I gave the automatic response of every guy who ever made it back from a war when most soldiers didn't. "Sure they did. They got out alive."

If you check the men in the street, particularly in the rightsist freecorps, almost every one bears some physical memento. And beyond the outside scars there are still suppurating wounds of mind and soul. And those affect our rulers as well as the least man among us.

You won't find a duke or stormwarden crouching in a filthy alleyway trying to exorcise his memories with wine or weed but up on the Hill, or out in the manors, the great families have locked doors behind which they conceal their own casualties. Like Tom Weider.

You don't hear about that in histories or sagas. They whoop up the glory and forget the horror and pain. The Dead Man assures me that all histories, whether official or oral, bear only coincidental resemblance to actual events—which few principals considered to be history in the making at the time.

Belinda said, "You used to be a lighthearted guy, Garrett. A little cynical, yeah, but it's hard not to be cynical nowadays. What happened to the wisecracks?"

"Darling, a wise man once told me each of us is allowed only so many wisecracks. Then life stops. That's how he explained there being so many sour old farts. I've only got one smart-ass crack left. I'm saving it. Which means that for the next four or five hundred years I'm going to be a sour old fart, too."

Her sense of humor was underdeveloped. She didn't get it. Or just didn't appreciate it. "You making fun of me?"

"No. Never. Just ringing changes on something an old-timer did tell me when I was a kid. This guy was so ancient he could remember when Karenta wasn't at war with Venageta."

"A human?"

"Yeah. I said he was old."

Dwarves and elves and some other species hang around as long as the Loghyr, given sufficient good luck. In fact, elves claim to be immortal. But even the Dead Man isn't sure about that. He hasn't been around long enough to see one never get killed.

Stories about elven immortality come from the same myth cycle that tells us that if you con a dwarf into coming out of his mine in the daytime or riddle a troll into staying up past sunrise they'll turn to stone. Word to the wise. Don't bet your life. Don't bet your favorite cockroach. You'll find out what that red stuff is between trolls' toes.

Sure, you don't see many trolls on the daytime streets of TunFaire but that's because trolls don't like cities. Things move too fast. But if you insist on looking for trolls, be sure you don't get trampled by all the dwarves trying to separate humans from their money, day or night.

I continued, "This old man was a real storyteller. Tall tales. I wish somebody had written them down. He claimed he was so old because there was one last joke that Death came and told you and he hadn't heard it yet."

"My father used to say that."

"Chodo?"

"Yeah. Really. Maybe he knew the same old man." She became the cold, hard Belinda I'd come to regret.

"Someday you have to tell me what it was like being Chodo's kid."

"What?"

"Most of the time I like you. But whenever you even remotely connect with your father you go all cold and spooky." The coach stopped. I shut my yap, peeked between curtains. "We're here. Without any trouble."

Two Toes dismounted and came to the coach door. "One minute," Belinda told him. "Garrett, sometimes I'm halfway in love with you. Most of the time I'm not. You treat me decent. I like that. But we can't ever go anywhere. I can't always control the part of me that you don't like. If you shoot your mouth off when I'm out of control... "

I hadn't thought she could see it herself. As always, Belinda insisted on being a surprise.

Two Toes helped her down. He worshipped the ground she stalked on. And she didn't notice.

One of those sad songs.

Two Toes gave me a look that said I'd better treat her right.

Manvil Gilbey was out with the hirelings making sure no great unwashed types penetrated the perimeter. "Glad you're here, Garrett. I'm getting nervous. They started arriving before we were halfway ready." He checked Belinda. He was impressed. "I am amazed, young woman. What could such a lovely creature possibly see in this battered rogue?"

"Gilbey?" I asked. "Is that really you?"

He winked as he took my invitation. I wondered if they were keeping count. He said, "We assumed you'd pair off with Miss Tate."

"Life is chock-full of surprises."

"I believe Miss Tate planned along those lines."

I didn't doubt it for a second. "I'm ready for her." Right. "Can we gossip later? I want to check all the arrangements for myself."

"Of course. I just wanted you to realize that the situation could become complex."

He was rubbing me the wrong way and I didn't know why. "Look, this isn't important now." Maybe it was having to face Tinnie. "My partner felt I should bring the lady along. Because of the other guests likely to appear." I didn't dare proclaim my date as being queen of the underworld.

Gilbey was disinclined to quibble. Neither did he satisfy me that he'd made any outstanding effort to protect the Weiders.

I had cause to be touchy. I was descending into a cone of trouble where the secret police, the rightsists, the Outfit, Glory Mooncalled, and maybe even the business community might want to roll rocks down on me.

"Have a wonderful evening, Garrett. Miss, I'm sure the Weider family will be honored that you choose to share their joy."

Manvil could lay it on with a trowel. And Belinda could make a determined holy celibate regret his vows. Gilbey certainly looked like he had suffered a stunning recollection of what women were all about. He had trouble looking at anyone but Belinda for the next several minutes.

Inside the doorway stood Gerris Genord. Genord had a voice like a thunderstorm. He refused to let me sneak in unnoticed. He announced, as though the end of the world was imminent and it was critical that everyone knew, "MR. GARRETT AND MISS CONTAGUE." Genord was the Weiders' majordomo. I did not like him. He sneered at me. I did not belong in this society. I suppose my chances of getting inside unnoticed with Belinda along were as likely as those of the Crown cutting taxes because the war was over.

We were early, though, so only a small horde heard Genord's bellows.

The Goddamn Parrot made his entrance separately, sneakily. Wearing a parrot to a betrothal ball might be considered a lapse of etiquette.

We got down the steps all right but didn't make it twenty feet farther before I got pinned in the cold-eyed crossfire of Tinnie Tate and Alyx Weider. Tinnie was closer. I shifted course. Best get the worst over now.

I ignored Tinnie's expression. "I've got a letter for you from an old gentleman you know better than I do."

The Goddamn Parrot plopped onto my shoulder. So much for good form. He said, "Read it, Pretty Legs. Bust his head later."

Tinnie gaped. I wondered if I shouldn't have read the letter before I let her have it.

Dean transcribed it for the Dead Man—after I promised not to peek. Belinda glowered because I gave it to Tinnie. Tinnie—and Alyx and everyone else with eyes as good as a mole's—eyeballed Belinda in her vampiric heat and wondered. Frumpy Garrett faded from their awareness, though wearing one of Tad's outfits I was as spiffy as I've ever gotten.

Well, I didn't want to be noticed, did I? Not in my line.

Tinnie read. Tinnie gave me the fish-eye. Tinnie cold-eyed Belinda. Tinnie glared at me some more. The Goddamn Parrot cleared his throat. I got his head in a one-hand squeeze before he made things worse. He flapped and squawked but didn't get any rocks dropped on my bean.