Brown River Queen

by Frank Tuttle

  I groaned. “Oh no. Nothing doing, even for old friends, even for old friends who yanked me out of a Watch house earlier today. I paid the Corpsemaster a visit once, yes, but I’m not about to repeat that. Please extend to the House my sincere regrets, but knocking on the old spook’s door a second time is not something I’m willing to do.”

  “You won’t be the one knocking,” said Evis. He snuffed out his cigar in a solid silver ashtray and sighed, tired and raspy. “I’ll have that honor. And it isn’t the House asking you to go. It’s me. As a friend. I don’t want to go there alone.”

  I cussed, dry mouth and all, with passion this time.

  Evis had the courtesy not to grin with victory.

  I didn’t lie to Darla.

  I sat down with her on our new porch and we watched the neighbors across Middling Lane argue over where to plant a pair of knee-high rosebushes. The man of the house, who Darla dubbed Fussy Britches, wanted one at each corner of the steps leading up to their cheery blue door. The missus claimed they’d grow out and wind up being in the way. I named her the Queen for her imperious tone and habit of employing the royal “we” in reference to the digging of the holes.

  Darla and I held hands. Our shoulders touched. We spoke in whispers while the controversy over the rosebushes raged back and forth.

  I laid it all out. I was heading for the old spook’s house, after Curfew, with Evis and any Avalante foot soldiers he cared to bring along. Darla knew about the iron key the Corpsemaster once gave me. She knew what little I knew about the room the key unlocked.

  I half expected Darla to insist on coming along. But if I surprised her by eschewing the easy lie, she surprised me by accepting the whole business as calmly as if I’d just announced a stroll around the neighborhood in the cool of the evening.

  The rosebushes wound up at each end of the house. Fussy Britches did the digging with a rusty shovel and a fair amount of grunting and face-mopping. Her Majesty, the Queen of Middling Lane, put hands on hips and helped out by glaring at the excavated dirt so that it didn’t dare make a sudden dash for freedom.

  Our neighbors surveyed their handiwork, graced us with smiles and waves, and departed indoors.

  Darla and I sat on our porch and kept whispering. The sun set. Night sneaked up behind us and by the time Evis and his carriage stopped at the curb we’d run out of things to whisper except goodbye.

  I’d been expecting two carriages, each filled with somber Avalante halfdead—each armed against the night’s potential for mayhem.

  Instead, I was greeted by Evis and ignored by the slight hooded figure who sat beside him.

  One black cab. A single human driver. Not a brace of cannon or a trebuchet in sight.

  “Evening, finder,” said Evis. His smile was wet and toothy in the near-dark of the carriage. “Ready to dance where Angels fear to tread?”

  “I’d sooner get a beer and call it a night, if that’s all right with you. Who’s your friend? Or am I not supposed to ask?”

  The robes stirred. The arms lifted and gloved hands emerged from the sleeves long enough to pull back the hood.

  A woman was inside. She’d been young. She was corpse-pale, like Evis—but unlike Evis, her lips and her eyes were sewn shut. Tiny points of blood still oozed around the threads.

  She turned her ravaged lips up in a smile.

  You may call me Stitches, Mr. Markhat.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rose. I heard her words but my ears hadn’t played their usual role in the process.

  “You get used to it,” said Evis with a chuckle. “Stitches is the House’s finest forensic sorcerer. She’s going along with us. Mind your manners and say hello.”

  “Hello, Miss Stitches.” I cleared my throat. “Nice to meet you.”

  Likewise. Mr. Prestley holds you in high regard. I trust my appearance will not cause you discomfort.

  “Not at all. I’m glad to have a sorcerer along.” I’d nearly used the term wand-waver. In the Army, I’d seen similar slips of the tongue turn fatal more than once.

  Stitches, still smiling, pulled her cowl down over her face.

  Your association with the Corpsemaster is rare, finder. I understand you have been inside her home. Can you remember what you saw there?

  “Bodies. Some were dusty, like they’d been standing in place for a long time.” I thought back, wondering if my new friend Stitches could pluck thoughts out of my head as easily as she put words in it. “No living staff that I saw. Old furniture. Big plain doors. The Corpsemaster didn’t decorate to impress.”

  Were you able to pass freely over thresholds? Did you see any evidence of protective magics?

  I shrugged. “Bodies opened the doors for me, once I was inside. I don’t remember entering or leaving. I don’t recall any glowing objects, any walls of fire, any lakes of scorpions, if that’s what you mean.”

  The hood bobbed in a nod.

  My experience was similar.

  “You’ve been in the old spook’s—that is, the Corpsemaster’s home?”

  The hood turned to Evis. Evis nodded after a moment and reached into a pocket. When he withdrew his hand, Stitches held up her own as well.

  Each held an old iron key. Each key was twin to the one in my pocket.

  It seems we have this in common, said Stitches. A hint of bemusement touched her words. If we survive this night, it will be because we were all—at one time or another—invited to return.

  “She always this cheerful, Evis?”

  “You ever met a cheerful sorcerer?” Evis put his key away. “But she’s right. The Corpsemaster didn’t just hand out her house keys willy-nilly. Why’d she give you yours, Markhat?”

  I figure there’s a time and a place to keep secrets, and neither of them is when you’re seated across from a sorceress who can probably not only read your mind but yank it out and poke holes in it if she so desires.

  “It was right before the bunch from Prince hit Rannit. My key unlocks a secret room. She said I could use it to find safety if Rannit fell. You?”

  “Got mine years ago when the House first got cozy with her. She said it would unlock an armory. I was only to use it if Avalante was backed into a corner.”

  Mine unlocks the front door. I was instructed to use it only in times of mortal peril.

  I bit back a presumptuous comment. Evis saw and gave me the faintest of nods. He’d come to the same conclusion.

  The Corpsemaster’s keys were perhaps not the altruistic gifts we’d thought. Or maybe they were, but only as an aside—the old witch had meant for us to come charging to her rescue, if she were to be injured and gone to ground.

  Such cynics you both are. Nevertheless, I must concur.

  “Doesn’t change a thing,” said Evis. “We still need to know.”

  I snorted. “You might. I don’t. Good thing I enjoy your fancy cigars so much, Mr. Prestley. Else I might be tempted to remember pressing engagements elsewhere.”

  An idle threat, Mr. Markhat. You would no more abandon your friend than you would sprout wings and fly. Which may well be your undoing.

  “What’s your excuse?”

  My only reply was a welcome silence in my head.

  A match scratched and flared. Evis pulled at his Lowland Sweet until the end of the cigar glowed red. Then he offered one to me.

  We smoked without conversation as the carriage rattled through the night, all the way to Portend Street and the tall black lampposts that mark the beginning of Cauldron Town.

  We pulled to the curb in a convenient cleft of shadows. Stitches left Evis and me in the cab while she crept around it, muttering and splashing strange lights on the wheels. Evis and the driver exchanged a few soft whispers, and Stitches climbed back inside and we were off.

  It is said that even the Regent dare not cross Portend heading east. Because that’s Cauldron Town, where Rannit’s sorcerous sorts dwell, and they have little love for the mere mortals who scurry about their feet.

  But cross Porten
d Street we did, bound for the Corpsemaster’s dark house. We didn’t get half a block from the street lamps of Portend before the air took on an impossible Yule chill and the strains of faraway music sounded above the rattle and clop of our carriage.

  It was dark on the nameless street. Dark and cold. Trees rose up, hulking masses of shadow that seemed to shuffle in place, their boughs swaying with a wind that didn’t reach the cab. If there were homes behind the line of trees, they shone no light at their windows, no lamps at their doors.

  I can only spare you from the very worst, said Stitches, her face bent low, her hands moving inside her sleeves. Beware the sights, the sounds. Many bring madness. The Corpsemaster’s absence means some may ignore our right to safe passage as her guests.

  Evis cussed softly.

  “Never thought I’d actually miss the old spook.” I discovered a silver flask of good whiskey in my coat’s breast pocket and proffered it forth. “Evis? Miss?”

  “Might as well,” said Evis.

  Another time.

  Lights began to play in the trees, offering glimpses of movement. I saw silvery wings, a flash of bare female leg, and heard laughter on the wind.

  “Come and play,” said the voices. “Come out, come out, join us for the night!”

  Evis took a long draw at my flask. I did the same. Pale hands reached down from the black boughs, curling their fingers in invitation.

  “We know you, Markhat, the finder,” said a voice.

  “We have watched you walk,” said another.

  Silence, lest I burn thee with fire.

  The leaves rustled, and we were alone.

  Stitches waggled a finger at me in warning. Her fingernail was black, and I hoped it was painted that way.

  “Should have brought cards,” opined Evis.

  “Should have brought an army.”

  “We did. Let her work. I’m going to close my eyes and take a nap. You might try the same.”

  The twin glints in his white halfdead eyes vanished when he closed them.

  I pulled my hat down and stared at my shoes and tried with no success to ignore the voices that called out my name.

  I had to shake my halfdead friend awake. One doesn’t wake a halfdead without some risk, but Evis just gifted me with a toothy yawn followed by a lopsided grin.

  We have arrived.

  “Resistance?”

  Nothing of any significance.

  “Any sign of our host?”

  None whatsoever. The dwelling appears to be unoccupied, although a number of potent spells are still present and functional.

  I rubbed my hands together to warm them. The air bore a deep winter chill, though summer still held sway on the other side of Portend Street. “Are we being watched?” My words were accompanied by puffs of steam.

  Naturally. I suspect there are many hereabouts who are also curious about the Corpsemaster’s status. I believe that may be why we were allowed to arrive without facing serious opposition.

  “Your middle name isn’t Sunshine, is it?”

  “Markhat. Not the time or the place. So what’s the plan, Stitches? Walk up and knock?”

  She shrugged beneath her robes.

  In essence, yes. I will go first. If you have weapons, keep them at the ready.

  I had a knife in my boot and brass knuckles in my pocket. Evis had insisted we leave the guns behind. I take it they don’t care much for guns in the magic part of town. “And how will that help?”

  She looked right at me, and I caught the ghost of a tortured grin on her tight-sewn lips.

  You’ll feel better about dying if you don’t die empty-handed.

  “Hilarious. I’m going to write that down. And people say sorcerers lack a sense of humor.”

  Evis tired of making frantic shushing motions and opened his door with a sigh. Stitches followed him out, and I made it a threesome. Our driver, who looked decidedly worried despite the glowing long sword in his grasp, glanced down and acknowledged us with a brief nod.

  Eyes and ears open, gentlemen, said Stitches. She pushed back her hood, did something to the back of her head, and long black hair fell down past her shoulders.

  She marched down the short stone walk to the Corpsemaster’s big black door. Evis and I followed, trotting to keep up, and despite her short frame and our longer legs, she reached the stoop first.

  Just like that, Stitches reached out and knocked. One, two, three.

  It is I, Corpsemaster. Stitches. And two others known to you. We come out of concern. May we be admitted?

  Silence. The voices in the wind fell quiet. After a moment, even the wind fell still.

  I wondered how many ears and eyes were trained on us, and I pushed the thought aside before I could consider just who and what such ears and eyes might be attached to.

  “Seems the Corpsemaster is occupied,” whispered Evis. “The door?”

  Stitches reached out again, and her tiny hand fell on the latch. I saw the glint of her key vanish into the ancient iron lock.

  It clicked. Stitches pushed and the door swung inward into an absolute darkness.

  Stitches stepped inside and vanished. Evis turned to me, shrugged, and did the same.

  “Last one in is a rotten egg,” I muttered, and I slipped my fingers through my useless brass knuckles and followed them both into the dark.

  Chapter Four

  The door slammed shut behind us. I will not compare the sound to that of the sealing of a tomb, because I’ve never heard such, but that’s what it sounded like.

  We are alive. Surprising. Gentlemen, shield your eyes.

  I did not shield my eyes and was thus treated to a sudden wash of furious bright light that spilled from Stitches’s raised right hand and filled the room with a noonday glare.

  Evis covered his eyes with his hand while he fumbled for his dark-lensed spectacles. I blinked, cussed, and wound up tripping before going to one knee.

  My hand plunged into something dry and fragile. Cloth tore. Sticks make dry cracking noises. By the time my eyes cleared, I knew the sticks weren’t sticks but ribs, and that I’d tripped on a prostrate corpse right in the old spook’s fancy front room.

  Evis yanked me to my feet. I brushed bits of a dead man off my sleeve.

  “Maid’s day off,” said Evis.

  There were bodies all around us. Two slumped on wooden chairs. The rest, nine in all, were strewn across the floor.

  Stitches prowled among them, waggling her fingers and muttering. Her long black hair flowed about her as though in the grip of a wind, or suspended below perfectly clear water.

  The dead were still. Hair still clung to fleshless skulls. Dry, empty eye sockets regarded us without fear or malice. Their clothes were tattered and stained where fluids had left dark smears.

  Evis nudged one with the toe of his boot. It failed to rise up and smite him.

  The Corpsemaster’s household staff, I believe. I see no signs of violence.

  “Looks like they just fell over,” I said. “Any lingering signs that they might get up again, maybe take exception to our visit?”

  None. These are mere remains. Whatever once animated them is departed.

  Evis made his way to the door set at the other end of the room and tried the latch.

  “Locked,” he said. “Any reason we need to linger here, Stitches?”

  The sorceress turned, hands upraised, hair floating about her head as if she were falling feet-first down a chasm. She made two full turns, strange lights playing about her black-nailed fingers, her jaw working behind those sewn, bloody lips.

  No. There is simply nothing here. Or, perhaps more precisely, there is nothing present my own skills are capable of detecting.

  Evis nodded, reached into his pocket and produced his own key. “Never thought I’d actually use this thing. Wish me luck.”

  He shoved the key into the lock and turned it before I could speak. Again, the door swung open, revealing nothing but darkness behind it.

  Evis
stuck his fool head through before Stitches, despite her diminutive size, grabbed his collar and hauled him back.

  I will go first, Mr. Prestley. Need I remind you in whose home we are?

  Evis grinned and made a grand sweeping motion toward the half-open door.

  “After you, sorceress. I was only having a quick peek.”

  Impetuous youth. But, as the deed is done, what did you see?

  “Bodies, like these. Twenty, maybe more. No movement.”

  “Impetuous youth,” I said. “That’s a new one. The hall itself—was it long, straight, and did you see a pair of big iron-banded doors on the left, about halfway down?”

  Evis nodded an affirmative.

  I sighed. “That’s the kitchen. We’ll be needing my key soon.”

  Something sparked and flashed in the air around Stitches. Her hair went wild, standing out in every direction, most of it trying to aim itself at a moving spot that seemed to play along the walls around us.

  We must hurry. A crowd is gathering beyond the Corpsemaster’s ward spells. Some within it are applying certain pressures to the wards.

  “Will they hold?”

  I cannot say. Haste is our best ally.

  And with that, she was through the door, casting the fierce light of day about her. The kitchen was cold and dark and empty. There were no bodies. There was an empty teakettle on a stove, a cup in the sink, a plain wooden chair pushed back from the Corpsemaster’s monstrous oak table.

  Something in the tableau stirred a memory. My last sight of my own mother’s kitchen. Her favorite cup in the sink, her favorite chair pushed back. Both waiting for their mistress to return. Both waiting in vain because she was gone and never coming home again.

  Stitches poked here and prodded there, playing her strange lights throughout the room, sending glowing orbs soaring before they returned to her, whispering and flashing.

  Nothing, she said. Old magic, yes, but old magic steadily failing.

  “The last door isn’t far,” I said, gripping my key. I was ready to wade through corpses stacked knee-high if doing so would get me away from that lone cup and that angled chair. “Leave here and take a left. Hidden door by a lamp. Up a secret stair.”