“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.
Theodore jumped down and helped Puddle extract a reluctant Teacher White. Teacher had no idea where he was headed, but he meant to fight all the way. It took Puddle and Theodore both to get him in the house.
There were two more passengers. A Combine third-stringer named Trash Blaser and my very good pal Mr. Morley Dotes. I wasn’t entirely surprised to see him. Nor was I stunned when neither of Teacher’s imported thugs tumbled out of the coach. Which headed on up the street as soon as Sarge saw his boss slide past Mr. Mulclar.
There was a roar that could only be the tradesman losing control of something he’d been holding far too long. Morley gasped, “Oh, gods of the Rime!”
I delayed a half minute, hoping the breeze would disperse the miasma. While waiting, I noted that my pixies were as busy as bees, to sling an old chestnut.