Now there was something worth arguing about. King's Rules went into effect before I was born.

Karentine football, or rugger, is so rough now I wouldn't want my enemies playing. In Old Style football I think the only rule was: no edged weapons.

"I take it football is popular down here."

"Serious business. Best players come out of Tinkery. Every block has a team. Kids start out as soon as they can walk."

Not only hardheaded but not very bright. But I kept that thought to myself. "Not very tolerant" goes along with the other two, most places.

"Played some myself when I was younger," Playmate told me.

"Why am I not surprised?" He'd have made a team all by himself.

Playmate was slick. He managed to insinuate an opinion into an argument so old it was obvious ritual, elicited a response because, apparently, in his olden days he'd been a star. Before I understood what was happening, he and I were part of Atwood's crowd. I pursued Playmate's advice diligently. The Dead Man would have been impressed by how long I kept my mouth shut.

In time the Atwoods veered from the tried and true long enough to betray polite curiosity concerning Playmate's presence. Playmate gave them a big grin, like he was mocking himself for taking anything seriously. "My pal Garrett and me, we're on sort of a crusade."

Those guys understood a crusade. They were religious. Real salt of the earth and backbone of the nation. Hadn't had an original thought in generations.

Pardon. I do get overly critical at times.

Curiosity levels rose. Playmate played with them a minute, then said, "I better let Garrett tell it. He's the one been closest to it. I'm just trying to lend a hand."

I pictured Block exploding if he heard I was hanging out his dirty laundry all over town, grinned, told the story of the dead girls. The Atwoods were properly horrified. I played to that, noted the old man paying closer attention than the others, who just wanted to be entertained.

I said, "So right now it looks like the only way to trace this monster is through his coach."

Everybody got it then. The whole gang got quiet and grim. All eyes turned to the old man. He considered me neutrally. "You suspect that coach came from my shop, Mr. Garrett?"

"I have no idea, Mr. Atwood. Playmate says you're the premier coachmaker in TunFaire. If it was built here, according to him, you're the only man with the talent to have built it."

"I expect so. Describe it again."

I did, recalling every possible detail.

The sons were less skilled than he at concealing their thoughts. I knew that coach had been built by Linden Atwood. The question was, would the man expose his buyer?

He would. "We delivered that coach, built to strict and exacting specifications, about three years back, Mr. Garrett. I do not believe in false humility. It was the finest coach ever built in TunFaire. I will accept responsibility for that, but I refuse any blame."

"Excuse me?"

One son muttered, "Damn thing's jinxed."

The old man glared. "Madame Tallia Lethe, wife and mother of the Icemasters Direfear, commissioned it. Three months after she took delivery, there was an accident. She fell. A wheel rolled over her head."

Oh, boy. "I knew we could get some big-time sorcerers into this." Karentine wizards mainly belong to the Elemental Schools: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. The Windmasters and Storm Wardens of the Air school are common, Firelords more so. There may be Earth schoolers elsewhere in Karenta, but none in TunFaire. Water-school types are almost as rare. "I didn't know we had any Icemasters here."

"We don't," the old man said. "The woman lived here. The Icemasters are dead, anyway. Crossbones Bight."

Ah. The big naval battle of the War. We got our Karentine asses kicked. Unfortunately for the Venageti, a naval triumph hadn't meant much strategically. "I see," I said, not seeing at all.

"Madame had no heirs. The estate passed to the Crown. The Crown agents auctioned everything. Lord Hellsbreath bought the coach."

There was a name to conjure nightmares.

The only Hellsbreath I recalled was no healthier than Madame Lethe. "He had some bad luck himself, right?"

"He was murdered. The assassin got away."

"He was in the coach when it happened," a son volunteered.

"Crossbow bolt right in the eye," another said. He demonstrated with enthusiastic gestures and sound effects.

"Then who got the coach?"

"Duchess of Suhnerkhan. Lady Hamilton."

I knew that one. "Does seem like it was unlucky." The King's great-aunt, Lady Hamilton, had decided to visit the family estate at Okcok. She hadn't bothered with an escort, though there'd been a full moon out. Werewolves had given her a fatal set of hickeys.

Linden Atwood grunted but conceded nothing.

"That was a year and a half ago. I guess it's changed hands a few more times?"

"No. Crown Prince Rupert brought it back to town and stored it in the coachhouse behind Lady Hamilton's town house. Far as I know, it hasn't been out since." The old man produced a pipe and pipeweed. He filled up, lit up, leaned back, closed his eyes, puffed, and thought. The clan waited quietly. I followed their lead. Playmate signaled for another round of the dark. On me, naturally.

The beer's arrival wakened Atwood. He tilted forward, drained half his mug, wiped foam with the back of a hand, belched, said, "I don't put no stock in this jinx stuff, Garrett." We were pals now. I'd bought him a beer. "But was I you, I'd be careful. Seems like everybody that gets near that coach gets dead." He frowned.

He didn't like that at all. What if word got out? What if people started thinking it was the coachmaker's fault?

"I'm not much on haunts and jinxes," I told him. "But if that coach is jinxed, you got any notion how come?"

"Beats the shit out of me." He guzzled the other half of his beer. "Shit happens. Sometimes it don't make no sense."

Playmate horned in. "Thanks, Mr. Atwood. Sure was good of you to talk to us." He nudged me with a knee, got up. I wondered why he was in a hurry, but I'd promised to follow his lead. I piled on my share of thanks and excused myself, followed Playmate into the rain.

"What was that? How come the run-out?"

"Atwood was getting glassy-eyed. In about a minute he was going to start in on his boys that didn't make it home from the Cantard. I thought you might want to get some sleep tonight."

"Oh."

"Yeah. You got to feel sorry for the guy. But that don't mean you got to go live in his hell with him. He's got to lay his own ghosts himself."

True. But I was surprised that Playmate thought so. I pulled my cloak tighter. There was enough wind to make the night cold.

"Past my bedtime, Garrett. Hope all that helped."

"You hope? Hell, it cracked the thing. All I need now is to find out who's been using that coach." And how hard could that be? I mean, the Crown Prince's duties included running Karentine internal security. The TunFaire Watch were one obscure arm of the many he oversaw. And if what Block said was true, the heat on the Watch had good old Rupert behind it.

"Come around more often, Garrett," Playmate said. "At least soon enough to let me know how this comes out." He strode off like he was late for a date with one of his mares. I stood absorbing some rain for a moment, startled, then shrugged. Playmate did these things. He didn't know he was being rude and unsociable.

What now?