"He looks like other people," Depape said. "What do you mean?"
"I don't hardly know." Depape looked embarrassed and bewildered... but dogged, too. Sticking to his guns. "We only talked five minutes in all, but once I looked at him and thought it was the old bastard from Ritzy - the one I shot. Little bit later I th'ow him a glance and think, 'Hellfire, it's my old pa standin there.' Then that went by, too, and he looked like himself again."
"And how's that?"
"You'll see for yourself, I reckon. I don't know if you'll like it much, though."
Jonas stood with one batwing pushed open, thinking. "Roy, 'twasn't Farson himself, was it? The Good Man in some sort of disguise?" Depape hesitated, frowning, and then shook his head. "No." "Are you sure? We only saw him the once, remember, and not close-to." Latigo had pointed him out. Sixteen months ago that had been, give or take.
"I'm sure. You remember how big he was?"
Jonas nodded. Farson was no Lord Perth, but he was six feet or more, and broad across at both brace and basket.
"This man's Clay's height, or less. And he stays the same height no matter who he looks like." Depape hesitated a moment and said: "He laughs like a dead person. 1 could barely stand to hear him do it."
"What do you mean, like a dead person?"
Roy Depape shook his head. "Can't rightly say."
13
Twenty minutes later, Eldred Jonas was riding beneath come in peace mid into the courtyard of Seafront, uneasy because he had expected Latigo . . . and unless Roy was very much mistaken, it wasn't Latigo he was getting.
Miguel shuffled forward, grinning his gummy old grin, and took the reins of Jonas's horse.
"Reconocimiento."
"Por nada, jefe."
Jonas went in, saw Olive Thorin sitting in the front parlor like a forlorn ghost, and nodded to her. She nodded back, and managed a wan smile.
"Sai Jonas, how well you look. If you see Hart - "
"Cry your pardon, lady, but it's the Chancellor I've come to see," Jonas said. He went on quickly upstairs toward the Chancellor's suite of rooms, then down a narrow stone hall lit (and not too well) with gas-jets.
When he reached the end of the corridor, he rapped on the door waiting there - a massive thing of oak and brass set in its own arch. Rimer didn't care for such as Susan Delgado, but he loved the trappings of power; that was what took the curve out of his noodle and made it straight. Jonas rapped.
"Come in, my friend," a voice - not Rimer's - called. It was followed by a tittery laugh that made Jonas's flesh creep. He laughs like a dead person, Roy had said.
Jonas pushed open the door and stepped in. Rimer cared for incense no more than he cared for the hips and lips of women, but there was incense burning in here now - a woody smell that made Jonas think of court at Gilead, and functions of state in the Great Hall. The gas-jets were turned high. The draperies - purple velvet, the color of royalty, Rimer's absolute favorite - trembled minutely in the breath of sea breeze coming in through the open windows. Of Rimer there was no sign. Or of anyone else, come to that. There was a little balcony, but the doors giving on it were open, and no one was out there.
Jonas stepped a little farther into the room, glancing into a gilt-framed mirror on the far side to check behind him without turning his head. No one there, either. Ahead and to the left was a table with places set for two and a cold supper in place, but no one in either chair. Yet someone had spoken to him. Someone who'd been directly on the other side of the door, from the sound. Jonas drew his gun.
"Come, now," said the voice which had bid him enter. It came from directly behind Jonas's left shoulder. "No need for that, we're all friends here. All on the same side, you know."
Jonas whirled on his heels, suddenly feeling old and slow. Standing there was a man of medium height, powerfully built from the look of him, with bright blue eyes and the rosy cheeks of either good health or good wine. His parted, smiling lips revealed cunning little teeth which must have been filed to points - surely such points couldn't be natural. He wore a black robe, like the robe of a holy man, with the hood pushed back. Jonas's first thought, that the fellow was bald, had been wrong, he saw. The hair was simply cropped so stringently that it was nothing but fuzz.
"Put the beanshooter away," the man in black said. "We're friends here, I tell you - absolutely palsy-walsy. We'll break bread and speak of many things - oxen and oil-tankers and whether or not Frank Sinatra really was a better crooner than Der Bingle."
"Who? A better what?"
"No one you know; nothing that matters." The man in black tittered again. It was, Jonas thought, the sort of sound one might expect to hear drifting through the barred windows of a lunatic asylum.