Tinnie spotted her, too. ‘‘Hey. There’s Penny. I’m going to—’’

‘‘No. She don’t want anything to do with us anymore. Except for His Nibs. And Dean, because she can mooch a meal off him.’’

Tinnie didn’t believe me. But she didn’t argue. She’d had a premonition that Alyx would turn up during festivities at the World. She wasn’t going to let her main guy go into danger that fierce without moral backup. The word ‘‘danger’’ being spelled ‘‘temptation.’’

My backup was about to get her back up. But Singe breezed out and helped herself to the next to last seat in Playmate’s coach. It took my favorite redhead a hundredth of a second to assess the situation and make sure that the last seat didn’t go to waste.

This early worm was going to get some unwanted exercise. ‘‘Story of my life,’’ I grumbled.

Tinnie gave me a dark look, followed by one of her blinding smiles.

Lucky for me, the wagons didn’t roll fast.

Unlucky for everyone else, the wagons didn’t roll fast. We had time to acquire a patina of curious urchins. Saucerhead, trudging along beside me, grumbled, ‘‘You’d think we were some kind of circus, or something.’’

Or something. ‘‘Been a long winter.’’

Our entertainment value faded once we got to the World. The ratfolk took their cages and baskets and went inside. Then nothing happened.

An hour later, Singe reported, ‘‘It seems to be working.’’

It might be, but before I left the house I’d seen Joe Kerr and had gotten a backup plan running. Here it came now, in the form of a goat cart pulled by a pygmy troll named Rocky. Rocky’s family were all midgets, the tallest not going more than six feet. They’re unobtrusive, rock-solid, foundation-type royal subjects who specialize in chemical supplies for sorcerers, physicians, apothecaries, and anyone else whose coin has a shine on it. He was delivering twenty pounds of powdered sulfur that I meant to fire up as soon as John Stretch was done for the day.

Rocky presented a flour sack leaking whiffs of fine yellow powder. I gave him several pieces of silver. He grunted, ‘‘Good,’’ in a voice so deep it seemed like part of an earthquake. He started moving again. Slowly.

Trolls don’t need to hurry. They don’t have to run away, they don’t have to catch, they have no need to get anywhere right now.

Earlier during the wait I’d taken a turn around the World site. I hadn’t seen a soul, workman or watchman, nor the city employees who had been there yesterday. No place ought to be that deserted. TunFaire abhors a vacuum. If no one else was around, thieves should’ve been trying to find something worth carting off.

Saucerhead had noticed. ‘‘They’s something weird going on here, Garrett.’’

‘‘No shit.’’ I set the sack of sulfur down out of traffic.

‘‘You hear music?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘I thought I heard music a minute ago.’’

One of John Stretch’s pals headed our way. Lugging a beetle as big as a lamb. He didn’t editorialize; he just dropped the monster when I didn’t offer to take it. He headed back to the wars.

Most of the gallery had wandered away. A few kids still hung around in hopes of finding a pocket to pick. But when that bug hit the cobblestones you could feel the shock start to radiate at the speed of rumor.

TunFaire would be in a panic before sunset.

‘‘Yeah, right,’’ Saucerhead said when I started to worry out loud. ‘‘Like the time you got into it with that clutch of weird gods. All anybody cared about was the snow.’’

He had a point. Strange stuff happens. People shrug it off unless it happens to them.

Rather than panicking, my fellow subjects would likely come bury the World in bodies, hoping to see something novel.

Playmate said, ‘‘Hey, Garrett, whack that thing with something. It ain’t dead.’’

It lay on its back. Its legs were twitching. Its wings, ditto. Then it stopped struggling. It seemed to be assessing its situation.

‘‘Garrett!’’

It flipped. It faced me. Big brown jaw things clacked.

It charged.

I delivered a masterful spinning kick. After which I deposited the opposite side of my lap on the cobblestones. A snicker came from the coach, where my sweetie was evading the weather.

The bug smacked into the coach’s big back wheel. The hub did some damage. The bug fell, shuddered, and expired.

‘‘Maybe less dangerous than they look.’’

I’m not big on reasoning this stuff out, but I figure bugs naturally come the size that’s best for them. Which meant the normal vermin crop are exactly the right size.

So, back to the mad sorcerer notion.

19

‘‘Mr. Garrett?’’

A kid had come up behind me. ‘‘Kip Prose! How are you?’’ I hadn’t seen him for a while. He’d grown, though he was still barely a mouse breath more than five feet. His blond hair was longer and wilder, his eyes bluer and crazier. His waist was more substantial. His freckles were more numerous. He did a better job of holding still, but broke into sudden, brief fits of scratching and twitching. Wealth hadn’t changed him inside.

Cypres Prose is the strangest kid I ever met. He has three redeeming qualities. Two any man can see at a glance. A gorgeous mother, Kayne Prose. And an older sister, Cassie Doap, who makes Mom look dowdy. The third quality is less obvious: the boy is a screaming genius. Of no special ambition, but with ideas that could make a lot of people rich. Maybe including me.

I have that small interest in the manufactory producing three-wheels, writing sticks, and other innovations sprung from Kip Prose’s twisted brain. I have the points because I found the genius, kept him alive, and put him together with people who have the money and space to create a manufacturing concern. The Weiders and the Tates.

‘‘I’m doing quite well, Mr. Garrett. And yourself?’’

I was suspicious immediately. Be abidingly suspicious of any teenage male who is mannerly, respectful, and absent attitude.

That kid is up to something. Guaranteed.

Kip wasn’t alone. Two friends, of a similarly weird appearance, had stayed across the street. They pretended no interest in what was going on.

Definitely suspicious.

Tinnie is a clever judge of people. When she bothers. Usually she deploys her skills against me alone. She made an exception here. ‘‘And how is your mother? And your sister, Cassie?’’ She turned on the flaming redheaded heat, guaranteed to send Kip into cardiac arrest, turn him to gelatin, and make him speak in tongues with vocabularies of one syllable.

Kip chirped like a frog. Once.

Tinnie got very close to him.

Kip knew who she was. One of those black widow fantasy women from the Tate tribe. He’d seen her around the manufactory. No doubt she’d imprinted herself on his libidinous consciousness.

It’s bad enough when that wicked wench turns it on to an old jade like me. It’s fish in a barrel, targeting a repressed boy Cypres Prose’s age.

‘‘Oh, that’s good,’’ I said. ‘‘You fried his brain. How do I get anything out of him now?’’ Kip’s friends, I noted, were not pleased, either.

‘‘What do you want to know? Maybe I’ll ask.’’

‘‘All right. But afterward I’m going to drive a stake through your heart.’’

‘‘That’s a straight line I could play with for . . . a minute or two.’’

‘‘Promises, promises.’’

Kip resumed breathing.

Tinnie told me, ‘‘You don’t want to know about his mother or sister. When I snap my fingers you will forget he has a mother or sister.’’Snap!

‘‘Yes, master. I have no interest in the welfare of absent beautiful women. But now I know how you cast your spell on me.’’

That earned me a nasty look. I survived it and worse consequences because Kip’s eyes rolled back down. He began speaking actual words.

I asked, ‘‘What the hell are you doing down here, Kip?’’