hated when they were directed toward him, yet would never, ever, recognize any inconsistency. Because ratpeople were a created race, products of the malificent sorcerous investigations of some of our lords of the Hill during the heyday of the last century, most people don’t even consider them people. Morley Dotes included.
I told her, “Anything you heard from His Nibs makes you better informed than I am, Singe.” Her particular line of ratpeople place their personal names second. Just to confuse things, other lines do the opposite, in imitation of local humans. “He didn’t tell me anything. Not that he was interested in what’s happening here nor even that he was planning to make you a part of things.”
“What is happening here?” Morley asked. “Can you handle that one, Playmate?” Saucerhead had the big stablekeeper up on his hind legs now.
“I don’ t’ink,” Playmate mumbled.
I tried to tell everybody what I knew, not holding back anything, the way my partner would. Well, some little details, maybe, like about how good the Dead Man was at sneaking peeks into unprepared minds. Nobody needs to know that but me.
“You sure you ain’t been jobbed?” Saucerhead wanted to know. “That sure ain’t much. Play, you runnin’ a game on my man Garrett?”
I waved him off. “It’s not that.” Chances were good the Dead Man would’ve clued me in if that were the case. My concern was more that Kip and Playmate were being manipulated. “But I do wonder if someone isn’t running a game on Kip. Play, you ever met Lastyr or Noodiss?”
“Not formally. Not to talk to. I’ve seen them a few times. Not so much recently, though. They used to come around here a lot. When they thought Kip would be here alone.”
I grunted, irritated. Atop all the aches and pains it looked like the only way I was going to learn anything of substance would be to catch me a silver elf and squeeze him.
Which was a conclusion my partner must have reached before I left the house. Else how to explain Singe’s presence?
Besides being my only friend from TunFaire’s lowest lower class, Pular Singe is the finest tracker amongst a species known for individuals able to follow a trail through the insane stew of foul odors that complement the soul of this mad city.
“Singe? You find a scent yet?” I knew she was sniffing. She couldn’t help herself. And she was clever enough to understand why she had been invited to the party.
She tried to shrug, then to shake her head. Ratfolk find both human gestures difficult. Singe wants to be human so bad. Each time I see it I hurt for her. I get embarrassed. Because most of the time we aren’t worthy of imitation.
Failing, she spoke: “No. Not the elves. Though there is a unique odor where the two fell. But that exists only there. It does not go anywhere. And it does not smell like any odor from a living thing.”
“Wow.” Her human speech had improved dramatically since last I had seen her. It was almost free of accent — except when she tried a contraction. Her improvement was miraculous considering the voice box she had to use. No other rat in my experience had come close to matching her. Yet she was said to suffer from a hearing deficiency. According to the rat thug Reliance, who first brought her to my attention. “You’ve even mastered the sibilants.” Determination can take you a long way. Her sibilants still had a strong serpentine quality. But Singe needs a lot of encouragement to keep going. She gets almost none of that from her own people.
“So what do we do now?” Morley asked. He wasn’t interested, really. Not much. He was trying to work out how he could get back to The Palms and get cleaned up and changed before anyone noticed his disreputable condition. I had a feeling that, any minute now, I would find my best pal missing.
Singe said, “I cannot follow the strange elves. But Garrett taught me to follow the horses when I cannot follow a target who becomes a
I told her, “Anything you heard from His Nibs makes you better informed than I am, Singe.” Her particular line of ratpeople place their personal names second. Just to confuse things, other lines do the opposite, in imitation of local humans. “He didn’t tell me anything. Not that he was interested in what’s happening here nor even that he was planning to make you a part of things.”
“What is happening here?” Morley asked. “Can you handle that one, Playmate?” Saucerhead had the big stablekeeper up on his hind legs now.
“I don’ t’ink,” Playmate mumbled.
I tried to tell everybody what I knew, not holding back anything, the way my partner would. Well, some little details, maybe, like about how good the Dead Man was at sneaking peeks into unprepared minds. Nobody needs to know that but me.
“You sure you ain’t been jobbed?” Saucerhead wanted to know. “That sure ain’t much. Play, you runnin’ a game on my man Garrett?”
I waved him off. “It’s not that.” Chances were good the Dead Man would’ve clued me in if that were the case. My concern was more that Kip and Playmate were being manipulated. “But I do wonder if someone isn’t running a game on Kip. Play, you ever met Lastyr or Noodiss?”
“Not formally. Not to talk to. I’ve seen them a few times. Not so much recently, though. They used to come around here a lot. When they thought Kip would be here alone.”
I grunted, irritated. Atop all the aches and pains it looked like the only way I was going to learn anything of substance would be to catch me a silver elf and squeeze him.
Which was a conclusion my partner must have reached before I left the house. Else how to explain Singe’s presence?
Besides being my only friend from TunFaire’s lowest lower class, Pular Singe is the finest tracker amongst a species known for individuals able to follow a trail through the insane stew of foul odors that complement the soul of this mad city.
“Singe? You find a scent yet?” I knew she was sniffing. She couldn’t help herself. And she was clever enough to understand why she had been invited to the party.
She tried to shrug, then to shake her head. Ratfolk find both human gestures difficult. Singe wants to be human so bad. Each time I see it I hurt for her. I get embarrassed. Because most of the time we aren’t worthy of imitation.
Failing, she spoke: “No. Not the elves. Though there is a unique odor where the two fell. But that exists only there. It does not go anywhere. And it does not smell like any odor from a living thing.”
“Wow.” Her human speech had improved dramatically since last I had seen her. It was almost free of accent — except when she tried a contraction. Her improvement was miraculous considering the voice box she had to use. No other rat in my experience had come close to matching her. Yet she was said to suffer from a hearing deficiency. According to the rat thug Reliance, who first brought her to my attention. “You’ve even mastered the sibilants.” Determination can take you a long way. Her sibilants still had a strong serpentine quality. But Singe needs a lot of encouragement to keep going. She gets almost none of that from her own people.
“So what do we do now?” Morley asked. He wasn’t interested, really. Not much. He was trying to work out how he could get back to The Palms and get cleaned up and changed before anyone noticed his disreputable condition. I had a feeling that, any minute now, I would find my best pal missing.
Singe said, “I cannot follow the strange elves. But Garrett taught me to follow the horses when I cannot follow a target who becomes a
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