Whispering Nickel Idols gf-11 Read online

  “Just startled. Saucerhead trusts you-I trust you. The ones I saw weren’t sitting.”

  Comstock shrugged. “We seen some that was standing and some that was lying down. One was suckling pups. But Saucerhead said you wanted ones that was sealed up already. These are them.”

  “That’s true. You did fine.” I started to shove my mitts into the box.

  Stop! Disappointed whispers echoed afterward.

  “Careful there, slick. You don’t want to touch them things with your bare skin.”

  I stopped. Cold rolled off the statues.

  Nicolist showed me the outside edge of his left little finger. “That was just an accidental swipe.”

  A piece of skin was missing, a quarter inch wide and three quarters long. Cruel bruising surrounded the wound.

  “Aches a bit,” I supposed aloud.

  “A bit. We need to get out of here, Orion. Runners are bound to turn up.”

  A concern that hadn’t occurred to me, though it was inherent in the situation. “I’ll let you out. And thanks, guys. You really helped out. We’ll come to you first next time we have a tough job.”

  Orion and June exchanged looks, shrugs, and headshakes.

  I used the peephole. I didn’t see anything remarkable. Except that my door-fixer-upping technician, Junker Mulclar, had pulled his cart up behind one that must have brought the metal dogs. I told Comstock and Nicolist, “Nobody there but the people who always are. Move out cool and nobody will notice.”

  They went to the street. Mr. Mulclar hoisted his toolbox to his shoulder. He was wide, short, dark, craggy, an ugly man who counted a dwarf among his ancestors somewhere. He owned one of those faces that need shaving three times a day just to look dirty.

  Junker is overly fond of cabbage, in both kraut and unpickled form. Whenever he stays in one place long that becomes overwhelmingly evident.

  “Good morning, Mr. Mulclar. It seems to be the hinges this time.”

  “Call me Junk, Mr. Garrett. Everybody does. What happened?” He rumbled enthusiastically at the nether end. He didn’t apologize. All part of the natural cycle.

  “Same as always. These bad guys were bigger than usual, though.”

  “No! That can’t be.” He punctuated with a minor poot. “That door I put in last time ought to stand up to-”

  “It isn’t the door, Mr. Mulclar. It’s the hinges. And if you saw those guys, you’d preen like a peacock for ten years because your work stood up so well.”

  Mulclar indulged in a rumbling chuckle, proud. Then rumbled in the opposite direction. The air was getting thick. Junk didn’t notice. “You got some spare room in your basement? Space you ain’t using? On account of I’m over here a whole lot anyway and my wife is throwing me out…” He cut a competition class ripper. “Not sure why. Maybe she found a new heartthrob. Anyways, then I’d be right here whenever it was time to service my mainest account.”

  “That don’t sound like such a bad idea, Junk.” Hard to converse when you don’t want to inhale. “But I already have more people living here than I can manage. And, nothing personal, but I owe them all more than I owe you.”

  “So it goes. I’ll stay with my cousin Sepp. Or my sister.” Rip! “It’ll all work out. Though I’m going to have to diversify. With all this law and order going on they ain’t so many doors getting broke down.”

  Junker Mulclar is a genius with hands and tools. There aren’t enough like him in the Brave New TunFaire of postwar Karenta.

  I gulped in some fresh air as a whiff breezed past. “Junk, I’m going to do you a favor. If you swear on your mother’s grave you’ll fix my doors forever.”

  Rumble! “Sure, Mr. Garrett. I thought we had that deal already.”

  “You know where the three-wheel manufactory is in Stepcross Pool?”

  “Sure.”

  “You go find the green door, tell the man there I said you should see Mr. Dale Pickle. Take your tools. They’ll give you all the work you can handle, and then some. And a place to stay, if that’s what you need.”

  My business associates, all of whom possess percentages bigger than mine, agree that we should take care of our workers. Max Weider built his brewing empire by valuing and rewarding the people who made it happen for him.

  Weider brewing employees are happy and ferociously loyal.

  The manufactory could use a man of Mr. Mulclar’s skills. And if he lived in, he’d soon become less aromatic. They wouldn’t let him do his own cooking.

  Mulclar did me an immense favor. “If you’ll move out of the way, I can get those hinges fixed. It’ll take maybe an hour.”

  Good luck with that, I thought.

  I noted that Comstock and Nicolist hadn’t taken their cart. If stolen carts kept turning up out front, there were bound to be questions.

  I went in to warn everybody that we wouldn’t have a door for a while.

  38

  It was quiet in the Dead Man’s, room. Singe and Dean had grown scarce to the point of invisibility. Several guests remained fixed in place. So did the metal statues in their lead-lined coffin.

  “Those two had a point, Chuckles. It can’t be long before we have a visit from the Watch.” I heard whispers again. Saying evil things.

  Excellent.

  “You want them to?”

  I hope Colonel Block comes himself.

  “There’s a chance. If he thinks you’re snoozing. We’ll never see Relway again, though. He’s too clever and too paranoid to take a chance.”

  No doubt.

  “You seem distracted.”

  I am trying to locate the creature Penny Dreadful. I feel her close by, but she is extremely elusive. Even the pixies could not pinpoint her when I sent them out last night. If the parrot were available…

  “He’s gone to a better place, far, far away. Tell me about these statues.” I could make out no words, but the whispers continued.

  In a moment. I want to examine an idea I found cowering in the back of your mind.

  It must have been skulking around way back there. I couldn’t recall having any that didn’t involve heading back upstairs to Tinnie.

  Yes. I do have sufficient capacity. Think about your breathing. You will have to manage for yourself for a while.

  “Huh?”

  I felt a distinct difference when he let go. I thought he had already.

  Minutes later one of our guests got up and sleepwalked out of the house. Focusing on my work, I breathed steadily as I watched him ease past Mr. Mulclar. He didn’t notice the miasma, which had taken over the hallway. He didn’t hear the voices. He was operating on another plane.

  Old Bones retained control all the way down to Wizard’s Reach, well away from Mrs. Cardonlos’ place.

  So. Now I knew what had been plucked from my brain. A wisp about filling empty heads with conflicting false memories so we could get these people out from underfoot. So we didn’t have to feed them and take them potty and otherwise be weighted down with them.

  A second man rose and went away. I didn’t see him off. I didn’t need another exposure to Mr. Mulclar. “Is this premature? Letting them go before we get somebody in to ask about the metal dogs?”

  Jackals.

  “Whatever. You see my point? Them being missing for a while, then turning up all confused and not knowing anything?”

  I see your point. However, you fail to credit me with sufficient ability to confuse the issue.

  “I’d never do that.”

  Do you recall past instances of dereliction by members of the Watch?

  “Sure. There’s probably a lot, but less than before Block and Relway took over.”

  The rest of our guests, excepting Skelington, left us eventually.

  “So. About these dogs-all right! I know. Jackals. We’ve got them. What about them? What are they? Why have them stolen?” Getting rid of them would suit me fine. Especially if doing so would get rid of the voices in my head.

  I have not heard of this cult of A-Laf, but there
are suggestive similarities with others, particularly in the matter of the metal animals. If they are nickel, or some alloy that is mainly nickel, their function will be much like that of the nickel figurines that graced the altars of Taintai the Gift some centuries ago.

  I’d never heard of Taintai the Gift. But there must be brigades of gods, goddesses, and their supporting casts who haven’t sailed across my bows. Deities come and go. Their cycles are just longer than human ones.

  “Interesting stuff, Chuckles. It’d be even more interesting if you’d drop a hint or two about what’s going on.”

  I felt his amusement as he sent, That will have to wait. We are about to have official company. Deal with it in your office instead of here.

  Vaguely, I caught the edge of a thought directed at Melondie Kadare. My pixie tribe were paying their rent now.

  I scooted across to my office. I couldn’t hear the incessant dark whispering over there.

  Dean passed me in the hallway, headed for the front doorway. Where, after an hour, Mr. Mulclar did not yet have the bent hinges repaired or replaced.

  I wondered if he heard the dark mutterings.

  39

  There was some racket in the hallway. Dean making offended noises. Somebody had gotten past Mr. Mulclar. More clever than I thought he could be, Dean fought a valiant retrograde action that lured the invader past the Dead Man’s room to the open door of my office.

  The man who burst into my office looked like he had been slapped together from parts taken from other people. On the south end he had spindly little legs and almost no butt. On top he had the chest and shoulders of a Saucerhead or Playmate. Then a head that went with his antipodes. All wrapped up in a badly fitted blue uniform.

  He came in with mouth a-running. “What do you think you’re doing, stealing religious relics?” Followed by fulminations that grew louder when I failed to acknowledge his presence.

  Gently, calmly, conversationally, I asked, “Are you right-handed?”

  “Huh? What the hell?”

  “Which hand do you use to abuse yourself? That’s the arm I’ll break first.” I ignored his associates. One wore a blue uniform jacket but not the matching trousers. His were brown. Maybe he couldn’t afford the full outfit.

  The fact that I remained more interested in paperwork than a raving home invader took the blusterer aback. Clearly, I rated him barely a nuisance.

  I pretended to sign something, then looked up. “You didn’t answer me. Nor have you introduced yourself. Are you married?”

  “Married?”

  “You keep on being an asshole, I’ll need to know where to send the pieces.”

  I was playing a dumb, macho game. I could afford to. I had the Dead Man behind me.

  Said sidekick let me know, This nimrod is named Ramey List. He is a political appointee assigned to the Watch over the objections ofPrince Rupert, who seems to have had little choice. His rank is captain. He is, nominally, a staff officer. The motive for putting him into the Watch seems to have been both political and to position him where he can get himself killed.

  “So that’s what the new staff uniforms look like.”

  Captain Ramey List gaped.

  His sort aren’t uncommon. He was an incompetent aristocrat who suspected his own shortcomings and compensated by being obnoxious to social inferiors.

  “Now that we’re civil, what can I do for you, Captain List?” The Dead Man hadn’t explained what he’d sent me. I assumed he’d raided the heads of List’s companions for perspective. “Have a seat.”

  Captain List sat. Chuckles would be sedating him some.

  List’s companions remained at the doorway. The one with a uniform jacket offered a slight nod of approval.

  “What can I do for my friends in the Watch?”

  Captain List was confused. “Uh… Colonel Block wants to know why you defaced the Bledsoe and stole certain metal ornaments.”

  “I didn’t. If that happened, I had nothing to do with it.” Which was true.

  List believed me, a remarkable eventuation for an officer of the law.

  Dean brought refreshments, identical little trays for List and his companions.

  In minutes List relaxed and, puzzled, was trying to swap jokes. He butchered every attempt. A born diplomat, I tossed in the occasional charitable chuckle. I said, “It’s still early, but if anybody wants a beer?…”

  Something stirred behind List’s eyes. Bingo! I knew his vice without Old Bones clueing me in. A problem with drink combined with a vile personality is a recipe for unpleasant excitement.

  Captain List won that fall with his demon. It was early in the day. The devil wasn’t wide-awake and thirsty yet.

  Then Dean appeared with a tray of frosty mugs. Nobody shunned the opportunity.

  Dean said, “I’ll need to go out today, Mr. Garrett. Unless you choose to stop entertaining. We’re down to the bottom of the backup keg.”

  “Ouch.”

  “There’s wine in the cellar. But it’s probably gone off.”

  “We’ll arrange something. Later.”

  One beer should leave the man marked by aroma enough to make him suspect.

  “I suppose.”

  Captain List frowned. “You suppose?”

  “I suppose it’s time to get back to work. Dean, do you have your shopping list? Where did he go?”

  The Watchman in the blue jacket told me, “He went back to your kitchen.”

  I got up. List did the same. We shook hands, me thanking him for coming by.

  Keep him moving. Do not give him time to think.

  Which I did. And during his flustered exit he did what might be the only socially useful deed he’d ever perform. “Dagon’s balls, man!” he snarled at Mr. Mulclar. “Did a skunk crawl up your ass and die? Do something! You could gag a maggot.”

  The Watchman not in uniform hung back. “I don’t know what you just did, buddy, but if you figure out how to bottle it, I want some. I’ve got to babysit that asshole six days a week.”

  “Some time when there’s just you and him in a bad part of town, get behind him with a board and whack him in the back of the head.“

  The man grinned. “I like the way you think. Shit. There he goes, starting to whine.”

  I turned to head back inside to visit the Dead Man. Mr. Mulclar asked, “Do I have a problem, Mr. Garrett?”

  “Sir?”

  “That fellow that just left said…”

  “Yes, Junk, you’re eating too much kraut. That’s something you can change, though. He’ll never stop being a dickhead.” I hurried on into the Dead Man’s room. “Was there a point to any of that?”

  That man is, in effect, Colonel Block’s second-in-command. He is convinced that he will replace the Colonel before the end of the year. He has been assured that that will be the case.

  “There’s a plot to get rid of Block?” I was surprised but not amazed. “Is List more competent than he lets on?”

  Less. Under his supervision the Watch will collapse back to its corrupt old days. At best. At worst he will become a puppet of conspirators no more competent than he. They discount Deal Relway because he is not of their social stratum.

  “Then they’re in for a nasty surprise.”

  Indeed. The nastiest. There is no practical brake on Mr. Relway but Westman Block. Who removes the Colonel sows the whirlwind.

  “Did we find out anything else useful?”

  If you are interested in making a chain-of-command chart for the Watch, we now have all the names. Or if you’re interested in the identities of informants and undercover operatives who work for Colonel Block, we have that. The list includes one Sofgienec Cardonlos. Never legally married.

  “Aha! I was sure she belonged to Relway.”

  That is not impossible.

  Of course. “Anything about the Green Pants Gang?”

  He is not allowed near them. But he hears rumors.

  We went back and forth until I knew what he wanted me to know.
I asked, “So how about we get back to the dog statues?”

  Jackals! Are you stupid?

  “No. Why is the distinction a big deal?”

  Words are important, Garrett. Especially when they are names. The same is true of symbols. Religious symbols in particular. The jackal is important in many religions. None more so than those with a dark view of earthly existence. The cult of A-Laf appears to hold one of the darkest.

  He’d clue me in about the jackals in his own sweet time. If he had any real notion. He isn’t above claiming knowledge he doesn’t actually have. He doesn’t just have multiple minds-he has multiple egos.

  “You reached that conclusion based on what?”

  Their behavior. The all-round implication that the cult is blacker than its feminine counterpart, which seems grim itself. Combined with recollections of historical precedents.

  “You mentioned past cults before. Without explaining.”

  Past cults, yes. None quite like this. These people are not creating the pain and despair they harvest on behalf of their god. They collect it where… oh.

  “What?”

  We are about to have company. Again. Get them inside as quickly as you can.

  “You keeping an eye on Mulclar? He’s seeing a lot of coming and going.”

  He is oblivious. His entire being is focused on his work and his unfortunate flatulence. The possibility that his gassy nature is responsible for his outcast status never occurred to him before. Get those people inside.

  So he wasn’t going to explain the jackals now, either.

  Did he have any real idea?

  40

  “Those people” arrived aboard a big black coach driven by Morley’s man Sarge. The guy I knew only as Theodore rode beside Sarge. They were alert.

  The coach door facing the house opened. Puddle popped out. He cursed when he banged into the cart abandoned by Comstock and Nicolist, looked around like he expected to see Venageti skirmishers. I saw no weapons but suspected an arsenal was available.

  Puddle beckoned. A man descended from the coach, pushed. He had his hands bound behind him. He was blindfolded. Welby Dell. Ah. Interesting. Puddle made him run.