thought it was great fun to
torment me about being mooned over by a ratgirl.
He could commit every crime of prejudice he 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
torment me about being mooned over by a ratgirl.
He could commit every crime of prejudice he 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
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