The Deavys (11 page)

“Uncle Herkimer, this was published in 1869.”

“It was?” Taking the book, Herkimer squinted at the small print. “Dear me. Well, I don't get to bookstores much anymore. Or any other kind of stores, for that matter. What to do, what to do …” Resting his chin in his right hand (to keep his head from falling off) he pondered the conundrum for a moment, then nodded knowingly.

“I suppose you can go buy a current guidebook. Or download one. That might be best. Or even better, you can put any specific requests to Mr. Everywhere.”

Simwan made a face. “Mr. who?”

“Mr. Everywhere. Old friend of mine. Not dead. Just kind of immortal.”

Wondering how someone could be “kind of immortal,” Simwan thought rapidly. “He knows New York?”

Uncle Herkimer laughed. Though it was more of a deathly, hollow cough, there was no mistaking the genuine delight in it. “Mr. Everywhere knows New York, London, Rome—he's a wandering city boy, he is. Likes the fast life, the night life.” Moving to the desk, which dated from no later than the Federalist Period of American furniture, he put pencil to work on paper. “I'll give you directions on how to find him. Just tell him your interests and he'll tell you where to go and how to get to them.”

“For
any
place in New York?” Simwan's tone was hesitant as he continued to query his uncle.

“Anyplace,” Herkimer assured his nephew. “Anything you want to see, Mr. Everywhere will know about it.”

A hopeful Simwan watched his uncle's dead fingers wrestle with the recalcitrant pencil. If he and his sisters were lucky, maybe “anyplace” even included the hiding place of the Crub. It had better, he thought.

From the tone of Rose's conversation with their father, and while he did not want to add any more gloom to what was already a serious mission, it seemed to him that their mother might be running out of time.

IX

When he finally awoke and looked at his watch, which he had left facing him on the nightstand, Simwan was startled to see that it was already after eight o'clock in the morning. Recalling the gravity of his mother's condition and the need for speed, he blinked away reluctant sleep and started to sit up—only to be struck square in the face by something large, heavy, and relentless. It was followed by another of its kind, and another, all assaulting him with obvious intent to smother. Still only half awake, he fought back furiously. He relaxed his efforts only when the laughter started to penetrate his panic.

Irate, he flung out both arms and shouted “ALAMAK!” The heavy pillows, stuffed with feathers plucked from reluctant lyre-birds, were flung aside to reveal his mischievous two-and-a-half sisters already mostly dressed, drifting near the foot of his bed and laughing at him.

“Did you
see
his face?” Amber could hardly contain herself.

Rose was pointing. “Brother, you looked like the Crub itself was in bed with you!”

N/Ice, for her part, was laughing so hard she kept flashing in and out of existence.

“All right, all right. Very funny.” Trying (and failing) to ignore their laughter, he slid out of bed and starting jamming his legs into his pants. “Get yourselves together. We've got a long day ahead of us and no time to waste.”

Being male, it took him far less time to get ready than it did his sisters, so their considerable head start meant the four of them were all more or less prepared to leave at about the same time. They slipped out of the apartment quietly, not wanting to wake Herkimer or Señor Nutt. Simwan took charge of the apartment key their uncle had left out for them. Only Pithfwid had to be reminded to keep his voice down as they stepped out into the hall and started for the central stairwell.

When outside his carrier, the Deavy cat was obliged to travel on a leash lest his free-roaming presence upset some felinophobe Ord. Even though no leash or line could restrain or hold him if he wished otherwise, he resented even the appearance of such a restriction. Necessity, however, demanded that he bear indignity with dignity. Manhattan was not Clearsight, and its inhabitants held different feelings about the wisdom of letting animals run “loose.”

“Take it easy,” Simwan told him, gripping the leash a little tighter. “Slow down.”

Pithfwid complied, albeit reluctantly. “I just don't want anyone to get any wrong ideas about who is leading whom.”

It was on the second floor that they encountered the two dwarves and the leprechaun crossing the hall. The trio's attire differed as dramatically as did their appearance. All three looked to be about the same age, though with the leprechaun it was hard to tell.

“I'll bet he dyes his whiskers,” Amber whispered to N/Ice as she nodded in the direction of the stunted, green-clad, red-haired resident. In contrast, the two dwarves positively flaunted their graying tufts. They were dressed more casually, in jeans and cotton shirts. One wore a leather bomber jacket while his companion was clad in a more tasteful full-length winter coat. London Trog, Simwan guessed, having seen the attire advertised in one of the numerous odd magazines to which his parents subscribed.

“Top o' the mornin' to ye,” the leprechaun called out to the cluster of Deavys as they descended the stairs. “I heard old Herkimer had relatives a'visitin'.”

“Good day,” added the dwarf in the leather jacket politely. Lost deep in thought, his companion did not offer a greeting.

“Where are you off to?” N/Ice was nothing if not direct.

The dwarf pointed to the far end of the hall. “Number 2B. Waltzinger's place. It's our weekly poker game.”

Passing the Deavys, the fey trey reached the end of the hall. Glancing over his shoulder, Simwan could just see a massive, coal-black hand covered with rocklike nodules opening the door to apartment 2B. The treelike fingers gripped the door high up, near where it met the lintel, which made him wonder just how large the occupant of that particular apartment might be.

Though the day remained overcast with low clouds, it was amazing how quickly the light seemed to brighten once they had walked a couple of blocks from Uncle Herkimer's street. All of a sudden there were people everywhere: well-dressed men and women hurrying to and fro, teenagers traveling in small barking packs, children clinging onto the hands of their parents or nannies or older siblings, looking for all the world like commuters hanging onto the overhead straps inside a subway car.

Ords, all of them, Simwan saw. Ordinary people, living ordinary lives, ignorant of those who had access to special abilities and unique knowledge dwelling among them. Those like himself, and his sisters, and the cat leading them on his leash. He did his best to take the measure of everyone who passed him on the sidewalk. Though it was possible to overlook a non-Ord, it was uncommon. Finding themselves outside what appeared to be a nice, clean, inexpensive restaurant that served breakfast, Simwan led them in. It was busy, which he knew was a good sign. Much as the girls might dislike letting their big brother always take the lead, their mother had impressed on them how important it was for them to do so in order to mollify the cultural expectations of ignorant Ords.

“Four for breakfast, please,” he told the young woman in charge of seating customers.

She started to escort them to a table, then halted. “You can't bring that animal in here.” A finger pointed accusingly at Pithfwid.

It took an effort for the cat not to bristle angrily, much less hold back from turning the hostess into a newt. Instead, he walked up to her and began rubbing himself against her lower legs while purring like a smothered locomotive.

“Please?” pleaded Rose, making her eyes as big and limpid as possible. “We can't leave him outside. Somebody might try to take him.” (Pity the poor person who did, Simwan thought while keeping silent.) “We'll keep him under the table, out of sight. Nobody will see him, or hear him. He's very well behaved,” she added, concluding with a lie.

“Well …” Hesitating, the hostess looked around for her boss. “Pretty please?” added Amber, making her eyes as mirror-big as her sister's.

Abruptly, the hostess broke into a sympathetic smile. “Come with me, kids. Keep him between you.”

She led them to a table next to the long front window, where they could not only watch the endlessly fascinating foot traffic outside, but where Pithfwid could curl up against a wall and out of sight. Simwan, Rose, and Amber ordered omelets and toast and potatoes with onions while N/Ice opted for the waffles. Rose waved a menu in her sibling's face.

“What are you gonna put on waffles here, sis? This isn't home. There's no ambrosia. Just fake maple syrup.”

“I
like
fake maple syrup,” N/Ice countered. “I didn't expect ambrosia. I know it can't be like home cooking.”

It certainly was not, but the food that arrived sooner than expected was tasty and filling. Periodically reaching under the table, Simwan slipped Pithfwid samples from his own plate. A feline of wide-ranging tastes, Pithfwid was content to eat everything that was passed to him, from buttered toast to bits of egg.

When they had finished, Simwan examined the receipt, chose a pretreated bill from the wad in his wallet, spit on it, and passed it three times over the single gold denarius he always carried with him. It took a moment for the avuncular portrait of Benjamin Franklin to appear on the front of the newly enchanted bill. As soon as it had properly solidified, Franklin winked back at him from the face of the bill, then went quiescent.

Uncle Herkimer's instructions for finding Mr. Everywhere had been straightforward. Go down this street, find a place to have breakfast, then continue on to this place, turn right, walk so many blocks, and enter the designated subway entrance.

“But if he's everywhere,” Rose had speculated with her wonderful muddle of thoughtfulness and innocence, “why isn't he just here?”

“Even everywhere can't be everywhere at once,” Herkimer had explained. “Because if everywhere was everywhere, then there'd be no room for nowhere, and we know that nowhere has to be somewhere, now don't we?”

Rose had left it at that. The subway entrance their uncle had specified would have to suffice.

The stairs were narrow, busy, and no dirtier than they expected. Once below the surface, the omnipresent street noise was drowned out by the echoing clip-clop of many feet, the distant rise and fade of the rumbling subway, and a thickening of the atmosphere that was the result of hundreds of Ords exhaling heavily within a warm enclosed space.

Tiled walls lined with glassed-in advertising boxes split off into two corridors. After a moment's hesitation and a brief caucus, the Deavys chose the tunnel on their right. It soon opened up onto a platform fronting empty tracks. Several dozen commuters waited, sitting on benches and reading or standing and waiting for the next train (most Ords were already at work). The dark mouths of the train tunnel were visible to left and right. Across the tracks, other travelers awaited trains going in the opposite direction. An empty, boarded-up concession booth occupied the center of the platform.

“He's got to be here somewhere.” Amber was looking around restlessly, searching the platform and the benches. None of the people who were present looked like someone who could be everywhere.

“Uncle Herkimer said we'd know him when we saw him.” Rose had started up the platform, unobtrusively studying the faces of each commuter as she passed.

“That's not much of a description.” More solid than usual, N/Ice joined her sisters in scrutinizing the travelers.

They split up, wandering among the largely silent commuters, the girls covertly listening in on several of the stolid travelers who were wearing personal music playback devices in hopes of overhearing something new and interesting. Simwan's seeking was more restrained, constrained as he was by the need to keep track of Pithfwid. Fortunately, there were no other pets on the platform and therefore nothing with which the obstreperous Deavy cat could become embroiled.

Inordinately perceptive, the coubet identified insurance adjusters and office clerks, assistant chefs and oily mechanics, temp teachers and daydreaming librarians, but none who might qualify for the sobriquet Mr. Everywhere. When the next train stopped, everyone who had been waiting got on. Those who emerged shuffled in massed silence toward the two exits. Within moments, the platform was deserted. One by one, the next batch of southbound travelers wandered down to the platform from the street above. And still no sign of anyone who could be Mr. Everywhere.

Then Pithfwid's ears perked up. Not surprisingly, having far more sensitive hearing than any of his merely human companions, it was he who heard the music first.

Simwan felt a purposeful tug on the leash. “What's up?”

Glancing around and back, Pithfwid favored him with an urgent expression but said nothing. He couldn't, now that Ord commuters were repopulating the waiting platform. Simwan allowed himself to be led forward. Behind him, Rose saw what was happening and notified her sisters.

The music was coming from the far side of the tracks. They had to go down a flight of stairs, cross under the tracks, and come up on the other platform. The blank-faced commuters waiting on the opposite side were no different from those they had previously encountered. Only the music was new. It came from a banjo. This battered but still serviceable instrument was being plucked and strummed by a middle-aged man of dubious appearance and unsteady mien. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his back resting against another shuttered concession kiosk, a tattered floral cushion the only intermediary between his flat backside and the cold concrete. A smattering of coins and a couple of bills lay in the open instrument case lying in front of him. He was shorter than Simwan, shorter even than the girls, with jet-black curly hair exploding out from beneath a battered brown fedora and a tangle of a beard in which anything from lice to a small lemur could have been hiding. His brown jacket was open and unzipped to reveal a stained blue and white shirt, and there was a hole near the left cuff of his dark serge slacks.

At the moment, he was playing something wistful. From his music studies, Simwan recognized it as a traditional Bohemian folk lament better suited to a mandolin than a banjo. It seemed an odd selection for a subway busker. Focusing on his instrument, the short, swarthy figure concluded the dirge and effortlessly segued into a Mozart violin concerto. Simwan had never heard Mozart played on a banjo and suspected the man had fashioned the necessary transcription himself. Leaning over, Simwan spoke to the black cat on the leash.

“That him?”

For the nonce, there were no other commuters, or music lovers, nearby. Pithfwid glanced up and nodded confidently. “That's him.”

The coubet had gathered alongside their brother. “That's Mr. Everywhere?” Amber was unconvinced. “He doesn't look like much.”

“He's certainly not what I expected.” Rose frowned as she studied the cross-legged lump of human dishevelment.

“Definitely a letdown,” put in N/Ice for good measure.

“How do you know it's him?” Simwan whispered to the cat.

Raising a paw, Pithfwid pointed. “Several reasons. A number of astral axes align in his presence. He stinks of data. And lastly, I notice that his posterior is not actually in contact with that cushion.”

Blinking, Simwan crouched down as low as he could without drawing the curious attention of the commuters behind them. It was true: There was a gap of a millimeter or so between the busker's backside and the cushion he was nominally sitting upon.

They were soon standing close to the banjo picker as he shifted effortlessly from Mozart to Mahler. A bit of the
Erlicht
solo, Simwan noted. It was doubtful that Mahler had ever envisioned his sublime music being played on a banjo. Still the player did not look up. Reaching into her purse, Rose took out a coin and tossed it into the open instrument case. Maybe it was the arrival of the money that made the man finally stop playing and raise his gaze. Maybe it was the fact that the coin (albeit a small denomination) came from the original hoard of King Midas. Rheumy brown eyes blinked at them, traveling from coubet to cat to Simwan. Like oil dispersing on a wave, the corneas cleared even as Simwan met the player's gaze.