by Frank Tuttle
“No. It’s for the best. You know how Mother can be.”
Suthers snorted. I made a mental note to come back, when all this was over, and glare at him menacingly.
Tamar didn’t like it. Not one bit. But finally she nodded, gave me a brief fierce hug and darted up the stairs.
“Your Mother must be quite a woman,” said Suthers.
“Half ogre and half Troll,” I replied. “Maybe I’ll put her up here, next Yule. You’ll enjoy getting to know her.”
He had no reply to that, except to bite the end of his pencil.
I was dying to talk to Evis. But Avalante would have to wait.
Darla met me at the door. Her hug would have broken ribs on a lesser man.
“I dreamed of you last night,” she said.
“Was I mounted on a stallion with the sun flashing in my manly eyes?”
She hugged me tighter. “Damn you.”
People were beginning to stare. We separated. Mary blushed and laughed. I sought out my customary chair and found a still-warm biscuit wrapped in a linen napkin nestled on the cushion.
The biscuit was accompanied by ham. Honey-glazed ham. A cup of coffee made a miraculous appearance in my hand.
A man, I mused, could get used to such things.
“She’s been up all night worried sick,” opined Mary, as soon as Darla was with two clients and well out of earshot. “Ye ought to be ashamed for yourself, a’ treatin’ such a gentle soul in such a high-handed way.”
“Well, you told me good. Is there any more of that coffee around, because if there is…”
But Mary was gone, a very unladylike word passing her prim country lips.
I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I didn’t have a hat or I would have hidden my face with it.
Mary was right. I was right. Darla was right.
I didn’t see a damned way to a more peaceful life for any of us.
I wasn’t dozing when Darla plopped in my lap and kissed me.
“Good morning,” she said. She forced a smile. “I should have brought two biscuits.”
“Good morning yourself. And one was fine. A little bird tells me you lost some sleep.”
Darla shrugged. “It’s only sleep. I’ll get it back. You’re here. You even smell good.” Her smile faded. “Wait. These clothes. They’re from the bathhouse, aren’t they? What happened to your others?”
“Relax. Mud, not blood. I spent some time in a pile of trash. I stank, but nobody died. No one was even rude to me.”
“That’s what I love about you, Markhat. The glamorous places you go. Mary, can you handle things for a bit? We need to go hat shopping.”
“Aye, buy him a new head while you’re at it.”
We rose. Her hand was tight around mine. “I’ll be back when I can.”
I had a thousand things to do. Nay, ten thousand. A hundred thousand. I had nefarious plots to foil, kidnappers to double-cross, wars to avert.
So naturally, I took my lady to the Park, and we staved off war and wrack by feeding fat pigeons cornmeal and letting the sun warm the tops of our heads.
I told all. I didn’t set out to. I’d meant to spare Darla the details of my walk with the huldra, my visit inside Hisvin’s house of dusty dead.
But lies no longer come easily with Darla. Even the sneaky lies that are mere omissions of the truth.
I’d thought I’d lost her once. Leaving important things unsaid.
Not again.
She listened and nodded and squeezed my hand now and then, but she didn’t cry or turn away, not once.
And when I’d said it all, we let silence sit with us for a bit.
“I’m disturbed by something,” she said at last.
“Disturbed? Really? Do tell.”
She prodded me lightly with an elbow.
“Why would Mr. Lethway tell the kidnappers you were coming? He knows if you meet an untimely demise, the Regent gets the papers. Wouldn’t getting you killed be suicide for him?”
I nodded.
“So?”
“Could be a couple of things. One, he thinks he’s in the clear if my blood winds up on someone else’s hands. Two, he’s so mad he’s not thinking straight. Three, Pratt sent that note, not Lethway, trying to shake things up so he can use the confusion to make his play.”
“Would Pratt do that?”
“Maybe. He wants Carris and Lethway’s wife. He doesn’t give a damn about anything else.”
“I thought you and Pratt were friends.”
“We might be. Or not. I’ll know tonight.”
She tossed a fresh handful of crushed corn to the pigeons.
“You know what I think?”
“That I’m a handsome devil with charisma to spare?”
“I think Lethway realizes he’s not getting out of this. I think he knew he was doomed the moment you showed him those papers he tried to burn with the Barracks. What if that’s true, hon? What if he’s planning on just killing everyone at that place tonight? What if he doesn’t care if he dies, too, as long as he dies a hero?”
“I’m not following.”
“He’s spent his whole life being a war hero.”
“Actually, he stole half a million of the Regency’s crowns, but go on.”
She looked away from the pigeons and up at me. “He’s ruined, darling. If it isn’t you that turns him in, it will be Mr. Fields. Or this third person. Or someone who just drops out of the sky. His wife is lost to him. And his son. All he has is his name, and he’s about to lose it too. Don’t you see? If he dies tonight, he won’t be exposed as a war profiteer. No one would bother with an investigation.”
I mulled it over.
She tossed more feed to the birds. “I see who’s leaving town, you know. And who isn’t leaving. Old money. War heroes. Honey, these people already have homes out of Rannit. They could go and live well whether Rannit stands or falls. But they’re not leaving. Mary summed it up best.” Darla affected Mary’s backwoods accent. “They won’t run ’cause they’d rather die being Lord So-and-So than live being just plain Mister. That’s what I’m saying. Please tell me I’m wrong.”
“You might just have a point, oh desire of my heart.”
“I hope not. But keep it in mind.”
“You said you dreamed last night.”
She nodded and looked away.
“Did you dream all that up, then?”
“It’s getting late.” She rose, brushed off her hands and dumped the remainder of the feed sack among the squabbling pigeons. “You need a new hat. I’ll buy you one, and you’ll reward me with a kiss.”
I know better than to pry after the no prying flag is raised.
“Deal.” I grabbed her and kissed her, though no hat had been procured. A trio of passing kids hooted and cheered.
“I love you, Markhat,” she said before we left the Park.
I replied with something similar.
The woman, after all, has impeccable taste in hats.
Before I made for Avalante, I sought out the nearest Army officer I could find, identified myself and barked out a couple of succinct orders.
To my amazement, my orders were met with salutes and “Yes, sirs” and I was assured they would be carried out to the letter and with commendable military haste.
That done, I hailed a cab and made my way toward the Hill.
Darla’s warning kept playing itself out in my mind. If she was right, Lethway was planning an epic dust-up that he had no intention of surviving.
That meant mere collateral parties, such as myself and Pratt, were unlikely to walk away unwounded.
I didn’t see Lethway dying, though, just to save his name.
Unless.
An idea that had been scurrying about, rat-like, in the recesses of my mind darted out into the sun.
The information the kidnappers had demanded. Tons of this, wagons of that.
Lethway’s dealings with iron.
Iron…and steel.
The things from which
cannon are made.
I damned near leaped from the cab. If Lethway’s old nemesis had indeed been licking his near-fatal wounds in Prince, it was possible he knew parties involved in the invasion. Hisvin had said they had a sorcerer in their number.
What if taking Carris Lethway was half revenge and half convenient way to shake information about the Corpsemaster’s secret cannon project out of the man most likely to be supplying Hisvin with iron?
Maybe Colonel Lethway knew or suspected that. Hell, maybe he’d known from the beginning, which is why he’d refused to meet any of the kidnappers’ demands for information.
I’d thought him nothing but a greedy old bastard willing to let his only son perish rather than part with a chest full of coin. He was, after all, a thief.
But what if the thieving Colonel wasn’t quite a traitor?
“No,” I said aloud. “Too many coincidences happening at once.”
I wasn’t convinced. But it made sense, in a crazy way. Maybe the old man was feeling guilty. Maybe he was trying to atone.
Maybe my new hat was on too tight.
I watched Rannit roll past. It didn’t really matter, who was motivated by what, or why. The whole wretched mess was set in motion, and it was going to play out in blood and money, and soon.
I settled back in my seat and pulled my hat down. Might as well nap.
Night was going to fall, one way or another, and it didn’t care one whit who lived through it.
House Avalante was a beehive. A beehive that showed every sign of having been enthusiastically poked with a very large stick.
The lawn was full of armed men. Groups of three, widely separated, all with heavy crossbows.
Closer to the House proper, two teams of workmen were swarming over hastily erected scaffolding. Inside the scaffolds, objects I recognized as cannons were being assembled, right out in the daylight.
I halted well beyond the first blade of Avalante grass. I shouted my name, heard it repeated, and within moments Jerle himself stalked out of the big double doors and waved me come hither.
Hither I came, unchallenged. The soldiers in the yard did me the courtesy of not pointing things at me. I passed between the cannons. My only peril encountered was being shouted off the walk by a trio of men struggling under the weight of a long piece of tarp-wrapped iron.
“Nice day,” I said to Jerle. He hurried me through the doors and slammed them shut behind me.
“Nice day my ass, sir,” he muttered. We were walking, quickly, with an obvious destination in mind. I let Jerle lead the way.
“Trouble with the neighbors?”
I kept my voice to a whisper, on the off chance the old man felt like a bit of gossip.
“You could say that.”
I nodded sagely. Clashes between the Houses were as common as weather. Throw in the looming shadow of war, and it was a miracle the whole Hill wasn’t aflame.
“I see the place is still standing.”
The old man grinned. “Sent them packing, though you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Of course not. Glad to not hear it, though.”
I recognized the hallway. We appeared to be heading for the first of the long-talking machines I used to speak with Evis.
“It’s fixed,” said Jerle, reading my mind. “Try not to set it afire again. We like to never got the soot off the walls.”
We arrived at a door. Jerle knocked, spoke and the door was opened.
Inside was the same sparking, rattling behemoth, the same table, the same brass speaking-tube. And the same scowling technicians, who regarded me with the same exuberant enthusiasm little Mary doubtlessly reserved for sewer rats.
“You’ve got to keep this under three minutes,” said one.
“Two and half,” quoth another.
I seated myself before the brass funnel. Nods were exchanged. Levers were thrown. Knobs were twisted.
There came the kind of keening screech of which Buttercup was fond, a snatch of unholy music and then Evis was speaking, caught in mid-sentence.
“…although some people actually prefer a brandy with such a mild tobacco.”
I put my mouth close to the tube.
“It’s a peculiar sort of war that involves comparative beverage lectures,” I said. “Or is that some code for ‘We’ve reached the target and completed the mission?’”
“Good morning, Markhat. How are things back home?”
“Angels and devils, Evis. Are you drunk?”
“Of course not.” Gertriss was speaking. “We’re celebrating, as a matter of fact. We’re nearly at the you-know-where. With the you-know-what.”
“What? How?”
Evis laughed. “You should know. A certain very tall person—”
“With big scary eyes—”
“Yes, as Miss Gertriss noted, with big scary eyes. This person facilitated the mission. Perhaps you don’t recall?”
“I don’t. Much. Are you sure?”
“I’ve been myself. I’ve seen. It’s ready. We’re just waiting for the moment of most drama.”
I cussed. “Waiting? What the Hell for?”
The machine spat a burst of infant lightning. The light left me momentarily blind. Men cussed and threw buckets of sand.
“…better if it’s delivered right to their faces,” said Evis. Then he lowered his voice. “It’s what you said to do.”
“I said no such thing.”
“You said you’d say that.” There was a burst of static, and a blast of that infernal music, then Evis’s voice, faint and thin and fading fast.
“Tell Jerle you need to see Victor. Got that, Markhat? You need to see Victor, about the Yule present.”
“See Victor. Yule present. Got it. When will you be back?”
Before Evis could answer, the machine belched forth another bolt of immature lightning and a great puff of smoke.
Then it fell silent and dark.
“That’s it,” snapped a glaring technician. “It’s gone. That man is bad luck.”
I rose. Jerle was behind me, sepulchral as ever.
“I heard. I will fetch Victor. If sir will come this way?”
I followed him out before any buckets of sand accidentally found their way atop my head.
Jerle was setting quite the pace. I had to trot to keep up.
“Won’t Victor be asleep at this hour?”
“Not today.” We descended a stair, walked a hall, descended another. I was finally led to a tiny sitting room, which I shared with a single lonely chair and an even lonelier marble angel in a nook in the wall.
I had barely made the angel’s acquaintance when Victor appeared.
He stood, still and silent. I rose from my chair and smiled but did not offer my hand.
“It’s good to see you again.”
He was wearing dark glasses, and enveloped within a hundred yards of pure black silk. When he spoke, he did so without parting his lips more than a slit.
“I trust you are well,” he said.
“Evis asked me to see you. Something about a Yule gift. I assume that has meaning to you?”
Victor nodded. “You are to meet with these—,” he struggled for a moment with the word, “— kidnappers, is that correct?”
No point in asking how he knew. “I am. Tonight.”
Again, a solemn nod.
“Mr. Prestley foresaw this. He has instructed me to remind you that the House has offered its services, should you choose to avail yourself of them.”
“I thank you, Victor. And your House. I really do. But I’ll not abuse your generosity. I don’t see where the interests of Avalante and my case meet, in this instance.”
“I concur. They do not. Nevertheless, I am compelled to ask.”
“Thanks. But no thanks.”
Something like a smile flickered across those cold blue lips.
“I expected no less. In that case, I am instructed to give you this.”
From within his billowing silks, he produced a poli
shed oak box.
“Brandy? Chocolates? A bill for the carriages I’ve borrowed?”
Damned if the halfdead didn’t actually snicker.
“It is a weapon. A weapon of last resort. Evis warns you against using it, unless the need is dire and the alternative is certain death.”
I took the box. It was heavy, and it could have used a handle, since my mere mortal hands didn’t have the grip of a vampire.
“Thank you,” I said. “I am again in your debt, and indebted to your House.”
“Well spoken. Good luck, finder.”
“To you too.”
And then he was gone, closing the door behind him.
There was a chair. And the angel still looked lonesome. So I sat, and put the heavy oak box in my lap.
“Let’s see what you are,” I said aloud. I found the latch and pushed. It clicked with the peculiar bright click of freshly oiled brass.
I lifted the lid and peered inside.
Chapter Twenty-One
I left Avalante in another borrowed carriage. My driver was a kid. His jacket swallowed him whole.
I figured the dust-up Jerle had alluded to meant the grown-ups were needed on the ramparts. I didn’t figure the kid would be in any more danger atop my carriage than anywhere else in Rannit, so I didn’t put up a fuss.
“Name’s Randal,” said the kid as I stepped up to the rig. “You must be Markhat.”
“If I must, I must,” I said. “How’s school these days?”
“Up yours, grandpa. Where we heading?”
“To the nearest toolshed, if you keep that up.”
He spat and shrugged. A hard case.
I gave him an address and clambered inside.
The oak case, empty now, rested beside me. An unfamiliar weight rested in my right coat pocket. Toadsticker was sheathed on my left. A dagger and a set of brass knuckles and a few other sundry small items poked me here or rubbed me there, and I resolved to lighten my load of armaments before the evening’s festivities.
Getting downtown took longer than usual. It wasn’t so much the measure of traffic, but the kind—Army tallboys and long, fat cargo wagons were everywhere, bringing lesser vehicles to a halt and driving some off the streets entirely and generally wreaking the same sort of mayhem on honest Rannites that they were ostensibly there to prevent.