The Broken Bell

by Frank Tuttle

“New aqueduct.” I wasn’t about to start spilling any of the Corpsemaster’s beans in public.

  “They’re building it at night?”

  “Easier to work the iron in the dark. Can you wait right here? I’d like to get a closer look.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  I closed the cab’s door and sauntered toward the bustle.

  I don’t know what exactly my intention was. Maybe I was just delaying going home because going home meant lying awake and remembering the hurt on Darla’s face.

  Come to think of it, that’s probably correct. Maybe I was remembering that hurt even then, which is why I didn’t notice someone had fall into step beside me.

  “Good evening, Captain.”

  I’d never have known it was the Corpsemaster save for the bemused tone and the oh-so-faint trace of an accent I’d never managed to place.

  What body she was wearing was a mystery. She was clad toe to crown in a plain black robe. The cowl left face in shadow. Her hands were concealed by black gloves.

  There was no odor, no buzzing of corpseflies. For all I know, she was out and about in her own flesh and blood. It’s not the sort of thing one asks.

  “Good evening, Corpsemaster.” I nodded toward the construction. “It seems to be going well.”

  She sighed. “We are at least eight days behind schedule, and nearly a hundred thousand crowns over budget. At this site alone.”

  I shook my head in silent commiseration.

  “What brings you out, Captain? Not that I’m displeased to see you taking an interest in our efforts.”

  “Working a case. Thought I’d swing by here and have a look.” I stopped and squinted into the magelamps. “People are going to start talking about this pretty soon.”

  She just shrugged. “Talk is the least of my worries. Do you know of a place called Ringor?”

  “North of Prince, isn’t it? Big lumber exporter.”

  “There are indications they have allied with Prince. It seems someone has produced an heir to the Old Kingdom.”

  “Again?”

  She chuckled. “As you say. Again.” She kicked at a loose cobblestone with the tip of a shiny, black boot. “Why are people so eager to revive the very monarchy that nearly cost us the war and drove the Kingdom into chaos and poverty?”

  “Human nature. Live and don’t learn, that’s us.” I spied the Corpsemaster’s horseless carriage making its way slowly toward us, fading in and out as it passed beneath street lamps and magelights. I tensed, wondering if I’d been drawn to the site by her, if I was about to be whisked away to a place where the sun was too bright and the day was too long.

  “At ease, Captain. I have no plans to spirit you away.” She turned toward me, and I saw the briefest flash of a weary smile before the shadow of her cowl swallowed it up. “You are free to go home. If, of course, you can stay out of jail for an entire night.”

  I dropped my fool jaw open but no words came out.

  “Oh, come now. There is little that goes on in Rannit of which I am unaware. And you need not fear my interference in your private matters. I will only meddle with such if and when I am asked.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Although it won’t do for my officers to be arrested with any degree of regularity. I do ask that you keep your brushes with the Watch to a minimum.”

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  The horseless carriage drew up behind us. The corpse that sat atop it was more skeleton than flesh. His stovepipe hat set well below the empty eye sockets.

  The Corpsemaster clambered aboard without a farewell, and the black carriage surged away, whip cracking at mounts that weren’t there.

  All around me, workers turned away, pointedly not meeting my gaze.

  I turned away from the lights, and found my cabman dozing, and set about for home at last.

  I even dozed on the way. I was awakened by the cab slowing abruptly and the cabman soothing his ponies with soft clicks of his tongue.

  “Bit of a fire up ahead,” he called.

  I was instantly awake. I opened the door a crack to get my bearings.

  The cab was maybe half a block from home. I could plainly smell the smoke.

  I leaped down onto the sidewalk, nearly breaking a leg, but I stayed upright and broke into a run.

  The door on fire was mine.

  By the time I got there, the flames were taller than the top of my head and climbing. People were shouting for water and running into each other in the dark. Old Mr. Bull in his white nightgown and pointed white night cap hobbled up to my door and emptied his chamber pot at the root of the growing blaze.

  Mama was among those bellowing and running. She was fully clothed down to her iron-toed boots. Gertriss was nowhere to be seen.

  I charged into the fray, struggling to get my coat off to use as a flail.

  The source of the blaze was obvious. Someone had simply filled a tall wooden bucket with trash and set it ablaze after putting it next to my door. I kicked it away, sacrificed my good coat to cover it, and the Arwheat brothers from a few doors overthrew wet blankets over the streaks of flame still climbing the walls.

  Fire hissed and smoked, but was clearly on the wane.

  Mama looked up at me and cussed and turned on her heel and waddled away at full bore.

  I charged after her.

  Gertriss was alone. The fire was a ploy. Even Mama had been sucked in, not knowing I wasn’t home.

  People tried to stop me and talk, and I shouldered them aside, caught up with Mama then passed her.

  There were lamps and torches on the street. By the bobbing lights I could see Mama’s door standing wide open, and I knew damned well she hadn’t left it that way.

  I had Toadsticker out, low and level, just like I’d been taught. I hit Mama’s threshold at a run and dodged immediately to my right, where the rickety little table she uses for card readings shouldn’t have been. It was there, though, and I sent it flying.

  Mama’s was pitch dark. I thought I saw a faint hint of movement. I grabbed one of Mama’s thousand jars with my left hand, and I threw it as hard as I could.

  It exploded in a shower of glass and a stench so vile someone in the dark actually puked.

  I charged them, felt something solid slice the air on the left side of my face, felt the something sharp graze my shoulder. But then my right shoulder plowed into a chest and I knocked someone off his feet, and we damned near took down Mama’s wall by slamming into it.

  Light flared. Mama screeched. She shoved the torch she was carrying right into a stranger’s face, and I whacked him good on the side of his fool head with the flat of my blade about the same time Mama used a stool to make the stranger’s ability to ever sire children a matter of considerable doubt.

  He slid to the floor, vomit still running down his chin, his hair singed and smoking.

  I grabbed him, threw him face down, put a boot on his spine.

  Mama was already past me, howling for Gertriss and Buttercup.

  She had the torch. I couldn’t do anything but stand there helplessly and wait.

  Mama came trundling back, her face ashen.

  “They ain’t here. Boy, they ain’t here.”

  “Mama!” It was Gertriss, from the door. Mama whirled, and the light caught Gertriss in a flimsy nightgown, one hand at her neck, the other gripping Buttercup’s hand.

  The tiny banshee yawned and rubbed her eyes.

  Mama yelled and slammed her door shut in the faces of a dozen curious onlookers.

  “How did you get outdoors?”

  “Buttercup.” Gertriss shivered. “We went through a wall. Right through it.”

  I raised an eyebrow. The banshee was getting stronger. She’d never been able to do that with me, though she’d tried.

  The man beneath me groaned. The stink from Mama’s jar was spreading.

  “Mama. You know this man?”

  Mama leaned over, raised the man’s head by yanking on his hair, and shoved the tor
ch close enough to singe him anew.

  “I don’t. I knows you can hear me.” She emphasized her point with a kick to his side. “What’s your name?”

  The man groaned, but offered nothing more.

  “The Watch will be around in a minute. You. Nobody in Rannit is going to blink if I skewer an arsonist. Give me an excuse. I dare you.”

  I hauled him to his feet, keeping his right arm twisted behind his back.

  “Mama, get the door.”

  She did. I shoved him through it, right into the small mob that was forming. A few greeted him with punches and kicks.

  “Thanks for your help,” I said, keeping the man on his feet as he swayed. “Mama and I appreciate it.”

  “We hang him here, no?” offered one of the Arwheat brothers.

  “We have rope and a scaffold, yes?” exclaimed the other.

  “Maybe when the Watch is done with him. And certainly if we ever see him here again.”

  The Arwheats were eyeing an exposed beam on the building next to Mama’s.

  “I fetch rope, just in case, no?”

  The man I was holding finally processed the gist of the conversation and started to struggle. I twisted his arm until it nearly broke, and kept it that way until a tall, black Watch wagon finally rolled down the street and disgorged a trio of beefy, bleary-eyed Watchmen.

  “Good evening, officers,” I said, cheerfully. “Look what we caught, just for you.”

  Chapter Ten

  First light, and there I was, still scrubbing the soot and charring off my poor abused door.

  It wasn’t going well. The bottom of the door had caught fire. I was sure it was burned so deeply a determined foot could make a hole all the way through it. My prized glass pane and its painted lettering was a loss. The heat had cracked the glass and the painted letters were gone and among the numerous unpleasant tasks facing me on that bright and cheery day was buying a new front door.

  Too, there was no sign of Three-leg Cat. He was missing his breakfast, and that was never done.

  Gertriss read my thoughts.

  “He’ll be back. I’m sure of it.”

  She was seated in my chair, her feet propped on my desk, ostensibly keeping an eye on the street while I was occupied with the door. Gertriss had gotten no more sleep than I last night, but she looked fresh and rested.

  Her skirt was slit up one side, and a lot of leg was showing. Maybe she read that thought, too, because she swung her legs down suddenly.

  “So, what do we do if Mama is right?”

  I dropped my brush into the bucket long enough to huff and puff a bit.

  “If Mama is right and he was another hexed hillbilly like the Sprangs, then we need to start planning a trip to Pot Lockney. Doors are expensive. My cat has been discommoded. I shall surely vent my wrath upon those responsible.”

  “You’ll need me to come with you, boss. Unless you’d rather take Mama.”

  I grinned.

  “You sat up all night waiting to deliver that one, didn’t you?”

  “Not all night. But I do have a point. Don’t I?”

  I shrugged. “I was planning on taking you anyway. Can’t watch you here and take on rogue sorcerers there. Too, you’ll need to school me in the homespun ways of country folk, lest I demand bacon from the haunch of a virgin swine, or something equally scandalous.”

  “When will we be leaving?”

  I grabbed my brush. “That’s a problem. I need to find Carris Lethway before I go. The wedding date is fast approaching.”

  “True.” Gertriss bit her lip.

  “Spill it. You’ve got an idea?”

  “Sort of. You won’t like it.”

  “You’d make a lousy salesgirl, Miss.”

  “Why not ask Evis to let Mama and Buttercup stay at Avalante, until people stop marching here to set us ablaze?”

  “Mama. At Avalante.”

  “Surely they have a guest house?”

  “Mama? At Avalante?”

  “You said that once already, boss.”

  “I may say it again. Right before I say no. Anyway, where would you stay?”

  “With you. We could watch each other’s backs, boss. Darla wouldn’t mind. She knows it’s strictly business. And since everyone in Pot Lockney thinks we’re a couple anyway, what’s the harm?”

  I shook my head. “Evis is my friend, Miss, but there are things I just won’t ask.”

  “You don’t have to. I already have. Evis said yes.”

  “What?”

  Gertriss blushed a bit.

  “I had…a feeling, boss. A Sight thing. Trouble brewing. So I sent Evis a letter, asking if Mama and Buttercup could stay at Avalante for a while. He said yes.”

  “When did you do all that?”

  “Yesterday.”

  He’d known the whole time we’d been drinking last night, and the sharp-toothed devil hadn’t said a word.

  Gertriss spread her hands. “Boss, I overstepped. I’m sorry.”

  “No. No, you had a good idea, and you acted on it. That’s what I pay you for.” I got off my knees and sank onto my client’s chair. My door was a loss anyway.

  “It’s a good plan, Gertriss. I’m just frustrated. Not moving too fast these days. Always a step behind.”

  “You’re as sharp as ever, boss. Just tired. And you’ve got a lot on your mind. I can see that plain as day.” She sat up straight, put her hands on my desk, touched her fingertips together in a mockery of my trademark pose. “You nearly killed our latest caller, you know.”

  “My patience is running is pretty thin. And for all I knew he’d brought friends. Wasn’t time to be dainty.”

  She shrugged. “I never did thank you for coming to my rescue.”

  “I didn’t. Buttercup did.”

  Gertriss shivered. I guess walking banshee-style through solid walls was an acquired taste.

  “So, Mama smelled another hex.”

  “Same one as before. Somebody back home really hates me, boss. I’m sorry it’s followed me here.”

  “Don’t apologize for some crazed wand-waver’s actions, Miss.”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  “Don’t apologize for apologizing, either.”

  She made a rude gesture and frowned at the door. “Mama is coming to see us.”

  Indeed, an instant later, I heard Mama slam her door shut and come stomping our way.

  “This ought to be refreshing.” I shooed Gertriss out of my chair, and she perched on the end of the desk, remembering to cover her exposed knee an instant before Mama appeared in my open doorway.

  “Boy,” she said. Her countenance was grim. She carried a small iron stew-pot that steamed and stank of sun-baked dead things rubbed with burnt hair and topped off with Three-leg Cat’s ten most malodorous gastric emissions.

  Gertriss and I gagged as one.

  “Oh, now, don’t start carryin’ on like you ain’t never smelled nothin’ ripe before.” Mama brought the foul pot inside, where it burbled and steamed and left a trail of stink. “This here brew is gonna save your skins, so you might be appreciative of my efforts, you might.”

  Gertriss pinched her nose shut. As a veteran of the Troll War, I struggled to maintain my stolid military bearing and opted to hold my breath instead.

  “Mama.” Gertriss’s eyes dripped with tears. “What. Is. That?”

  “This here is a hex against hexes, child. You’d know that by now if’n you was taking any interest in your heritage, but seein’ as you ain’t, I’ll have to explain it.”

  “Can you explain it outside, Mama? Or let me hire a carpenter and frame up a window we can open before we start?”

  Mama grumbled and set the stew-pot on my desk and then began to rifle through her burlap bag. Before I could speak, she produced a top and clanged it down hard on the bubbling mess on my desk.

  I made for my door, and waved it open and shut in hopes of driving some of the stench outside. I swear I saw an ogre trip as he went past, and a pair of idle
rs sharing a morning chat let out shrieks before fleeing for safety.

  “Ain’t nobody can say it ain’t potent, can they, boy?”

  “That they can’t, Mama. So, what is it? Do we just sit next to it, safe in the knowledge that nobody will ever walk down Cambrit Street ever again?”

  “It’s a potion.” Gertriss released her nose. “You took something from the Sprangs, didn’t you, Mama? And from the last visitor?”

  Mama cackled. “Damn right I did. Hairs. Got some from all of ’em.”

  Gertriss nodded. “The hairs from the Sprangs weren’t enough, because that was one hex, is that right?”

  Mama allowed herself a small smile. “That’s right, niece. But two hexes, cast from the same hand—oh, I can work with that. Oh yes, I can. This here potion, it’s gonna show you who’s been hexed a third time. Ain’t going to be no sneakin’ up on anybody. No, sir. I has had enough.” She waggled a finger at me. “Somebody is a fixin’ to pay. For comin’ after my kin, and them that I holds in high regard. People has forgot who Mama Hog is, has they? Well, by damn, I’m about to remind ’em.”

  Something inside the stew-pot popped and made the lid dance. Mama slapped it and muttered a word I couldn’t make out.

  “Good for you,” I said. “Mama. How does this work? Please tell me I don’t have to drink it.”

  “Drink it? Boy, how long you knowed me? Have I ever tried to pour anything down that throat of yours save for tea and coffee?”

  I shrugged. “So it’s not dessert. Great. But specifics, Mama—what does it do, and how?”

  “If it’s like most potions, boss, we’ll need to dab a bit of it here and there, and let it dry. Is that right, Mama?”

  Mama nodded.

  I grimaced, not in love with the idea of dabbing that concoction anywhere.

  “And if someone being ridden by the same hex that drove the Sprangs and the firebug gets close to it, we smell the whole pot, all at once, all over again.”

  “Well, I reckon you know a mite more than I was given’ you credit for knowin’, niece. That’s just how it works. A dab on your door. A dab on any door. Nobody gonna smell it but you.”

  “Any door? What about objects? Pens, hats, money? Would that work too?”

  “It will. Anything. Can’t wash it off, neither. I makes my brews to stick.”