The Prophecy Machine

25

“Vat dey smellit like,” said the one, “Is s on yons. Vile onyons un' leeks.”

“Garlig,” said the other, “thas the wursof awl. Garlig getting in da poors an' dond efer goes avay.”

“I won say it iss or it's nod. To me, iss nod a simble thing, it's the mix dat make a scent I kant abide. You takes a radich. A radich un a kabach-ain't so fensive as it iss ven dey kook da damn ting, I'll say dat. Now der is un odor dat'll drife you up da vall.

“But I vas sayin radich, radich un kabach, dey won be zatisfy wid dat. A Hooman bein's goda grind dem peppah on it and stir in zum sprout. Bad enuf ven dey ead da filty stuf, the wurst iss in da varts. May I die if it's nod da holy truth, der is nuttin' like the badd smellin vind from a Hooman's goda gutt fulla green an' yellah plants. Vhatcha gotten now? I'm showin' pair of fivezies, and a prince. You goda tree twos, the bet's to you …”

Finn could smell them …

He could smell them in his dreams, smell them when he woke, didn't even have to look. Bowsers always smelled the same, like they'd come in from the rain. He'd known a few at home. A couple lived on Garpenny Street and did good business selling meat and bones. Rabbit and gopher, possum and coon. Beaver, goat and porcupine, wrens, hens and hawks. Carcasses hanging on hooks out front, bloody and swarming with flies.

The folk who ran the shop were decent folk, but Letitia wouldn't speak to them at all. Some of the meat they sold were related, she said, squirrels and voles and such. Besides, Yowlies shopped there; even if they didn't care for Bowsers, they hungered for the dead things they sold.

“I goda tree Vitches,” said one, “that'll beat your twos.”

“You're a tamn cheet is vat you are,” said the other, “you didn haff no Vitches before.”

“I god you both,” said the third, “I god a pair of nines un tree Seers.”

“Shid,” said one.

“I'm oud,” said the other, and tossed in his cards.

Finn risked a look and opened one eye. When he did, a terrible pain shot through his head. For the very first time, he remembered the rooftops, remembered the Foxers, wondered just how he'd gotten here.

He could see the three across the room. They sat at a table under an oily lamp. One was rather pug-nosed and fat. One was very small, with very large ears. One, Finn saw, was bigger than the rest, with close-cropped hair and mean eyes. All three wore straw boaters, stiff collars and dirty white shirts. Two, Pugnose and Mean-eyes, wore monocles pinned to their vests. Some sort of thing they did, Finn decided, for the butchers at home dressed exactly like that.

Skipo, for that was the butcher's name, had an accent as heavy as these fellows did, though he'd lived all his life in Ulster-East. Newlies had a thing about that, or some of them did. Even if they worked with humans, or had human friends, they took great pride in retaining their strange variant of the local tongue. The Bowsers did it here, and the Foxers as well, and likely most all the Newlie kind.

Squeen William, Finn decided, was probably an exception, and could do no better than he did.

On the other side of the coin, Newlies like Letitia, who had no trace of Mycer accent in her speech, were often reviled by Newlies who did.

This is often the way, Finn thought. If you do something right, someone will take affront, and try to bring you down …

“It's avake,” said the big one, “I zaw im move his eyes.”

“It's been avake,” said the smallest of them all. “Hoomans vill do dat, dey are wery sly.”

Finn was startled, suddenly aware they were clearly discussing him.

“Don get up,” Mean-eyes warned him, pushing back his chair. “Shtay vere you are.”

“I'm staying,” Finn said, “all right? Look, what's going on, what am I doing here? All I remember …”

“You fallin' off a roof. You hittin your head,” Pugnose said.

“Foxers isn't liken' you a lot,” Mean-eyes added with a grin.

“Tell me something I don't know. Whoever you are, thanks for your help. I see you've got some ale there, I could certainly use a drink.”

“He could use a trink,” Mean-eyes said.

“Give him a trink,” the little fellow said.

Pugnose got up, grabbed a jug of ale and squatted at Finn's side.

“You vant a trink, Hooman? You like zum ale?”

“If it's no bother,” Finn said.

“No pother, my friend,” the Bowser said, and Finn, with utter disbelief, saw the jug coming down at his head …

“They can be quite decent, most of their kind, but this is quite a callous bunch. I'm sorry they struck you in the head. I want you to know, I don't approve of that.”

“They struck me twice,” Finn said, “in the very same spot.”

Dr. Nicoretti frowned and shook his head as if he was truly alarmed. “No, they did not. You fell, on your merry chase across the roofs. If they hadn't been there, the Foxers would have surely run you through and dumped you in an alley somewhere. I put a gauze on your chest. Lost a little blood, no big thing. I expect you were somewhat over-wrought, more than anything else.”

“And I owe my life to you, yes? For that, and sending those louts to save me? So who put the Foxers on me, then? I don't suppose I can thank you for that as well?”

Nicoretti rolled his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, the one where Mean-eyes had sat before. Finn was not greatly surprised that he had woken to find Sabatino's uncle there. After the past few days, little shocked him now.

“That is a most ridiculous thing to say,” Nicoretti told him. “Why would I bother with such a charade- send those crazies after you, and rescue you as well? You've got more sense than that, lad. Don't play the fool with me.”

Finn forced himself to sit up. His head throbbed and his throat was quite dry. Nicoretti had given him some ale, but the stuff was warm and sour and only made him thirsty for more.

“If I'm a fool, then I guess I've got reason to be. I don't know what's happening here. I don't trust the Nuccis, and I surely don't trust you. If I'm not mistaken, it was you who asked the old man to give Letitia away. For spiritual rites?”

Finn made a face. “Hooters and Hatters. You people aren't civilized here. Decent people don't go to churches like that. You're all mad is what you are!”

“I'll overlook that,” Nicoretti said. “You're clearly a bigot and you've been shaken up, you're not thinking straight. Besides, that business of you and the Newlie, that was just a joke. You two wouldn't do me any good, you're not from here. The Pastor wouldn't go for that.”

“Huh! Didn't sound like a joke to me.”

Nicoretti leaned forward, his hands on his knees. His eyes seemed to bore through the back of Finn's skull. In the flickering light of the lamp his features were shadowed, and somber as the grave.

“You call me mad, Master Finn, yet it's you that's acting less than sane. May the demons take me, what do you think you're mixing in here? Do you think you're safe up there with those two? Do you think they'll let that pretty of yours walk out of there?”

Nicoretti threw up his hands in despair. “Why did I bother? Why did I take the trouble to save your hide? You're too dense to listen, too full of pride. I should have let those idiots have their way, let them punch you full of holes. You're no good to yourself, and you're surely no good to me!”

Finn ignored the man's theatrics. The more he waved his arms about, the broader the deception, the bigger the lie, or so it appeared to Finn.

“If you did truly save me, then you had some reason, and you'll not mind telling me why.”

“I can't stand by and see a man do himself in just because he's a fool. And you've got a talent for it, Finn. You've angered the Foxers because you put yourself in their quarrel. They won't let go of that.”

Nicoretti raised a restraining hand before Finn could break in.

“They're hard-headed creatures, and your intentions mean not a whit to them. In their minds, you're an