Book 06 - Red Iron Nights by Glen Cook Page A

practical.
    “The preacher is right, Playmate. And it’s maybe him
I need to talk to.”
    “Problem?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Thought so, soon as I saw you.”
    What a genius. With Playmate I commit the same sin as with
Morley. I don’t go around unless I need help.
    I resolved to do better in the future.
    Right, Garrett. Duck! Here comes a low-flying pig.
    I laid it out for Playmate. I didn’t hold back. My story
upset him so badly I was sorry I hadn’t softened it some.
“Who’d want to go and do something like that, Garrett?
Killing little girls.”
    They hadn’t been little, but that was beside the point.
“I don’t know. I mean to find out. That’s where I
thought you might help. That coach outside Morley’s
wasn’t any junker or rental. I don’t think
there’s another like it. Nearest I’ve ever seen is
Chodo Contague’s coach. And it didn’t have the gaudy
silver brightwork.”
    Playmate frowned at every mention of Morley Dotes. He
didn’t approve of Morley. He frowned again when I mentioned
Chodo. If Playmate was the kind to keep a little list, the first
name on his would be Chodo Contague. He sees Chodo as a cause of
social ills rather than as an effect.
    “Custom coach?”
    “I’d guess so.”
    “And similar to Chodo Contague’s.”
    “A little bigger and even fancier. Silver trim and a lot
of carving. Tell you anything? Know whose it is?”
    “Don’t know that, but I can make a good guess who
built it. If it was built in TunFaire.”
    Bingo! I almost let out a whoop. Maybe I did let out a whoop.
Playmate looked at me oddly for a moment, then grinned shyly.
“Helped some?”
    “As soon as you tell me that coachmaker’s
name.”
    “Atwood. Linden Atwood.”
    That name meant nothing to me. At my income level I don’t
buy many custom-built coaches. I don’t hang out with those
who do. “Where would I find Mr. Linden Atwood,
coachmaker?”
    “Tinkery Row.”
    Excellent. That narrowed it right down to a whole neighborhood
where potters potted, tinkers linked, and at least one wainwright
wrighted wains. The neighborhood lies south of the Tenderloin and
north of the brewery district, stretching east to west beginning a
few blocks in from the river, and parallels a street called
Tinker’s Lane. That is one of the oldest parts of town. Some
artisan families have been established there for centuries.
    Playmate glanced toward the stable door. “Going to be
getting dark soon. You figure on going down there right
away?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s not a nighttime neighborhood. Pretty soon
they’ll all close up, have supper, then the menfolk will head
for the corner tavern.”
    “So it’s late. It’s already too late for five
women. The
Dead Man thinks this guy won’t kill again for another
eleven or twelve days, but I don’t count on it.”
    Playmate nodded, conceding the point. “I’ll walk
with you.”
    “You don’t need to do that. Just tell me
where—”
    “Trouble follows you. I better go with you. Takes a
certain touch to deal with Atwood, anyway.”
    “You’ve done enough.” I didn’t want to
put Playmate at risk. He didn’t deserve it. “My job is
dealing with people.”
    “Your style is maybe a touch too direct and forceful for
Atwood. I’ll walk you down.”
    Arguing with Playmate is like arguing with a horse. Don’t
get you anywhere and just irritates the horse.
    Maybe if he would get into another line I’d visit more
often. Any line where there weren’t so many horses around. I
don’t get along with those monsters. Their whole tribe is out
to get me.
    “I’ll get my hat and cloak,” he said, knowing
he’d won before I conceded. I looked around, wondering where
he’d hidden the circus tent he’d wear. I spied a horse
eyeballing me. It looked like it was thinking about kicking its
stall down so it could trot over and dance a flamenco on my tired
bones.
    “Don’t waste time. The devils have spotted me.
They’re cooking something up.”
    Playmate chuckled.