Singe continued, "I am part of this team, now. And I am not really asking for a salary, or anything."
"Nobody draws a salary here. But the more people there are around here, the more work has to be done to keep everybody in clothing and food. And the way you keep putting it away... You aren't pregnant, are you?" All I needed was a horde of rat pups underfoot, atop the rest of the zoo.
Not a smart suggestion, Garrett. Not a smart suggestion.
He was right. I'd managed to offend Singe at last. And her main complaint was a sound one: I'd tossed off a remark like that without ever having bothered to learn enough about ratpeople to know that she couldn't get pregnant unless she was in season. Unlike human women. And she hadn't yet gone into season, except once, her first time, under rigorously controlled conditions, with her mother and some older sisters there to make sure nothing untoward happened.
"After the first time any ratgirl with half a brain can manage her schedule. I go to the same apothecaries human women do. And the same hedge wizards." Singe rolled up her left sleeve, showed me a fancy yarn amulet not unlike those worn by every human female I knew who'd passed the age of nine. This is a cruel, wicked, unpredictable, and exciting world. Bad things happen to good girls. Good things happen to bad girls. Nobody with any sense risks having her life shattered by chance joy or evil.
Which isn't to say that there aren't scores of accidents happening out there every day. Common sense isn't.
"It is really easy. But a lot of males do not want females controlling their fertility. And very few ratgirls are as courageous as I am. It takes a lot of nerve to sneak away and get fitted for an amulet. Even though everyone knows where to get one."
"What happens if you get caught using one of those things?"
"Basically, they get really unhappy with you but, mostly, they just take it away. Then they crowd you till your season comes on you. They believe that once a female has enjoyed a vigorous season of mating she won't want to delay another one ever again."
"Is that male arrogance? Or is it true?"
"I cannot tell you of my own certain knowledge. I have seen females little older than myself swilling an herb tea they believe will bring them into season sooner. At the same time taking other concoctions supposed to prevent pregnancy or to terminate one if it starts."
Sounded to me like love amongst the ratfolk could be as mad as it is amongst human folk.
"It is a good thing to be a girl who thinks ahead," Singe said. "So my older sisters tell me. They say a girl can futter herself blind for weeks on end if she makes the proper preparations and takes the right precautions."
I was beginning to get uncomfortable.
Singe fluttered her eyelashes. "Weeks."
My luck was mixed. That didn't go anywhere because Winger burst in. She started barking at the Dead Man and me. "You guys aren't gonna stiff me, Garrett."
"A straight line I cannot resist—"
"Don't give me no shit, Garrett."
"Winger, why do you have to be a pain in the ass every day of your life?" She wasn't, really. Most of the time she was good people. My directness startled her silent long enough for me to add, "I ought to hire the Rose brothers to follow you around with a couple of huge mirrors so every time you start in on somebody they can shove one in front of you so you can see what's happening."
Winger got a big, goofy look on her face. She isn't deep at all. She'll take that sort of remark literally, often as not. This time she cocked her head and thought about it for a few seconds before she decided it was just, somehow, some more of Garrett's candy-ass, goody two-shoes, crapola, pussy philosophy. A category which included anything I ever said that she didn't agree with or didn't understand. She gave her hair a violent toss. "You guys ain't gonna get outta giving me what I got coming."
"Oh, you're going to get what you've got coming. One of these days."
Her blind, fool, drunk good luck has got to run out someday.
Upon repeated advice from the Dead Man, in the face of my own deeply held principles, I sent Winger off with a little money in her pocket. She was happy to get it. She knew perfectly well that she didn't deserve it.
Now she'd go do some drinking, get into a fight with somebody who reminded her of her husband, maybe bed him if he survived the action. Then, while she was still drunk but already beginning to feel the bite of a hangover, she'd drag Saucerhead Tharpe out of bed and try to con him into helping her manage some criminal enterprise noteworthy for its complete boneheadedness. Like the time she got poor Grimmy Weeks drunk, bopped what little brains he had out, then talked him into helping her pilfer the Singing Sword of Holme Prudeald.
That damned sword has no value whatsoever. It's not fit for fighting and its only magical property is its ability to sing. Badly.
The damned blade never shut up after they pinched it. Everywhere Grimmy and Winger went, it boomed out off-key operatic arias about henpecked top gods, brothers who plooked their sisters in order to create psychopathic, dwarf-murdering heroes who tended to forget that they were married to defrocked, doomed, and not very bright Choosers of the Slain. Which might not have been too bad if Winger hadn't gotten a wild hair and tried to sell herself as the nimrod Chooser.
They say it made great street entertainment.
Winger panicked when she figured the sword's owner would get word. She did a runner when Grimmy had his back turned, leaving the poor befuddled dope holding the scabbard, so to speak.
I'm probably the only guy in town who bought Grimmy's sad story about the big blonde who'd led him to his despair.
If Grimmy survives four years of forced labor in the silver mines he'll return to the street having learned a valuable lesson about getting to know your partners in crime before you begin to work together.
She hadn't even given him her real name.
"Hey, Chuckles," I said, popping into the Dead Man's room. "What're we going to do with Casey and the girls?" The male silver elf was too much trouble to keep under control. But if we turned him loose he would become dangerous. And he didn't deserve to be turned over to the Guard. And I didn't want to kill him.
I have been giving that matter some thought. It is not simple. I have been unable to find a satisfactory answer yet. I will continue to reflect. Possibly Casey himself will present us with an idea.
That didn't seem likely.
I was in my office. After our recent power spending our financial picture was no longer rosy. I scowled. That might mean having to take on more work.
Evas eased into the room, cold and aloof and remote. Today she wore an unflattering tattered dress that had been handed down by one of Dean's much heftier nieces. The dress wouldn't have been flattering when it was new and on the form it fit. The weavers had strung a lot of ugly thread into the woof.
Evas closed the door. Then she began to change into the very friendly Evas. "I... cannot... wait." I got the sense that she was mildly ashamed of herself because she couldn't control herself.
After a while I managed to get away. The first tentacles of a marvelous idea had begun to stir in the darkened rooms at the back of my mind.
Damned if it didn't seem like Eleanor winked at me.
Had to be a good idea.
If I could survive the next few days...
"How well do you know my parrot?" I asked. "Come on. You should get to know him."
70
I made sure my crew were the first to arrive at The Palms. Even Dean came along, mainly to make sure Morley's barbarians did things right. If there was much surprise at the appearances of Singe and Evas, Morley's people hid it well. I'd left Fasfir behind. Fasfir seemed to have learned everything she'd wanted to know during her one protracted lesson.