Read Book 12 - Cruel Zinc Melodies for Free Online

commission?’’
    ‘‘Yeah. It looks pretty simple.’’ I explained. And told her what I planned.
    The Dead Man tickled the inside of my head. I suggest that you do not discount the matter of the ghosts.
    ‘‘You see something in my head that I don’t?’’
    He has developed a bad habit of assuming my permission to rummage or eavesdrop inside my skull.
    No. Yet ghosts figure prominently in several reports. Though everyone seems inclined to discount their reality. And their music.
    ‘‘Where are you going?’’ I asked Singe. She had finished the bookwork resulting from our receipt of a pot of gold. She’s much too efficient.
    ‘‘To see John Stretch. You’ll need his help to make your plan work.’’
    ‘‘I wasn’t feeling fanatical about getting started right this minute.’’
    Singe said, ‘‘The pixies are still hibernating. You will not get help from them.’’
    A pixie colony lives in the void between the inner and outer brickwork in my front wall. They’re boisterous, obstreperous, obnoxious, unpredictable, and exasperating. And extremely useful. When they’re not doing their damnedest to drive me nuts. Melondie Kadare is queen of the nest. And a dedicated drunk.
    ‘‘Wave a beer around. They’ll fly in their sleep.’’
    Singe made a brief, weird snorting noise. Her excuse for a laugh.
    ‘‘Go,’’ I told her. ‘‘Once your brother gets here we’ll adapt the plan.’’
    ‘‘You think he will just drop everything and run to help you?’’
    ‘‘I have a bottomless war chest. And it’s honest work.’’
    Besides being a crime lord, John Stretch is a ratpeople community leader. Successful crooks are the only real leaders the ratpeople ever produce. The broader society won’t tolerate anything more.
    Most people, if they think about ratpeople at all, would rather they just went away. Unless they can trick up a way to exploit them.
    I throw what work I can to John Stretch. Not that I’m any reformer.
    Poor humans have it better. Men can sell their strength and violence. Women can sell their flesh. Not many folks want to boff a ratgirl. And ratmen aren’t long on strength, only on sneak.
    Pular Singe is mistress of the one special skill a handful of ratfolk can market. She’s a tracker. The best there is. She can follow a fish underwater. That and her knack for bookkeeping are what she brings to the team.
    She went out.
    Dean came in. ‘‘Suppertime.’’
    ‘‘What are we having?’’
    ‘‘Chicken stew.’’
    I gave him the look.
    He ignored it. He’s immune.
    ‘‘Yesterday: fish stew. The day before: rabbit stew. Before that: beef stew. I’m sensing a pattern. What next?’’
    ‘‘Pigeon? Snake? I’ll come up with something.’’
    ‘‘How about a new job? Could you come up with that?’’
    ‘‘Not working the slave’s hours I put in here. I don’t have time to look.’’
    Children. Stop squabbling. Pick up your toys and do your chores.

9
    Singe likes having her brother visit. She enjoys socializing but doesn’t have the nerve to meet people on her own.
    She came back with John Stretch before I could finish supper, have a cup of tea, and get my ego mildly bruised by my partner, who would not tell me what he had discussed with his student.
    John Stretch stands four and a half feet tall. Five when he forces himself as upright as he can get. His real name is Pound Humility. To my human eye, he has only his rat-ness in common with Singe.
    They have the same mother but different fathers. Which means nothing in their matrilineal society. The females have little control once they come into season. John Stretch was born in the litter before Singe’s. Unusually for their folk, they get along like brother and sister.
    John Stretch was dressed flamboyantly, in bright colors and high sea boots. His shirt was a rusty orange. It had fat, loose sleeves. The laces in front were loose. His trousers were baggy, too. They were black. And patched.
    He was trying to keep