Faded Steel Heat

108

I was relaxed. I was comfortable. It was time to go review with old Chuckles. He had to be over his worst grump about how unfair it was that everybody had done things exactly the way he'd told them to.

I strolled across the hallway. Up for'ard Cap'n Beaky rehearsed his lines for his next effort to incite mutiny or mayhem. Once I entered his room I found that His Nibs still hadn't started snoring. "Can we talk now? You've had a week. That's time enough to get over it."

He didn't say no.

"That old man at Weider's the other night. That really was Glory Mooncalled, wasn't it?"

Yes.

"He was a big disappointment, eh?"

Indeed. Time, as ever, is a villain.

I waited. He added nothing, though, so I had to ask, "What wicked trick did time play you?"

Time caused change. The fiery idealist of yesteryear has become a cold blooded, cynical, power-seeking opportunist indistinguishable from those he wanted to displace when he was younger. My illusions are dead. My innocence is gone.

"Pardon me," I gasped once I regained control. My stomach muscles ached, I'd laughed so hard. "That's the best story I've heard since the one about the blind nun and the snake with no teeth. And I was just about convinced that you didn't have a sense of humor."

Your sophmoric jocularity provides striking evidence in condemnation of that entire concept. Which is an entirely human conceit, I might note, and highly overrated.

"Humor, you mean? Hell, even ratpeople have a sense of humor, Old Bones." In fact, fewer humans have a good sense of humor than do members of almost any other race.

Speak of the humorless. Dean interrupted before we got going good. He was carrying two chairs. He dropped them and left. He was back a minute later with a sawhorse, then left again. Next time he lugged in a couple of planks.

I asked, "What the devil are you doing?"

"Making a table."

"Why?"

"For a dinner party. This's the only room that's big enough."

"Dinner party? What dinner party?"

I invited several friends in for the evening.

"You invited several friends? Without bothering to consult your landlord?" Or even bothering to invite him? "I want to talk about my friends. You had a couple of hours to burgle brains. What did you learn? Give!"

Nothing of significance which you do not already know.

He seemed unusually reticent. That suggested his ego was involved. Which meant his productivity had disappointed him. "You didn't get anything? What were you doing? Helping Trail and Storey suck down the beer?"

Dean brought two more chairs. I hadn't seen them before. He must've borrowed them somewhere. He reported, "Both Mr. Weiders send their regrets but Mr. Gilbey will attend. Miss Alyx and Miss Giorgi will accompany him."

The proximity of the stormwarden made extreme caution necessary. And a great deal of attention had to be invested in tracking and, in time, controlling Glory Mooncalled. Likewise, the parrot. I had little attention left for mental espionage. He wasn't usually so defensive. His testiness was a clue to his mental state. He couldn't brag about his efforts that night. Which suggested he had done very little that I might find useful. Normally, he can discover something self-aggrandizing in almost anything.

"But you already gave me enough to wreck the stormwarden and cripple The Call. So what was going on inside North English's head? Did he put Tama up to running the Wolves?"

I do not know. I was not able to penetrate the man's mind.

What? "Uh... Not able or didn't try?"

Some of each. Mainly the latter as it appeared it would be a difficult task. He appeared to possess the same protection that the Montezuma woman did.

But he had had time to shop through the heads of Nicks and Ty and Max and discover that nobody really wanted the wedding to go on.

Many is the time I have had to remind myself that he isn't human, that his priorities aren't human, and, especially, that what might seem important to me will be trivial to him. "You did dig into Bondurant Altoona's head, didn't you? And Belinda's? And those of other principals?"

I attended that confabulation, humiliating myself by allowing this once proud flesh to be embalmed within a demeaning, noxious cask, only because by doing so I could at last come face-to-face with Glory Mooncalled. I invested a great deal of effort in making that meeting possible. Anything I did on your behalf was incidental. The appearance of the stormwarden, which I did not anticipate because I had been out of touch with your researches, complicated matters immensely. In any event, you brought the matter to a successful conclusion.

"But not a satisfying one. And now I have to deal with yet another dark suspicion."

Old Bones simply wasn't interested in my problems. He shifted his attention to Dean, who was back with more lumber and another report. "Mr. Relway won't come. However, Colonel Block has indicated that he will be present. Lieutenant Nagit will attend." The old man never glanced at me. This was between him and the Dead Man and my opinion was irrelevant.

And it was my fault alone that both these vipers resided in my house. Not to mention that bundle of colorful snake snack camped out up front. Though that I could blame on Morley...

He did say Lieutenant Nagit? The Dead Man shouldn't know Nagit from a hitching post. Nor did he know Manvil Gilbey, for that matter. What the hell was he up to?

Lieutenant Nagit, though? We might could have become friends if he wasn't so bigoted. His taste in redheads was impeccable.

I might want to keep an eye on him in that area. Unless a redhead with malicious intent to make me sweat was behind his having received an invitation.

Dean continued, "Marengo North English won't be here."

Now there was a surprise. Would Marengo dine with the hired help? Who, coincidentally, had become far too familiar with his affairs and who had a tame Loghyr on staff? Not likely. Particularly in light of my sudden new suspicion, which shouldn't have been that new, come to think of it.

I had to take a few minutes to settle and reflect upon our interactions.

"Miss Tate will be here." Well, of course she would. Would she ever be far off if Alyx or Nicks were close enough to cause palpitations? Again, not likely.

"What's the point?" I asked. "We can't learn anything new from any of those people."

The Goddamn Parrot's laughter echoed down the hall. The little monster launched a rant almost certainly stimulated from outside.

Occasionally I have an agenda of my own, Garrett.

Only occasionally?

"Miss Contague will come as well."

What? Why get Belinda in here amongst the gentler lovelies? She was in one of her manic, deadly phases these days. People who had challenged her rule or who had just irritated her lately were finding themselves dead in alleys or turning up missing all over town—though, to Belinda's credit, she did restrict the mayhem to the realm of business. But when she got into one of these moods where she heard murderous commands in her father's voice inside her head I preferred to avoid tickling her interest in me. I had hopes that interest would fade into complete indifference eventually.

"You left out Shale and his pals?"

Mr. Thorpe and Miss Winger, too. This is neither a reunion nor a rogue's ball.

What was it, then? "Is Morley coming?"

I believe Mr. Dotes is arriving now.

Somebody banged on the door. Dean responded. Evidently he was so excited by the challenge of managing a real dinner that he was willing to assume his other duties without quarrel.

"Why?" I asked. I wanted the Dead Man's plan. He was up to something.

"Not much to do around The Palms," Morley said from the doorway. "Things are slow. Nobody wants to come out while that's going on." He inclined his head toward the street. The racket raised by a really bad marching band was winkling rotten mortar out of old masonry for half a mile around.

The less disciplined and crazier rightsist gangs were attempting to cash in on recent embarrassments suffered by Marengo North English and The Call. They were everywhere, day and night, often armed, usually in the biggest crowds they could muster, trying to appeal to the disenchantment swamping North English's troops.

In the short run the rightsist movement was on a roll. As the faintest of heart of the Other Races hit the road their stronger cousins became more cautious. Fringe rightsists were making themselves ever more menacing by riding the crest of a wave of fear not ameliorated by the relative restraint characteristic of The Call. But they were just more public, not more numerous. I thought the absence of The Call from the streets would hasten the collapse of the more marginal, radical, crazy factions. Without the image of The Call they couldn't maintain a credible camouflage of respectability, rationality, and patriotism. I was sure their popular support would evaporate.

I expected the whole rightsist mess to collapse within a few months. And I hoped recent emotional shocks were enough to keep Marengo North English from pulling himself together before it was too late to keep his curdle-brained brother idealists from stumbling over the precipice of chaos.

It amazed me that nobody agreed with me. Even the Dead Man seemed convinced that the madness could only feed upon itself and grow worse—instead of eating itself up.

The Other Races—those who hadn't yet run for the boondocks—contributed to the misapprehension with their bickering and finger-pointing. I'd bet Bondurant Altoona and his cronies were feeling pretty cocky about their chances of replacing The Call as the flagship goof troop. But all that would change. If I was right.

Strange thing is, the streets are actually safer today then ever before during my lifetime. Bizarre but true. Only the stupidest, craziest, most desperate crooks try anything with dedicated rightsists everywhere, making sure the rest of us humans live up to their righteous standards.