Which made sense. I’d get an employee roster if the case dragged on.

It shouldn’t. Though Handsome’s death could be a complication.

Time passed. We talked about the war. Git had done his five in the Corps, too. He hadn’t heard of me there—or here, either—but he’d heard of my outfit.

I did remember to ask what became of Handsome’s remains. In case I wanted a look later. They had him over at the Al-Khar, for now.

Saucerhead grunted, ‘‘Singe is coming.’’

Playmate added, ‘‘She don’t look happy, Garrett.’’

She didn’t. Sufficient unto the moment the ferocity thereof. I said, ‘‘Over there on that pillar by where they found the dead guy. There’s a mark the tin whistles missed. Take a look and tell me what you think.’’

‘‘What’s up?’’ I asked Singe.

‘‘We need more rats.’’

‘‘Huh? They must’ve brought a hundred.’’

‘‘But not enough, John says. Not nearly enough. He needs some boxes, too.’’

‘‘We can handle that. I saw some around here yesterday. What for?’’

‘‘To put the evidence in. So you will believe him when he tells you what he has found.’’

‘‘All right. Let’s see if those boxes are still where I saw them.’’ Or if somebody creative had snagged them.

Saucerhead said, ‘‘Hang on, Garrett. You was right. Good eye. It’s a gang symbol. I don’t know what one. Whoever made it musta done it with a really dull knife. That had blood on it. You can see little specks where it dried. Come here.’’

I went. Playmate was down on his knees studying the pavement stones. Tharpe showed me the blood. I asked Singe, ‘‘What’s your nose have to tell us?’’

She sniffed for a few seconds. ‘‘Fear. I think they probably beat him before they stabbed him. There were several of them. Maybe as many as ten. Very unclean. But almost nothing more can be told because of the smell left by the bugs who came to eat him.’’

‘‘You wouldn’t be able to track the killers?’’

‘‘No. Because there are too many smells.’’

Often a problem for her in this city. ‘‘Head, Play, how about you guys tell the tin whistles while Singe and I get the boxes for John Stretch?’’

We weren’t twenty steps away when Singe murmured, ‘‘They are talking about you.’’ She meant my pals and the red tops.

‘‘I’m sure they’re deciding what a right guy I am for not holding back what we found. Around behind these pillars. There were six or eight boxes that building stuff came in. They were probably saving them to put other stuff in.’’

They were there, no longer neatly piled. ‘‘We might not . . . What is it?’’ Singe had stopped. Her whiskers were twitching.

‘‘Call those Guards.’’

I got it. ‘‘Bank. Git. Come here. We’ve got another one.’’ They arrived. Bank asked, ‘‘What?’’

‘‘Singe is a tracker. A pro. She smells something under those boxes.’’

Behind was where it lay. A corpse. ‘‘Careful. Don’t bust the boxes. We need them.’’

‘‘You want them, you get them out of here.’’

I got in and got, passing the boxes back to Singe.

Git said, ‘‘This one’s been here a while.’’

‘‘Lucky it ain’t summer,’’ Bank said. ‘‘You. Garrett. Take a look. See if you know this guy.’’

I looked. Could’ve been anybody. The clothing was what every squatter in TunFaire wore. Rags.

It was not clear, even, that the corpse was male.

Half the flesh was missing. Chunks hadn’t been carved out or torn off. It was more like bits the size of gravel had been snipped away. Thousands of bits. ‘‘Here.’’ Git pushed something with his toe, out where we could all see.

A dead beetle. The little sister of the bug from the day before. Five inches long, black, with a horn and pincers on the business end.

‘‘Holy shit,’’ Saucerhead said from behind me, in soft awe. ‘‘Lookit the size of that sucker.’’

‘‘Yeah. Wow,’’ Playmate added.

‘‘There are lots more inside,’’ Singe told us. ‘‘That is why John wants the boxes.’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ Tharpe said. ‘‘You guys hand a couple of them back here. Me an’ Play will carry them in.’’

I didn’t talk him out of volunteering, but I did say, ‘‘When you’re done with that, help Git and Bank look for gang sign. Though this don’t look like what Handsome’s thing was.’’ Then I said, ‘‘I’ve seen something like this before.’’ As Git and Bank dragged the body into the open. ‘‘In the islands. Soldier ants did it.’’

The Guards kicked more dead bugs around. Git said, ‘‘This guy was alive when they got him. He fought.’’

Bank grunted. ‘‘He crawled in here to get out of the weather. They hit him when he was sleeping.’’

I edged closer. Old Bones would want every detail. Including the stink. ‘‘Where’s all the blood?’’ There should have been blood everywhere.

‘‘Down some bug’s gullet,’’ Git said. ‘‘Bugs got gullets? How do they work?’’

‘‘Got me,’’ Bank said. ‘‘Gonna need some big boots to squish these bastards.’’

Singe said, ‘‘Garrett, you need to come inside.’’

Saucerhead and Playmate had boxes and were waiting. I grabbed one myself, toddled after the band.

The ratmen had gathered about where I’d talked to the carpenters before. Wicker cages surrounded them. John Stretch’s henchrats were scared. My dull human nose could smell it.

John Stretch said, ‘‘This is bigger than it looks, Garrett.’’ Producing some odor himself. ‘‘We need many more rats than we brought.’’

‘‘Why’s that?’’

‘‘Because there are so many bugs. And because they are fighting back. No. That is not right. They do not think. Less so, even, than the beasts I am using to kill them. But they are not afraid. They are eating my rats. And each other, when the rats dispatch them.’’

Good word choice, Pound Humility. ‘‘Dispatch.’’ Very neutral.

‘‘There are a lot of bugs, then.’’

‘‘Thousands. And the ones that have surfaced are the smallest.’’

‘‘Ouch! That’s not good.’’

‘‘Very much not good. I would like to withdraw now, see what I can learn from the surviving rats, and develop a more definitive strategy.’’

And renegotiate, no doubt. After flinging around a few more big words borrowed from Singe.

Saucerhead squeaked, jumped, snarled, ‘‘Holy fucking camel snot!’’

A bull rat who looked like the undisputed heavyweight champion barbarian hero of all ratkind had just dropped a gift at our feet, then collapsed from exhaustion.

The bug was some kind of tropical exotic beetle, all shimmering oily shine on a deep background of dark green, indigo, and black. A foot long. Still twitching. But it had been conquered by the hero.

Other rats began to arrive. Each brought a prize. John Stretch’s buddies tossed bugs into boxes and pushed rats into cages. Even the heavyweight hero seemed happy to be locked up safe. All his savagery had been spent.

I said, ‘‘I’ll see Old Man Weider before we take any next step. Singe. John Stretch. Go back to my place. Fill the Dead Man in. If he hasn’t fallen asleep. Saucerhead. You’re on the payroll. Retainer rate for now. Play. Keep a coach handy. It may take an even bigger . . .’’

I looked to John Stretch. ‘‘You sort of know what the critters found down there. Right?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Is this method workable?’’

‘‘Probably. But it will be a strain. It will require many more rats. They burn out. Most of these will refuse to go down again.’’

‘‘Singe. I smell a business opportunity.’’

‘‘Again? I still have not worked out how to exploit the last one.’’ She meant taking advantage of ratfolks’ high tolerance for boredom by using them to copy books. Most had trouble developing the necessary fine motor skills. ‘‘What is it?’’

‘‘We could get ratpeople work clearing the rats out of places. Ratters are expensive.’’

She and John Stretch looked fiercely uncomfortable.

‘‘I say something wrong?’’

Singe shrugged. ‘‘John Stretch is the only one who can command the rats. And they have to be willing to listen.’’