“S’true!” I protested. “Give you my word.”
Squints. Squints.
Support came from an unexpected quarter. Gwendolyn, to my surprise.
“That’s good enough, girls,” she rumbled. (Oh, yeah. Gwendolyn talks in a rumble just like her brother. Different tone, of course. Contralto profundo, you might call it. Her voice is just like she is: beautiful in a way that’s hard to describe. Think of a very feminine avalanche.)
“Good enough,” she repeated. Gwendolyn moved up alongside Jenny and Angela. “He’s a little scoundrel, true—greedy as a sponge and with about as much concern for moral standards. But he’s no liar. Never has been.”
I stared up at Gwendolyn. Her hawk face loomed over me. A lot like Greyboar’s, that face. She’s got the same dark complexion, same black eyes, same kinky mass of hair—except hers is a glorious mane instead of a bramble—same raptor beak of a nose. How she manages to look gorgeous instead of just scary is a mystery to me, but she does. And look scary at the same time.
Suddenly, Gwendolyn’s face burst into a smile. Her smile, which is not quite like anything else in the world. Not a whole lot of warmth in it, mind you. Gwendolyn’s not what you’d call the sweet-and-sentimental type. But it’s such a real thing.
I found myself getting choked up. It had been so many years since I’d seen that smile. It was my first memory of Gwendolyn. My first memory of either one of them, actually, because it was Gwendolyn who had introduced me to Greyboar.
Happened way back when I was a kid, growing up in one of the slums near the Flankn. Six years old, maybe seven. I’d gotten cornered in an alley by half a dozen bigger kids. Bunch of sullen snots, if you know what I mean. Was it my fault they couldn’t take a joke?
Really a humorless lot, no doubt about it. Had chains and clubs and everything. But just when things were looking dicey they started flying every whichaway. The ones who didn’t land on their asses took off running like rabbits. And the next thing I knew this really big girl was smiling down at me.
“Hiya, shrimp,” she’d said. “I thought it was a pretty good wisecrack, myself. But you might want to work on your timing.”
* * *
“Hiya, shrimp,” Gwendolyn said.
“Long time,” I croaked back.
The next thing I knew—just like it’d happened all those years ago—I was clutching her. Bawling my eyes out, if you can believe it.
“S’okay, Ignace.” She squatted down. Her powerful arms gathered me up and held me tight. So tight, so real, just like I remembered. “S’okay. I never really stopped loving you either. Even if you were a crook, I knew you weren’t dishonest. A rotter, yes. Rotten, no.”
“Faint praise,” I mumbled sourly, my face still pressed into her neck.
Gwendolyn’s big shoulders heaved. One of those chuckling kind of shrugs, I would have thought, except that I could feel her own tears leaking into my hair.
“What else do you ever get in this world?” she whispered.
That brought the high moment of the day. Because Wittgenstein made a wisecrack, and, like me, his timing was off.
“Idn’t dat sweet?” he sniggered, from his perch on Magrit’s shoulder. “Weeping willow meets blubbering bantam.”
The Cat was there, somehow, clutching Wittgenstein in her hand. Didn’t even see her move.
“Wonder if salamanders can grow new heads?” she mused, hefting the lajatang.
The Cat’s not given to idle speculation. She proceeded immediately with the experiment.
“You fruitcake!” howled Wittgenstein. Hissed, I should say. It’s hard to actually howl, when your head’s no longer connected to your lungs.
Everybody else was really howling, now. With laughter, except for Magrit.
“You fruitcake!” She charged up, shouldering the Cat aside, and stooped over to pick up Wittgenstein’s head. “You got any idea how hard it’s going to be to fix him back up?”
The Cat shook her head. “No. Can I watch?”
Chapter 28.
Consolation Prize
In case you’ve never witnessed the operation, recapitating a salamander is a time-consuming affair. It would have taken even longer if the Cat hadn’t been there to give Magrit a hand.
“Quit squirming around, Wittgenstein!” Magrit was trying to hold the creature still while she positioned the head in the right place. She snarled at the Cat: “If he twitches one more time, start cutting something else off.”
“My pleasure.” The lajatang weaved over Wittgenstein’s form, like a dragonfly looking for food. The salamander was suddenly as rigid as a board. Even his eyes stopped rolling around, except for following the movement of the blade. Very closely.