Sleepily, the Dead Man again asked, How does it feel to be a captain of industry? His inquiry had an amused, sharp, mocking edge to it. The sort of edge his thoughts take on when things go exactly according to his prognostications.
“I feel like a man wasting his life. Like the proverbial square peg.”
Indeed? But if you were not working there you would be here either sleeping off hangovers or indulging yourself in some rakish indulgence.
“Yeah. That’d be great. Indulging in some indulgence.”
He was feeling generous. He didn’t mention the several Visitor women I’d finagled out of the house not that long ago.
Singe invited herself into the Dead Man’s room, then into the conversation. Evidently the Dead Man had kept her posted. She took a sandwich out of her mouth long enough to ask, “Are you having problems with the red-haired woman again? I hope?”
“Absolutely. Always. That goes without saying. But not as many as usual.” Mainly because Tinnie was too busy working. And I stayed out of her way.
“I am sorry.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve been polishing up your sarky, haven’t you?”
“When you are lower than a ratman’s dog you do have to try harder. John Stretch was here not long ago. He wanted us to know that he knows where the other Visitors are hiding. The ones we ran into out in the country.” Singe still shivered when she recalled that adventure, though it made her the awe of all ratpeople who heard the tale. “They are here in the city, now. Their skyship is hidden inside a large, abandoned structure on the Embankment, a little ways north of the Landing.”
Way up there in strange territory.
Coincidentally within a few hundred yards of the site where the ship belonging to Lastyr and Noodiss is suspected to have gone beneath the water.
I frowned, trying to picture such a fantasm as an abandoned building in TunFaire. I’d expect to bump snoots with a unicorn first. This city is awash in refugees from the former war zone. Nothing that remotely resembles shelter isn’t infested with desperate, dangerous people.
Singe anticipated my question. “People lived there until ten days ago. Something scared them into moving out.” Meaning maybe somebody more dangerous had moved in.
“What do you think, Old Bones? Worth a look? Or are we out of the thing since Kip doesn’t seem to be in trouble anymore?” Though how could we be out while we still had Casey underfoot? I wished there was some way I could give him to Morley, too.
The Dead Man’s response was the mental equivalent of a distracted grunt.
“Don’t you dare go to sleep on me! Who’ll keep Casey under control?”
The question elicited only a mental snort and the equivalent of “I was just resting my eyes.”
“You don’t keep him managed, Chuckles, I won’t have any choice but to turn him over to the Guard. I can’t handle him. We’ve already seen that.”
Mental grumbles. Old Bones was getting testy, a sure sign he was headed for a long nap. He’s predictable. Kind of like the weather is predictable. You look out the window and tell everybody a storm is on its way. No way you’re ever wrong, given sufficient time.
What is your attitude toward unearthing Lastyr and Noodiss?
“Not quite obsessed but definitely still interested. Despite all logic. They planted that one deep, whoever did it.”
He didn’t tell me what I wanted to know.
“That was supposed to be a hint, Old Bones. Who messed with the inside of my head?”
I am inclined to suspect Casey but I do not know. I have not read direct responsibility in any Visitor mind yet. But the Visitors have been exceedingly adept at concealing specific items. Witness Evas and her sisters. Witness Casey himself. He has not yielded up a tenth of his secrets even though he has been in direct mental contact with me for ages now.
Also, it might be wise to consider the possibility that your urge is not of Visitor origin.
“What?”
We might do well to recollect, occasionally, Colonel Block’s several subtle cautions about the intense interest in the Visitors being shown, behind the scenes, by several Hill personages. You have been rendered unconscious with some frequency of late. We might review your memories of those episodes with an eye toward the possibility that some of our own folk might have created an opportunity to implant a compulsion.
“Maybe who really isn’t as important as what. Who wants the secrets of the Visitors’ magic isn’t truly critical to us. Who won’t have much direct impact on our lives.”
Perhaps. If you discount the moral dimension.
“Naturally.”
And when the talking is over, you do want to meet the mysterious Lastyr and Noodiss yourself.
“I sure do. I know I’ll be disappointed. I always am. But I’d definitely like to see who got the cauldron bubbling.”
Then cease investing your time in the three-wheel business. There is nothing you can contribute there except exasperation for your associates.
I’d had the feeling that even Willard Tate was considering changing the locks on the compound doors. It isn’t just that I ask too many questions, I ask questions that make people uncomfortable.
Even the bloodiest villains have to work hard at conscience management sometimes. Until they get their full arsenal of justifications filed, sanded, and polished to fit their shadowy needs.
Indeed you do. Also, you must stop juggling the women in your life. I understand that you are trying to live every young man’s dream and are managing a twisted approximation. But there come moments when each of us must step away from the dreamtime.
Sometimes somebody besides me flops something uncomfortable onto the table.
Find Lastyr and Noodiss. Before they perish from old age.
I didn’t contradict him. But Evas had told me that Visitors never grow old, nor do they die of old age. They live on until Fate finds a way to squash them with a falling boulder or until they do something really stupid, like going into a horse stall all alone, without a witness around anywhere.
Which sounds like some of those old, false legends about Morley’s people.
“Singe, it ought to be safe out there now. You ready for another adventure?”
“Whither thou goest.”
“Oh, that’s rude. All right. First thing in the morning. Bright and early. For real. But for now, let’s just hit the kitchen and tip a few mugs of Weider Select.”
I am getting old. I thought about heading out to Grubb Gruber’s to enjoy a few with the old jarheads. I thought about wandering over to serenade Katie, whom I hadn’t seen in so long she might’ve forgotten her favorite little honey bunny. I thought about several other ways to fritter my evening. And, in the end, I just stayed in, sipping the dark and exchanging brew-born wisdom with my pal Singe. I hit the sack early, never suffering a thought about the feuding pixies.