passenger in a vehicle that horses are pulling.”
What a talent, that Garrett guy. After a moment, I confessed, “The student lost even the teacher on that one, Singe.”
She looked at me like she knew I was just saying that so she’d feel good, getting to explain. “The elves took the boy. Him I can track. So I will follow him. Wherever he stops moving, there will we find your elves.”
“The girl is a genius,” I said. “Let’s all go raid Playmate’s pantry before we go on the road.”
That idea was acclaimed enthusiastically by everyone not named Playmate. Or Morley. Playmate because his charity is limited when its wannabe beneficiaries are solvent. Morley because the weasel wasn’t around to vote.
Ah, well. My elven friend would be out there somewhere, a desperate fugitive fleeing the wrath of the good-grooming gods.
12
Saucerhead’s impatient pacing took him across the narrow street and back three times as he tried to establish a safe passage around a particularly irritable camel. No owner of the beast was in evidence. I was surprised to see it. Camels are rare this far south. Possibly no one would have this one. Possibly it had been abandoned. It was a beast as foul as the Goddamn Parrot. It voided its bowels, then nipped at Saucerhead. I muttered, “That’s what I feel like right now.”
“Which end?” Singe asked, testing her theory of humor. She giggled. So bold, this ratgirl who came out in the daytime, then dared to make jokes in front of human beings.
“Take your pick. You know what that thing really is? A horse without its disguise on.”
Even Singe thought that was absurd. And she has less love for the four-legged terrors than I do. You could say a state of war, of low intensity, exists between her species and theirs. Horses dislike ratpeople more than most humans do.
Playmate said, “One day I fully expect to find you on the steps of the Chancery, between Barking Dog Amato and Woodie Granger, foaming at the mouth as you rant at the King and the whole royal family because they’re pawns of the great equine conspiracy, Garrett.”
The Chancery is a principal government building where, traditionally, anyone with a grievance can voice it publicly on the outside steps. Inevitably, the Chancery steps have acquired a bevy of professional complainers and outright lunatics. Most people consider them cheap entertainment.
I said, “You shouldn’t talk about it! They’re going to get you now.” Singe started looking worried, frowning. “All right. Maybe I exaggerate a little. But they’re still vicious, nasty critters. They’ll turn on you in a second.”
The resident nasty critter spit at Saucerhead. Saucerhead responded with a jab to the camel’s nose. It was a calm, professional blow of the sort that earned him his living. But he put his weight and muscle behind it. The camel rocked back. Its eyes wobbled. Its front knees buckled.
Tharpe said, “Come on.” Once we were past the camel, he added, “Sometimes polite ain’t enough. You just gotta show’em who’s boss.”
We walked another hundred feet. And stopped. The street didn’t go anywhere. It ended at a wall. Which was improbable.
“What the hell?” Saucerhead demanded. “When did we start blocking off streets?”
He had a point. TunFaire has thousands of dead-end alleys and breezeways but something that happened in antiquity made our rulers issue regulations against blocking thoroughfares. Possibly because they’d wanted to be able to make a run for it in either direction. And while what we were following wasn’t much of a street, it was a street officially. Complete with symbols painted on walls at intersections to indicate that its name was something like Stonebone. Exactly what was impossible to tell. The paint hadn’t been renewed in my lifetime.
The wall ahead was old gray limestone. Exactly like the wall to our left. Needing the attention of a mason just as badly. But something about it made all
What a talent, that Garrett guy. After a moment, I confessed, “The student lost even the teacher on that one, Singe.”
She looked at me like she knew I was just saying that so she’d feel good, getting to explain. “The elves took the boy. Him I can track. So I will follow him. Wherever he stops moving, there will we find your elves.”
“The girl is a genius,” I said. “Let’s all go raid Playmate’s pantry before we go on the road.”
That idea was acclaimed enthusiastically by everyone not named Playmate. Or Morley. Playmate because his charity is limited when its wannabe beneficiaries are solvent. Morley because the weasel wasn’t around to vote.
Ah, well. My elven friend would be out there somewhere, a desperate fugitive fleeing the wrath of the good-grooming gods.
12
Saucerhead’s impatient pacing took him across the narrow street and back three times as he tried to establish a safe passage around a particularly irritable camel. No owner of the beast was in evidence. I was surprised to see it. Camels are rare this far south. Possibly no one would have this one. Possibly it had been abandoned. It was a beast as foul as the Goddamn Parrot. It voided its bowels, then nipped at Saucerhead. I muttered, “That’s what I feel like right now.”
“Which end?” Singe asked, testing her theory of humor. She giggled. So bold, this ratgirl who came out in the daytime, then dared to make jokes in front of human beings.
“Take your pick. You know what that thing really is? A horse without its disguise on.”
Even Singe thought that was absurd. And she has less love for the four-legged terrors than I do. You could say a state of war, of low intensity, exists between her species and theirs. Horses dislike ratpeople more than most humans do.
Playmate said, “One day I fully expect to find you on the steps of the Chancery, between Barking Dog Amato and Woodie Granger, foaming at the mouth as you rant at the King and the whole royal family because they’re pawns of the great equine conspiracy, Garrett.”
The Chancery is a principal government building where, traditionally, anyone with a grievance can voice it publicly on the outside steps. Inevitably, the Chancery steps have acquired a bevy of professional complainers and outright lunatics. Most people consider them cheap entertainment.
I said, “You shouldn’t talk about it! They’re going to get you now.” Singe started looking worried, frowning. “All right. Maybe I exaggerate a little. But they’re still vicious, nasty critters. They’ll turn on you in a second.”
The resident nasty critter spit at Saucerhead. Saucerhead responded with a jab to the camel’s nose. It was a calm, professional blow of the sort that earned him his living. But he put his weight and muscle behind it. The camel rocked back. Its eyes wobbled. Its front knees buckled.
Tharpe said, “Come on.” Once we were past the camel, he added, “Sometimes polite ain’t enough. You just gotta show’em who’s boss.”
We walked another hundred feet. And stopped. The street didn’t go anywhere. It ended at a wall. Which was improbable.
“What the hell?” Saucerhead demanded. “When did we start blocking off streets?”
He had a point. TunFaire has thousands of dead-end alleys and breezeways but something that happened in antiquity made our rulers issue regulations against blocking thoroughfares. Possibly because they’d wanted to be able to make a run for it in either direction. And while what we were following wasn’t much of a street, it was a street officially. Complete with symbols painted on walls at intersections to indicate that its name was something like Stonebone. Exactly what was impossible to tell. The paint hadn’t been renewed in my lifetime.
The wall ahead was old gray limestone. Exactly like the wall to our left. Needing the attention of a mason just as badly. But something about it made all
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