Cruel Zinc Melodies

66

Algarda looked drained. The Windwalker could not have gotten paler without going albino. There was no guessing her mental state. She moved like she was ready to collapse.

The beat of the music picked up. I’m not a religious sort, except maybe in the trenches, but I spun off a poorly remembered childhood singsong prayer. By the time I finished Algarda and daughter were up close. Algarda made a megaphone of his hands. ‘‘What happened?’’

I explained. He scowled at Heather but didn’t put much power behind it. Beautiful women always get that extra edge.

The Windwalker poked him exactly the way Tinnie would have poked me.

There are a hundred thousand stories in the city. Most of them will boggle or baffle the shit out of you. That one boggled me. I saw what I saw but rejected it after a moment’s reflection. Some things you just don’t want to believe.

Algarda shouted, ‘‘Let’s move outside!’’

‘‘Sure couldn’t hurt.’’

Everybody headed toward Saucerhead, still standing in for the angel with the sword blocking the gateway to heaven.

Several ghosts wanted to stay close to Furious Tide of Light. But they couldn’t get past her big ugly protector.

It was cooler outside. Also less noisy.

The music remained, hammering away without a touch of silver to it. Yet with my new advantage against loud I was able to pick out a few nuances and chords.

It really was music, from a genius whose natural instrument was rocks.

Xylophone. That was the thing Belle Chimes and I hadn’t been able to remember. A lot of that racket did sound like a big old clunky pot metal xylophone.

Barate Algarda said, ‘‘We can hear ourselves think now.’’

‘‘But do we have to?’’ I asked. Twenty minutes ago I was planning to spend the night in order to live the whole experience.

My weariness was not unique. Exhaustion had a hold on everyone. Algarda and the Windwalker in particular, since they had started already worn out.

‘‘Possibly not, in your case. However, I rather enjoy my thoughts.’’

‘‘So. What did you learn from your adventure today?’’

The Windwalker startled me, her voice strong for someone so slight. This wasn’t the squeaky little girl voice from before. ‘‘We learned that nearly adult children require closer supervision than we thought.’’

I hoisted an inquiring eyebrow.

Algarda said, ‘‘They were up to all kinds of mischief down there.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘When I was that age girls were the only experiments that interested me.’’

‘‘And he hasn’t changed much since. Which is why he’s a running footman instead of a Man of Standing.’’ Which was someone considered an insider by the community of sorcerers.

Algarda looked like he’d bitten into an alum-crusted lemon. This would be an old argument being dealt up fresh.

He swallowed. And let it go. ‘‘The oversize insects are a product of their experiments. There may have been other experiments potentially as embarrassing. We may have to twist their arms. They’ve done a lot to clean up and cover up.’’

The Windwalker said, ‘‘I blame the Prose boy. He’s filled their heads with crazy ideas.’’

Kip wasn’t my kid but I defended him. Obliquely. ‘‘To understand the Faction you need to consult my associate. He discovered some interesting facts about those kids.’’

The Windwalker didn’t listen. She was too tired. Algarda would have to carry her home if they stayed much longer.

He told me, ‘‘We wore ourselves out over there, making sure their experiments don’t create any more trouble. Tomorrow, we’ll come help with the thing they wakened.’’

The clunky music shifted tempo, coincidentally but disconcertingly.

‘‘Are they likely to go back down there?’’

‘‘They might,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s perfect. It’s a good place for young people to get together.’’

‘‘You want to keep them out? I could bring back Rindt Grinblatt.’’

‘‘There’s no need to banish them. So long as they aren’t doing things that they shouldn’t.’’

The Windwalker nodded emphatic agreement. Her eyes, I noted, were an intimidating shade of steel gray.

Algarda added, ‘‘No. We’ll do some research in the morning.She can maybe consult a few of her . . .’’ He stopped. He’d been about to take a bite of the same sour apple his daughter had chomped a moment ago. ‘‘I doubt that it’s some forgotten god who dozed off a thousand years ago and got buried in the mud when the river changed course.’’ That was more sniping, but subtler.

The Windwalker may have presented that hypothesis.

Gilbey liked the notion. ‘‘It couldn’t be a human god. The river wandered, back when, but its course hasn’t run through here in human history.’’

In recent centuries TunFairens have taken care to keep the big muddy confined to the same channel. It’ll flood a couple times a century, but . . .

Furious Tide of Light collapsed. It wasn’t a faint for effect, as practiced by some young ladies of spoiled and self-centered status. Algarda caught her before she hit the planks.

Heather Soames said, ‘‘I’m about to pass out myself, Manvil.’’ She sounded puzzled, though. Like she thought she shouldn’t be so tired.

I suggested, ‘‘Let’s all get some shut-eye.’’ Which clever turn of phrase earned me several vaguely worried looks. But nobody had the energy to comment.

Saucerhead took hold and steered me toward his guard shack. He should’ve been more worn out than anybody, having been awake a lot longer. But he hadn’t spent much time inside the World.

New problem rising, then, maybe.

A theater that naturally puts people to sleep. Not so good for people in the entertainment racket.

Not so good at all.