Handsome was a veteran.

The peg leg was a clue.

The war for control of the Cantard and its mines had gone on forever. It defined generations. It bound men together where they had nothing else in common.

‘‘You Corps?’’ I asked.

Handsome grunted an affirmative.

‘‘Me too.’’ He was way older so we had little else in common. But that was enough.

Two minutes after you start boot training they convince you that Marines are a separate and dramatically superior species. And once a Marine, always a Marine. Rah!

Marines are more family than most brothers and sisters. And so forth.

You never get over it, either.

We didn’t swap stories. You don’t do that, except maybe with the guys who were there with you.

Me bringing it up was as good as a secret handshake, though. Handsome became confidential. ‘‘I don’t believe they’s really no ghosts. That’s crap. I never heard no music, neither. An’ I been here since the start. Somebody’s pulling some shit, maybe, trying to fuck up the program. Maybe kids. They’s kids around all the time. One day gang-type kids, the next day kids that look like they run away from the Hill. But they’s plenty a’ fucking bugs, I guaroontee you that. Bugs you ain’t gonna believe till they climb your fucking leg.’’

‘‘Tell me about the bugs.’’

‘‘They’re big. And bold as cats. You go on in there, cap. Prowl around. Won’t be that long afore you see.’’ He stepped aside.

No one else challenged my right to visit the site.

Actually, no one seemed to give a rat’s whisker, one way or another. Everybody but Handsome was trying to get some construction done.

I went inside. It was warm in there. I saw no obvious reason why.

My familiarity with the theater phenomena was limited. I went to a passion play once with a lost girlfriend, way back. Twice recently I’d gone with Tinnie, to a comedy and a tragedy, both historicals based on rulers from Imperial times. Neither play impressed me.

Interior work on the World was just getting started. Most of the planking meant to become ground-level flooring remained to be pegged into place. No seating or stages or walls had gone up yet. A couple of carpenters pegged away. I strolled over. One worked an augur. The other sanded the head of a peg just driven into place. I peered into the lower-level gloom. ‘‘What’s the plan for ventilation down there?’’

The carpenters looked like brothers separated by five years. The elder said, ‘‘I’m a carpenter, chief. You want to know something like that, ask the friggin’ architect.’’

The other said, ‘‘Don’t mind this asshole. He married my sister. She sucked the nice out of him years ago.’’

Not brothers, then. The sister must be a walking disaster zone, she had a brother who talked like that.

The younger continued. ‘‘They’ll be louvered iron windows that can be adjusted from inside. And a stack in the center that’s supposed to draw hot, stale air.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’

Something brown scooted through the lower murk.

Carpenter the Elder failed to object to his companion’s remarks. I assumed the crab-and-grin was a regular act.

Another something moved downstairs. Followed by a bunch of somethings. Rats? ‘‘You guys seen any ghosts?’’

‘‘Say what?’’

‘‘Ghosts. Old Man Weider said you construction guys can’t stay on schedule on account of ghosts and bugs.’’

The crabby carpenter whacked a peg into place with a wooden mallet. ‘‘I heard the same shit, slick. ButI ain’t never seen no spooks. Bugs, though? Shit. Yeah. We got them fuckers out the wazoo. Some a’ them big enough to rape a dog.’’

‘‘Not mosquitoes, I hope.’’ In the islands we’d joked about the skeeters being so big they’d hang you in the trees so they could snack on you later.

‘‘Nah. They’s cock-a-roaches, mainly. I seen some ugly beetles, too. Shit! Lookit! There’s one right over there.’’ He threw his mallet. He missed. The mallet bounced all the way to the wall. Which I noted only in passing. Because I was looking at the biggest goddamned roach that ever lived. And the fastest thing on six feet that I ever saw.

It wasn’t big enough to rape a dog. Not even one of those little yappy fur balls favored by old women on the Hill. ‘‘Holy shit!’’ That son of a bitching bug had to be eight inches long. There wasn’t anything like that native to TunFaire.

I begged, ‘‘Tell me that wasn’t a baby.’’

‘‘Nope.’’ That was the carpenter who wasn’t busy retrieving his mallet. ‘‘That was the biggest one I ever seen. But they keep getting bigger. We kill as many as we can. Old Man Weider needs to get somebody in here that knows what they’re doing.’’

‘‘He got me instead.’’

‘‘Kind of takes the optimism out, don’t it?’’

What the hell? This guy didn’t even know me and he was piling on. ‘‘I’ll be back.’’

‘‘That a threat or a promise, chief?’’

‘‘Pick your poison.’’

I took a meandering route home. A little south of the direct route. I stopped by Playmate’s smithy and stable. Before he could start carping I told him, ‘‘I need to rent a coach. Tomorrow. Big enough for four people and fifty rats. I’ll need a driver, too.’’

‘‘Rent?’’ He sounded skeptical.

‘‘You always get paid.’’

‘‘Thanks to Pular Singe.’’

Playmate skeptical is a vision. Because he’s a big black human house. Three hundred pounds, every ounce muscle. A slow-talking, fierce-looking sweetheart of a guy. So soft he’s squishy on the inside. A religious sort fully stuffed up with homilies about turning cheeks. He oozes unwarranted faith in the innate goodness of mankind.

My experience suggests the opposite. The species is naturally wicked. People just fake it till opportunity crosses their bows. Only rare, twisted souls and random mutations, like Playmate, rise above the muck.

And Playmate is no fanatic. He’ll turn the other one only once. Then he’ll bring the hammer down. If you’re obviously a bad guy, you won’t get the once.

He stared and went right on not understanding. ‘‘You’re volunteering to pay for use of a coach? Up front?’’

‘‘This is unbecoming. How long have we been friends?’’

‘‘I don’t remember. Five minutes, back when we were kids?’’

‘‘Wiseass. That’s the attitude that . . . Like I said, when did I ever not pay you?’’

‘‘Not once,’’ he admitted. ‘‘Since you’ve had Dean Creech and the Dead Man to keep you honest. And Singe to keep your books.’’

‘‘And before that, one time, you had to wait a couple days till I tracked down a client who tried to stiff me.’’

‘‘Let’s forget it. We’re all even now.’’

One thing about Play, lately. His sense of humor is severely diminished. And he isn’t very patient.

I worry that he may be suffering chronic pain, or something.

‘‘I’ve just gotten a major commission from Max Weider. He gave me a free hand. The job should be calm, cool, peaceful, and profitable. I almost feel guilty about getting paid for doing it.’’

Playmate slapped both hands onto his butt. ‘‘Where did I leave my chain-mail underwear?’’

‘‘Come on, man! It’s a walk. There aren’t even any damsels in distress. Just Tinnie Tate, Alyx Weider, and a couple of their friends who’re scared their theater won’t open on time.’’

‘‘That actually makes sense,’’ Play said when I told him what I meant to do. ‘‘It’s not the usual Garrett leap into the middle of things, flailing around till you’re the last one standing.’’

My methods are more sophisticated than that. Sometimes.

‘‘You going over to The Palms now?’’

‘‘Say what?’’

‘‘Your standard routine would be, go sucker Morley next.’’

He was speaking of my good friend, the half dark elf vegetarian restaurateur Morley Dotes. The semiretired bad guy. ‘‘Not this time. John Stretch, Singe, Melondie Kadare, maybe, and a lot of rats. Plus a coach to haul them in. I won’t even bother the Dead Man. It’ll be heroics on a budget.’’