12
Waiting for Morley to get better got really, really boring really, really fast. Being Tinnie Tate's boy toy had stripped me of my knack for enduring endless do-nothing.
Tinnie was not patient. She had rubbed off.
Crush's taste in reading was unusual. The first thing she brought me was a collection of plays written by Jon Salvation, including the still running
'You're a fan?'
'He tells wonderful stories.'
The wildest were the ones he made up about himself. 'I know him.'
'He's a friend of yours?'
'No. He comes with a woman named Winger who is my friend.' Sort of. When temptation doesn't get in the way.
'Wow. I'd like to meet him.'
Suddenly, the girl had a new attitude. I stifled a cynical smile. 'Maybe someday. Once this is done.' I noted that Crush wasn't interested in Morley when her mother wasn't there. I asked, 'Did you know Morley before they brought him here?'
'Not me. DeeDee did. I think.'
She called her mother DeeDee.
'Is there anything to read besides plays?' I wondered who was putting those out there, and how. I'd had a scheme, once, but it had involved using hundreds of ratpeople to make copies.
Kip Prose could, probably, tell me how it was done. If he wasn't responsible.
'There are some history scrolls. Tedious stuff about the olden times. Somebody left them when he couldn't pay his tab. Mike never got around to selling them.' The kid leaned closer, whispered, 'She gets airs sometimes, she does. Gets above herself.'
All interesting. Grist for the mill. Me soaking stuff up, getting the old ear back.
When I worked up a good case of cabin fever, I tamed it by rolling the sheet back off my friend.
Morley had suffered eight deep stab wounds. He had an additional dozen cuts. And he had a fine collection of bruises and abrasions from having been kicked, clubbed, and dragged.
I hoped that Belinda would have her ear to the ground listening for the brag of the sort of idiot who can't help telling somebody what he did.
People tell me I think too much. Most of the time things are exactly what they seem. Trying to make more out of them is a mug's game.
I say that when you stop believing in weird conspiracies that involve scores of people who never break faith, you're fully ripe for the weird to come get you.
I was thinking that kind of stuff and, alternately, trying to dismiss it or get it to make some kind of sense if I entered Morley into the equation. I couldn't get anything rational to fall together.
There was nothing to do but wait on the man himself.
13
Somebody shoved against the door to the room so hard that the impact against my cot wakened me.
I got my feet under me. I stood the cot up against the wall. I was not in a good temper when I opened that door.
Miss T was my antagonist. I blurted, 'What the hell? This isn't any time when a rational being. .'
I sniffed. Something smelled odd.
'Stuff it, Garrett.'
Miss T had not come alone. That was Belinda Contague.
The smell came from behind me. I glanced at the window. It was dark outside, except for a three-quarters moon. 'What the hell?'
One curtain bottom had been pushed a foot aside. Enough for me to see the moon in a cloudless sky. The window was up about three inches. I had left the curtains closed and the window shut.
The smell came from outside.
I forgot about the rude folks in the hall. Something more sinister had been going on. I might ought to be grateful that they had wakened me.
I went to the window. It would not open enough for me to lean out. Every shadow across the street, though, felt like it was hiding something rotten.
I said, 'I'm way off my game. I might not be the man for this job, Belinda. Let me ask, less irritably, what's the occasion?'
Belinda took in the situation with the window. 'I brought a healer.' She and Miss T moved aside.
A small, well-rounded, bald-headed man passed between them. He sniffed the air. 'I hope that's not your patient.'
The healer wore dull black clothing in a style declared defunct a hundred fifty years ago. Deservedly. Clotheshorse Morley should have shrunk away even in a coma.
The healer belonged to a cult called the Children of the Light. Of the Dying Light. A prime tenet was no sexual conduct. They were militant pacifists, too-the kind willing to pound the snot out of you if you tried to claim that war might actually solve something. They were born-again do-gooders, as well, but so smugly self-righteous that most people loathed them. They ran soup kitchens. They ran shelters. They ran free clinics. They had made a bid for control of TunFaire's grand, totally corrupt charity hospital, the Bledsoe. They did a lot of good for a lot of people. Their healers were minor magic users. The Hill turned a blind eye to their unlicensed operations because they confined themselves to charity work.
Cynicism being my nature, when I thought about the Children, I mostly wondered where they got their funding.
Saving the life of a friend of the Queen of Darkness might shake loose a serious donation. Unless she decided to have the healer drowned so he wouldn't talk about Morley's condition or whereabouts.
'Excuse me,' nameless round character said. Nobody made introductions. He pushed through and plopped his carpetbag down near the head of the bed. He began examining what was left of my friend.
I urged Belinda over to the window. I used my left thumb and forefinger to measure the gap before I shut it again. 'As soon as he can survive it, I want to move him to my place.'
'Factory Slide or Macunado Street?'
'Macunado. Nobody will come after him there.'
'I'd rather move him out to my place in the country.'
I didn't argue. There's no point with Belinda. She would go on doing things her way while empires collapsed around her. This time, though, she could be right. The Contague residence didn't have a live-in Loghyr but it was a fortress. The facilities and amenities were superior.
'It could be a long time before he's in shape to travel that far.'
I have visited the Contague digs under a range of circumstances. A man could live comfortably there. He could also go in and never be seen again.
Belinda told me, 'He won't go anywhere before he's ready.' One pallid finger, tipped by a long carmine nail, tapped the windowsill.
I nodded.
A patch of something lay there, glistening. Something drying out. It reminded me of the trail left by a migrating slug.
