Read Book 12 - Cruel Zinc Melodies for Free Online Page A

a low profile, though. The shirt had arrived hidden inside a ragged brown coat so long its hem was wet.
    When he’s in public John Stretch swaggers and is loud. At my house, with nobody to impress, he’ll turn mildly intellectual. He’s marginally less smart than Singe. And less driven to learn and excel. Even so, he has a knack for insights into motivation, human and rat.
    And he has one incredibly useful extra talent.
    He can reach inside the heads of ordinary rats. The way the Dead Man taps into mine. He can read them and, I think, can control them. Thus, he can know what they know, see what they see, and smell what they smell.
    I extended a hand. John Stretch shook. He still had trouble with the mechanics. I said, ‘‘Let me guess. Singe went straight to the kitchen.’’
    ‘‘Yes.’’ His sibilants were harsher than Singe’s. But he was polishing them. He worked on his Karentine almost as fiercely as she did. He’d leave a mark. If he survived. ‘‘She said there is something I can help with.’’
    ‘‘On a strictly cash for labor basis.’’ I explained what I wanted to do.
    ‘‘The bugs are how big?’’
    ‘‘The one I saw up close was about this long.’’ I resisted the temptation to exaggerate.
    ‘‘Sounds like some good eating. For regular rats,’’ he hastened to add. ‘‘They like roaches.’’
    "Then they’re living large in this town. TunFaire has the finest herd of roaches anywhere.’’
    I caught a mental sneer from my deceased sidekick. He disagreed. He wasted no time telling me where they were bigger and better, more numerous and tasty, though.
    John Stretch disagreed, too, offering as proof testimony from rats off foreign ships. Then Singe arrived with mugs and a pitcher. The mugs came fully charged with proof that mortal men are beloved by the gods. At least, by those gods who favor fermented barley.
    Singe and John Stretch are bottomless sumps when it comes to beer.
    I asked, ‘‘How much organizing time would you need?’’
    ‘‘A few minutes,’’ John Stretch said. ‘‘Getting a pack of rats together does not take long if you know where to look.’’
    It wouldn’t in this berg. If you had a magic whistle.
    ‘‘Then I’ll just holler whenever Playmate comes up with a coach.’’
    ‘‘Sounds good to me.’’
    We got serious about the beer. Singe asked me questions about my childhood. ‘‘What’re you, writing a book?’’
    ‘‘I have one written already. Now I need some stories to put in it.’’
    ‘‘Huh?’’ Maybe that made sense to her.
    "You know that Jon Salvation who follows Winger around?"
    ‘‘The Remora? The playwright? What about him?’’
    ‘‘He just finished his second story about her adventures. They are making the first one into a play.’’
    ‘‘I don’t believe it. Stuff like that doesn’t happen in the real world. Damn! Who’d come knocking at this time of night?’’ I looked at my sidekick.
    He didn’t help out.
    Singe was wobbly already. She mumbled something about it not really being all that late.
    Dean was preoccupied in the kitchen.
    I pried myself out of my chair.

10
    I opened up after a look through the peephole, mainly out of habit. ‘‘What the hell are you doing here?’’
    Colonel Westman Block stepped forward. I let him come. Because the Dead Man sent, Let him enter if he wishes. He has no ulterior motive.
    That I did not buy. Block is head of the City Watch and Civil Guard. Lurking behind him, like shadowy, avenging devils, is the Unpublished Committee for Royal Security. Whatever their handle may be this week.
    They change names but never stop being the secret police. And they’re having a huge impact on TunFaire’s darker side.
    Block said, ‘‘I’ve been to the Hill. Enjoying a first-class ass-reaming. A certain sorcerer’s overly indulged second son is locked up in the Al-Khar. All he did was rape some foreigner’s four-year-old daughter. Prince Rupert showed up during the chat. I