’t as mean as he looks. Who isn’t really nine feet tall. But seven feet wouldn’t be out of the question.
“You’re sure?” I could see where a crest had been removed from the coach door. “I don’t want some storm warden stomping me because his coach isn’t there when he decides to go for a ride.”
“Want me to take it back?”
“That’s all right. I was just checking. What’s this?” A goat cart stopped behind the coach. No goat was employed in its locomotion, though. A ratman had put himself into the traces. Singe’s brother. With a load of wooden cages filled with large, brown, unhappy rats. “Am here,” John Stretch said. His Karentine wasn’t as polished as his sister’s.
“Let’s get those critters into the coach, then.”
“Where is Singe?”
“Taking her good sweet time getting ready. You sure you can manage this?”
“Will have Singe to help. And them. Yes?” Pixies swarmed into the coach like Melondie meant to bring all her friends and relations.
Playmate remarked, “You’re looking pretty good there, Garrett. Did you hire a consultant to dress you up?”
I spread my arms to the sky. “You see the torments I suffer? Take me home now.”
Singe came fluttering out of the house, a young woman running late. Though how you get behind when your wardrobe is as limited as hers, I don’t know. But what I know about women, even limiting the sample to my own tribe, would fit in a thimble with room left over for a brigade of dancing angels.
Singe brought the kittens with her. She piled into the coach.
“We’re ready,” I told Playmate. I glanced at the goat cart. “John Stretch, you’ll lose your cart if you just leave it there.”
“No problem. Is not my cart.”
Great. So now the Watch would find a stolen goat cart in front of my house. Because, with my luck, the damned thing would sit there undisturbed for six months if it took that long to embarrass me.
I clambered aboard the coach.
Total silence reigned inside.
The pixies warily split their attention between the baby cats and the rat cages. The baby cats peeked out of their bucket, intrigued by the bug people and the rats. The rats glared at everybody.
What should have become chaos on the hoof declined into inexplicable relaxation.
“Well,” I said, relaxed myself, despite what lay ahead. “How about that?”
The pixies found perches. They gossiped. They didn’t squabble and they didn’t bother the rats. Normally, given half a chance, they would’ve swarmed any rodent. A plump rat could provide the main course for a huge feast.
Singe couldn’t control the kittens, though. Several got away and began investigating everything. Without bothering the rats or bugs. They were remarkably well-mannered, for cats.
As we turned into Wizard’s Reach I glimpsed a familiar face outside. It belonged to the man Morley and I had had the misfortune to catch earlier. He was watching my house. From a bruised visage.
His presence made me nervous. If he got obnoxious and kicked my door in, the Dead Man would be no help at all.
I couldn’t turn back. I’d have to trust the process. A notion I find dubious in the best of times.
My neighbor Mrs. Cardonlos is a police spy. And, possibly, a friend of Mr. Deal Relway, director of what, this week, is called something like the Unpublished Committee for Royal Security. Mrs. Cardonlos’ great pleasure in life is spying on me and imagining my life being more exciting than it is. Relway pays her a small stipend.