Brown River Queen

by Frank Tuttle

  “I will. But only after I know the answer.”

  “And men claim women are needlessly indirect.”

  “I’m thinking like a villain. A villain wouldn’t ask Evis. They’d observe, find a weakness to exploit.”

  Darla grinned and rested her head on my chest. “So you’re a villain, aboard the Queen under false pretense. How would you go about causing trouble?”

  “Fire. I’d just set a few fires, and hope to stab someone important in all the confusion.” Even alone in our room, neither of us cared to mention the Regent by name.

  “That sounds dreadful. But effective, I suppose.”

  “Not at all. The Queen is equipped with pumps and pipes—if a fire starts, she gets doused with river-water. People get wet, meals are ruined, but no one burns.”

  “Let me try, then.” She thought for a moment. “Poison. I’d get into the kitchen somehow and poison a dish.”

  “Some people will bring their own tasters and wand-wavers.”

  “Quite a few won’t. And if half the dining room fell over dead, well, that would be trouble for Avalante, wouldn’t it?”

  I stroked her hair and nodded. “Good point. Remind me to prepare my own supper from now on.”

  “Hah. So what were you thinking, if not fire or poison?”

  “I’d have a brace of cannon waiting just north of Bel Loit. Open fire and hope for the best.”

  “I hope Evis has thought of that.”

  “He has. Claims the Queen has anti-cannon spells, and that they’ve got patrols out on both sides of the Brown.”

  “You don’t seem reassured.”

  “Haven’t seen a wand-waver yet who could stop a volley of cannon fire.”

  She was silent for a moment. I nearly drifted off but Darla shook me awake.

  “Let’s go for that stroll you promised,” she said. “I’ll get the pocket-watch. You should shave or they might mistake you for an Ogre and ask you to shovel coal.”

  I stroked my chin. “I’m more likely to make Captain if I grow a beard.”

  Darla rose. “Well, until you do, you’re still my husband the finder, and I’m bored, so let’s go find something.” She predicted my thoughts. “Something that isn’t beer.”

  I sat up and yawned. “Yes, dear.”

  She darted into our bathroom and threw a towel out at me. “There you are, Captain.”

  I rose and found my razor.

  A leisurely stroll from the Queen’s blunt bow to her shiny red wheel took all of four minutes on the wide outdoor deck that surrounds the casino’s stained glass windows. The same walk through the second deck’s cherry-paneled halls took three and half.

  I made it in two at a run. Add a flight of stairs and a pair of inquisitive Avalante foot soldiers, and it’s a hair over two and a quarter minutes.

  Going from the casino to the Regent’s well-guarded rooms takes three minutes if you’re not in a hurry. The looks we got from the wand-wavers stationed there suggested people who arrived in a hurry might meet with the kind of reception that leaves ugly stains on the floor.

  Darla spoke. “So what did all that prove?”

  We leaned on the rail and watched the sluggish Brown River flow.

  “Double those times, if the boat is full. Triple them if there’s a panic and a rush.” I took off my hat and let the breeze dry my sweaty forehead. “That’s the weak spot I was looking for. The stairs are bottlenecks. Catch a certain someone in his room. Raise a ruckus somehow. You’ve got a good five minutes before Avalante can shove halfdead soldiers in your face. That’s a lot of time for mischief, my dear. A lot of time.”

  Darla nodded and put her hand on mine. “Surely they’ve thought of that?”

  “They did. And they came up with a solution. I’m just not sure it’s good enough.”

  “We saw a dozen armed vampires appear out of nowhere the instant an alarm was raised.”

  I put my hat back on. “That we did. But the place was empty. And if my guess is correct, they probably can’t keep more than half a dozen halfdead anywhere near our special guest’s room.”

  “There are hiding places in the walls?”

  “Have to be. All that fancy wood trim? All those burnished cherry panels? I can’t think of a better way to hide a sneaky door.”

  Darla reddened. “If I find a single peep-hole into our room I’m going to stuff Evis into one of his boilers.”

  “I’ll help. Let’s go find a secret door and see where it leads.”

  “We’ll need a candle and some matches.”

  “And beer. We might get lost and wander for days.”

  “That’s why I married a ham-fisted brute, dear. So you can break down doors before I get thirsty.”

  I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a box of matches and a pair of new candles. “Look what I found. What a coincidence.”

  Darla laughed, grabbed the end of my tie, and we went in search of the Queen’s hidden passages.

  Finding the first trick door took all of an hour. Some master craftsman had concealed the doorframe so cleverly I couldn’t see it even after I’d convinced myself it was there.

  But there it was, in plain sight. Finding the hidden latch and getting it open took another twenty minutes.

  Explaining what we were doing opening a secret door to the wary halfdead gunmen who spilled out of the dark required a mere five minutes, and culminated in an even briefer conversation with a bleary-eyed Evis through his barely-opened door.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to find them,” he muttered after a whispered exchange with his fellows. “You might as well come on in. Got word that Stitches hit the brunettes. Waiting for news now.”

  The halfdead gunmen left without a backward glance. Evis vanished from his door, leaving it cracked. I heard him shuffling around in his dark room, and then a lamp flared.

  “I’m decent,” he called. We opened his door and stepped inside.

  Evis’s suite had no windows. Every wall was lined with books and scrolls and charts. A big, plain, oak desk sat in the middle of the room, covered with papers. A green glass magelamp hung above the desk, simulating twilight. There was a short couch and two comfy high-backed padded chairs and what I hoped was an icebox for keeping beer in a corner.

  Evis closed the only other door, which I assumed led to the adjoining bedroom. A sliver of light showed at the bottom, and if Darla and I saw a brief shadow pass across it, we both pretended we’d been looking elsewhere.

  “Sorry to roust you out at this hour,” I said.

  He shrugged and motioned for us to sit. We took the couch. He collapsed in a chair and turned to face us. “So you found the dunways.”

  “Dunways? The hidden doors?”

  “Technically, the passages behind the doors. But yes. Well done. What tipped you off?” His eyes glinted in the dim light until he reached for his spectacles and put them on.

  “Best way to move armed staff around without causing a fuss,” I said.

  “Also good for accidentally overhearing private conversations,” said Darla.

  “The dunways are strictly for security on this trip,” said Evis.

  “How many guns will you have hidden in the walls, Evis?”

  “Sixty-two. All highly trained. All absolutely fearless. Feel better?”

  “Some.” I pretended not to see that pesky shadow race across the bottom of Evis’s door again. “Might as well have sixty-two men on the moon if they’re not in the right place at the right time.”

  Evis looked toward Darla. “He’s cute when he’s grumpy, isn’t he?”

  “So, what’s this about Stitches?”

  “Don’t know yet. She said she had a scheme to grab the hex women, whatever they’re called.”

  “The bentans?”

  “Yeah. Them. I got word she took a couple of wagons and a dozen staff before sunup this morning, and now I hear she’s back at Avalante with a wagonload of bodies.”

  A soft knock sounded at the do
or. “Enter,” shouted Evis.

  Stitches herself stepped through the door.

  Her robe stank of wood smoke. Her sleeves were scorched and torn. When she pulled back her hood to reveal her face, it was black with soot.

  Her bleeding lips, though, were trying to form a smile.

  Good. You are here. Mrs. Markhat.

  “You look like hell,” said Evis. “Sit, if you want.”

  I believe I shall. The day has been taxing. She crossed to the vacant chair and settled gingerly into it, as though favoring numerous injuries. I got them. All of them.

  “The bentans?”

  Yes. I know who made them, Mr. Prestley. I know who, and I believe I know why.

  “Spill it.”

  I shall. But first—

  She raised her hands and traced out a complicated pattern in the air. There was a sound, and for an instant her fingertips left visible trails of light.

  She clapped her hands and the luminous pattern faded away.

  Precautions. The living simulacrums were animated by the hand of Hag Mary herself. I trust you are acquainted with the name, Mr. Prestley?

  I didn’t like the way Evis went suddenly stiff and still.

  “That’s just a legend.”

  I fear it is not. Hag Mary lived, and lives still, and something has stirred her to send these bentans against Mr. Markhat.

  “I hate to interrupt, but what the hell is a Hag Mary, and what have I ever done to her?”

  Evis turned his dark spectacles toward me. “Hag Mary. One of the worst of the old-time sorcerers. This is pre-Kingdom stuff, Markhat. Prehistoric. Hag Mary was said to be a fallen Angel, gone mad with being cast down with us mortals.”

  Nonsense. Stitches finally relaxed enough to settle back into her chair. Fallen Angels?

  “You don’t believe in Angels?”

  As I said, nonsense. But whatever her origin, Hag Mary was indeed, for a time, a powerful, formidable sorceress. Her obsession with the Old Ones was her undoing, though, and she spiraled down into madness—both figuratively and literally.

  “How so?”

  She began to excavate a series of prehistoric ruins that lay below Rannit. Deeper and deeper she dug, until she just vanished from sight. Eventually, from memory.

  “You’re sure it’s her that raised the bentans?”

  Her house is long ago fallen, but a number of her personal possessions remained behind. I acquired a minor item myself, some years ago. It retains an arcane signature, one that is an exact match to the one that animates the bentans. There is no mistake. Hag Mary raised those creatures, and Hag Mary set them upon you.

  Darla took my hand. “Why? Why would this…creature do such a thing?”

  I suspect Hag Mary is merely being used. If she was quite insane a millennia ago, she is a gibbering lunatic now—one without the measure of reason required to plot against your husband, Mrs. Markhat, or anyone else. No. Her powers are still formidable, but I doubt they are her own. Someone, or a group of persons, is fearful that Markhat still holds the huldra. Without the Corpsemaster to subdue Markhat, or for that matter to shield him, they have decided to take it, using the most powerful tool they have. Hag Mary.

  “If I had the damned thing, I’d have used it by now. Can’t they see that?”

  Their brand of rationality is hardly compatible with your own, Mr. Markhat. You pose a threat. They seek to eliminate that threat. Most curious, though, is the timing.

  “Our little dinner cruise.” Evis cussed. “You think this is all connected to the presence of our special guest.”

  The Corpsemaster, right hand of the Regency, is fallen. Creatures more ancient than history are stirring. It bears consideration, Mr. Prestley. Careful consideration.

  “We should call it off.” Evis’s words were barely more than a whisper. “Claim engine trouble. Claim anything.”

  “We can’t live here forever,” said Darla. Her grip on my hand was painful. “There has to be a way to prove he wrecked that awful thing!”

  I fear the only way to satiate them is to produce a huldra. Produce it, and give it to them.

  “I don’t suppose we can just have Mama whip up a batch, can we?” I asked.

  I would be surprised if three more remain in all the world. And crafting even a dubious facsimile of such a thing is well beyond my skill, and indeed, beyond the skill of anyone alive. No. You shall have to find another huldra, Markhat. It is the only way.

  Evis appeared to conclude an intense internal debate.

  “We can’t go on with this, knowing that the Regent is probably the target of a coup.” He rose. “I’ve got to speak to the House elders. Stitches, Markhats, make yourselves at home. We’ll talk later.”

  And then he vanished into his back room. The light beneath the door went out.

  Stitches pulled her hood down so that it hid her ruined eyes.

  The day’s exertions have been significant. I trust you will forgive my urgent need for rest.

  With that she went limp and still.

  “We’ll just have to find another huldra,” said Darla, Her voice was cheerful and light, but she forgot to ease her grip on my hand. “Evis will help.”

  I rose. Evis’s icebox beckoned.

  “Bring me one too,” said Darla. She forced a smile. “We might as well make ourselves at home.”

  I found a dozen unlabeled bottles of some honey-colored beer, wiped the sawdust off two, and opened them both before offering one to Darla and then holding up mine for a toast.

  “To life aboard the Brown River Queen,” quoth I. “Where the beds are always soft and the beer is always free.”

  Darla shrugged and joined me in the toast.

  Chapter Ten

  My mother was a strong critic of idle hands. And so, despite Evis’s vow to postpone the Queen’s maiden voyage until sometime after the Last Trump, I set about earning my exorbitant pay.

  I grabbed crew at random and hustled them into a tiny room behind the purser’s sparse office. There was barely room enough for two straight-backed wooden chairs and a tiny stand for my notebook. I grilled my hapless victims on their employment history, their political leanings, and their overall nefarious countenances.

  I raised some hackles and came close to going to bed with a broken nose, but again I found nothing but a couple of closet whisky-fanciers and a steward who’d spent a few nights in the Old Ruth for breaking a couple of windows during the mob riots last spring.

  I had to give Evis and his staff their due. They’d taken great pains to hire people who were either fiercely loyal to Avalante, deeply terrified of Avalante, or both. There’d be no slipping a handful of coppers among them to buy a few moments of looking the other way. No, the purchase of even the slightest act of disloyalty was going to cost someone a fortune.

  Normally, I’d have been encouraged by this. But the kind of people likely to be handing out the coins in this instance simply wouldn’t care.

  I consoled myself with my near certainty that the Queen would not soon be departing for Bel Loit or anywhere else, at least not with the Regent aboard. The man didn’t assume sudden and complete control over Rannit by being an imbecile.

  So I walked the decks and tried in vain to pry open a trace of treachery and sat my butt down to some of the finest meals I’ve ever enjoyed. Darla read and started scribbling furiously in a notebook that had a dainty little clasp and a clever little lock. I tried to catch sight of her writings over her shoulder a time or two, but she always heard me coming and slammed the notebook shut before I caught a glimpse.

  “That’s my little secret,” was all she would say.

  The next day, and the next, passed in that manner. We saw neither Evis nor Gertriss, which only confirmed Darla’s assertion that they had set up housekeeping together.

  It was the day after that, right before dusk, that a shrill new whistle blew three times, just as Dutson was setting our table near the stage.

  Waiters and busboys and cooks and carpenters
all began to rush past, hurrying toward the doors and the open deck beyond it. None looked alarmed. Even Dutson sported a sudden smile.

  “That signals the final piston and boiler test,” he said in reply to the question I hadn’t had time to ask. “Might I suggest we delay our repast for a short time? The Queen will be taking to the river under her own power if all goes well.”

  Darla and I rose as one. The Queen began to hum and shake beneath our feet. The sounds of metal groaning and ironwood beams popping filled the silent casino.

  “This I want to see,” said Darla. I was glad to watch a genuine smile cross her face.

  I moved toward the door, Dutson at my side.

  “So how much do you stand to gain, and which way did you bet?”

  He didn’t bother with a blustered denial.

  “Ten crowns,” he said. “And she’ll be setting forth, mark my words, sir. These men know their business, even if no one else does. Her wheel will turn.”

  We pushed our way onto the crowded deck. I made room for Darla and cleared us a spot right by the rail.

  The starboard side of the Queen’s bright red paddle wheel was just barely visible from where we stood. The wharf and the gangway were on the port side, so we looked out on nothing but the wide, sluggish face of the Brown, which flowed serenely past as if nothing of note was taking place.

  The horn sounded again, three more times. Dutson grinned and gripped the rail.

  “Here we go, sir.”

  A throbbing hum, pitched too low to be called a roar and too powerful to be ignored, rose up through the deck. The throbbing intensified, building and falling in a slow, measured rhythm, rapidly transforming from a throatless growl to a thum-thum-thum reminiscent of the beating of some great unhurried heart.

  The Queen’s blunt bow was right against the dock. I saw ropes flying, cast off by a horde of scurrying deck hands, and I realized the Queen’s first movements would have to be both backwards and against the current.

  The deck shuddered. There came the sound of steel against steel, the sudden piercing hiss of steam, and then the thum-thum-thum doubled in pace and then doubled again. Then, with a clank and a roar, the Queen’s new red wheel began to thrash and turn.