Brown River Queen

by Frank Tuttle

  Unless they brought them aboard in the first place.

  What the devil are you talking about?

  Stitches stood beside me. In one hand she held a glowing glass rod, wrapped in copper wires, with complicated spinning vanes whirling away at each end. A floating crystal ball hung above her other hand. The crystal was lit blood-red from within.

  “Found another body. This one missing her tongue. Mama remembers an old song about Elves.”

  “Sharp eyes, sharp tongue, sharp ears, infant’s lung,” said Mama, giving Stitches a good hard country glare. “That’s how the Elves of olden days took to sneakin’ about, doin’ their killin’.”

  The glow from the crystal ball changed from red to a sudden brilliant white, bright enough to light Stitches’s ruined face. She passed the glass rod over her crystal ball and the noise around us vanished.

  If a living Elf is among us, we are undone.

  “Thanks for the pep talk.”

  Silence. She hummed to her crystal. It muttered back, flashing on each dissonant word. The vanes at the end of her staff began to spit sparks and tiny bolts of crackling lightning.

  “We kilt the last full-blood Elf before my great-great granddaddy’s time,” said Mama. “You reckon somebody was fool enough to lock one down somewhere deep and turn it loose on us?”

  Stitches shrugged, and her crystal ball vanished.

  I cannot say. There is either no unsanctioned magic within the shield, or there is magic beyond the ken of my means to detect it. Markhat. These murders. Could they have been committed by purely mundane means?

  “Somebody cut a woman’s tongue right out of her head, half a dozen steps from fifty people.” I shrugged. “Go ahead. Say an ordinary man with a good sharp knife managed that. We’re still left with the question why. Why not cut her throat, throw the body into the crowd? You want a panic, that’s a good way to start one.”

  “You knows about Elves, don’t ye?” Mama was trying her best not to be insulting. That alone sent shivers down my spine. “Am I right about that old tale, or not?”

  You are correct. Elves were known to collect body parts as components of purely Elvish spell dynamics. The one you reference was reputed to allow easy movement among mankind.

  “Easy movement. As in invisible,” I said.

  I do not know the specifics of the spell. I suppose it is possible.

  The ghost of an idea presented itself.

  “So we’re seeing it now. The Elf or whatever it is. Seeing it—just not recognizing it.”

  Despite my best efforts, that appears to be the case.

  Mama leaned forward, peering at me from behind ragged locks of wild grey hair.

  “Well, tell it, boy. ‘Fore somebody loses ears and such.”

  “Old wives’ tales. You know a lot of them, do you? Mama? Stitches?”

  “I knows ‘em all.”

  I am familiar with Old Kingdom folklore.

  “Then start making a list. Ash-wood and iron against Elves. Salt and milk against ghosts. Butter and corn husks against goblins.”

  “It ain’t butter, it’s buttermilk,” said Mama. “What are ye gettin’ at?”

  “We’ll need a pot. The biggest pot you can find. I want it right here, out where everybody can see it. On the boil, right now.”

  Stitches turned. I didn’t hear what she said, but half a dozen well-muscled waiters gathered quickly around, listened for a moment, and then nodded before hurrying away.

  A portable stove and a stew-pot are on the way. I assume it is to be filled with the contents of our lists?

  “Exactly.”

  “What the hell good will that do, boy? We ain’t likely to find half of what you want, and even if we did, you know damned well most of them old charms is nothin’ but nonsense.”

  “Stitches, can you rig up some kind of magical Elf-hunting dingus? Something to stir the pot with?”

  If I could detect this creature, finder, I assure you I would already have done so.

  “That’s not the point. Listen. If this thing is as old as you think it is, and if it’s been imprisoned or asleep for the last thousand years, it may be as unfamiliar with your new magic and you are with its old.”

  “So you just aims to fool it into thinkin’ we knows a way to hex it?”

  “I want to make it nervous. I want it to think we’re onto it. I want to give it something to be puzzled about for a change.”

  Stitches was silent for a long moment.

  I can offer no superior alternative. She rattled off another round of nonsense words, and the chatter and tinkle and laughter of the casino floor returned. Missus Hog. Shall we begin compiling our list?

  Mama shook her shaggy head. “Ash and iron,” she began. “But it’s got to be new iron, what ain’t never rusted…”

  Finding Evis wasn’t easy. By remaining at the Regent’s side, he’d put himself in the center of a ring of determined bodyguards, and even my winning smile was barely sufficient to charm my way through them.

  By the time I did get close enough to whisper in Evis’s ear, I’d been deprived of Toadsticker, my gun, both my knives, my brass knuckles, and even the coins in my pockets. I was beginning to think my shoes might be confiscated as well, given the somewhat pointy nature of the toes.

  Evis, when I did reach him, was as pale and as weary-looking as any corpse I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.

  I briefed him in whispers, leaving out a detail here and there in case anyone nearby was hiding pointy ears and a pocketful of tongues. He nodded grim assent.

  “Keep her safe,” was all he said. I knew who he meant.

  Then the Regent’s slinky creature turned her gaze upon us, and I sidled quickly away. I managed to retrieve all my items and headed back to check on Mama and Stitches.

  Tables had been cleared to form a space twenty feet across. A silver rolling service cart sat in the middle, its top cut away and a grid of metal rods laid on it to support an enormous steel stew-pot.

  On the bottom shelf of the cart, a small fire was already burning, its flames just beginning to lick the pot.

  Dutson appeared, trying with little success to hide a scowl at the sight of sparks burning scars in his beloved casino floor. He hauled another serving cart behind him, this one filled with glass jugs of water.

  “The water, sir,” he intoned as a trio of waiters filled the stew-pot with the contents of the jugs. “Might I suggest we cover the floor with a cloth of some sort?”

  “Good idea,” I said, hoping my tone didn’t convey my utter disinterest in the state of the Queen’s floor coverings. “See to it, won’t you?”

  He shuffled off, radiating disdain.

  Mama huffed up, her arms filled with jars and brick-a-brac, which she dumped at my feet.

  “I had to knee a cook in his privates, but I got us all the common things,” she said, pointing and muttering. “Salt and sugar. Charcoal from an oven. White flour, corn flour, fresh tobacco, black pepper, red pepper…”

  “Capital,” I said before she could finish her list. Darla poked at the pile with the toe of her shoe.

  “Is that a silver thimble?”

  “It is, and the woman whose hat I snatched it from ain’t happy.” She grinned. “But I reckon gettin’ folks riled up was half the point.”

  I made frantic shushing motions, as Stitches and her silence spell were nowhere near, and Mama was all but outlining the heart of our deception. Mama chuckled and rummaged in her ever-present burlap bag. “I’ll get started on what I gots, boy.” She hauled out a pair of moth-eaten dried owls. “Gonna hex this but good, I tells ye.”

  With that, she plopped down on the floor, used a tiny pot of something black and thick to inscribe a circle around herself and her pile of arcane goodies, and began to mumble and wave her owls over the stack of herbs and trinkets.

  Dutson reappeared, a tarp folded carefully in his hands. He saw Mama, saw her circle, and dropped the tarp in disgust before stomping away without a word.
>
  “There goes my beer supply.”

  “Here’s Evis,” said Darla, nodding off into the shadows. “He doesn’t look happy.”

  He didn’t.

  “The Regent winning big?”

  “Every hand. But that’s not the problem. I’ve lost contact with the shore patrols.”

  “I didn’t know we had shore patrols.”

  “They were secret shore patrols. Four hundred men. Both banks. Keeping pace with us, scouting the woods for any sign of ambush. They reported in every half-hour. They missed the last report and aren’t responding to our messages.”

  “How are you talking to anyone outside the shield?”

  “Longtalker. We’ve improved it. Much smaller, better range.”

  I remembered the enormous, spark-spitting contraption I’d once used, far below Avalante, to speak to Evis from a distance.

  “Maybe it just stopped working.”

  “We’re still in touch with the House,” replied Evis. “No. Something wiped out the patrols. Which means they found an ambush up ahead.”

  Darla handed Evis a drink, which he downed in a single gulp. “So we turn around,” she said. “Go back to Rannit.”

  “That’s what I said. He said no. We are to continue on to Bel Loit, no change in course or speed. No discussion.”

  I took a good hard look around. “So we turn around anyway.”

  “Half the crew is ready to do just that,” said Evis. He crushed the glass in his hand. “We can’t, Markhat. His people could run the Queen without any of us. They’d not hesitate to butcher us all if it came to that. You know we can’t take them.”

  I cussed. Darla pretended not to notice.

  “We’re being used.”

  “From the start. Damn it all. Look. Take this.” He pressed a long fat key into my hand. “Behind the stage. Right center. Waist level. There’s a knothole in the wainscoting shaped like a face. Stick this in the nose. The dunway behind it leads to a fake boiler down in the engine room. It’s lined with lead, silver, everything we could think of to keep the occupants safe from magical attack and physical blows. Not even Stitches knows. Use it if you have to.”

  “Maybe it won’t come to that.”

  “Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “One more thing. The Regent knows about the huldra somehow. Said he wants you to let his companion hold it for a second. Claims she can jazz it up.”

  I didn’t like that. His knowing or his help, either one.

  Darla put her hand on Evis’s shoulder. “What about you? Where will you go, if…”

  “I started this mess. Put my people in harm’s way. I’ll see it through. Make sure Gertriss gets there with you. Markhat, I never told you this, but you married above your station. Angels help us all.”

  And he turned and was gone, vampire-quick.

  Stitches appeared at the edge of our cleared space, a pair of duffle bags thrown over her shoulder. They looked heavy but she bore them as if they were filled with feathers and moonlight.

  Darla said nothing as I gave her the key.

  “Mind my sacred-ass circle,” gruffed Mama as Stitches neared.

  I have the items we require, said Stitches, dropping her duffels close to Mama. A work table would speed the process.

  “Too good to sit on the floor,” said Mama with a sniff.

  “One work table on the way,” I said before Mama could further expand her oratory on the spoiled nature of modern sorcerers. Darla was already at the nearest table, though, brushing aside the protests of its current occupants first with her winning smile and then with a casual wave of her unladylike gun.

  I fetched the chair.

  Once seated, Stitches worked quickly to erect her apparatus, which she positioned right next to the steaming steel stew-pot. Within moments she had constructed a sturdy metal scaffold, through which a complex system of glass tubes and copper hoses began to take shape. Glass globes fitted to accept tubes and lines were hung, wires were strung, and within minutes, sparks and glows came to life amid the turnings and workings, raising a chorus of ohs and ahs from the crowd that gathered at a respectful distance.

  Mama glared at the circles of faces fixed on Stitches and her apparatus. “Well, it’s awful purty, if ye are wantin’ to decorate a young-uns play-room,” she grumbled. She snapped her fingers and barked out a word, causing a column of burning, coiling smoke to shoot from her pile of items. People screamed and leaped back. Mama hid a grin and went back to her muttering.

  Your Mama Hog is quite the performer, said Stitches in what I recognized as her version of a whisper in my head.

  “I’ll ask her to tone it down,” I whispered back at her.

  No. The showier the better. I plan similar theatrics of my own.

  “Can’t wait to see them.” I found a long copper ladle and stirred the bubbling pot. “Think we’re going to live through this?”

  She just shrugged and busied herself with her sputtering, burbling machine.

  Darla joined me at the pot, holding a napkin at arm’s length and wrinkling her nose. She shook the cloth out in the pot, eyed the stain left behind by something malodorous, and dumped the napkin in as well.

  I stirred, turning my face away from the sudden rotting-meat stench.

  “Tell me that did not come from the kitchen,” I said.

  She was about to reply when the dead man came walking down the grand stairs.

  I’d wrapped him in a blanket. I’d checked him for a pulse. I’d never forget that bloody eyeless face. I knew it was him, up and moving, though no spark of life remained.

  People saw and screamed. A few rushed to help. Even in the dim light, you could easily see that his eyes had been gouged out. The way he walked, wobbly-legged, arms held out before him, made him appear gravely injured.

  Before I could do more than draw my gun, the first of his would-be rescuers reached him. The dead man fell toward them, arms stretched wide, and caught two in a tight embrace. They all three went down, rolling and flapping, finally landing in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

  By then I’d managed to shove my way nearly there. I was close enough to hear the two men the corpse had grabbed start screaming, close enough to see them stumble to their feet, clawing at their own eyes, charging headlong into the crowd.

  The dead man rose, laid his hands on the chest of the man nearest him.

  That man too began screaming.

  Then the screaming man took up a fork and put out his own eyes.

  I threw someone aside and took careful aim and put all six rounds square in the dead man’s chest.

  I might as well have tossed roses. He opened his mouth and made a wet burbling noise and came stomping toward me.

  My gunfire had at least scattered the crowd. I backed away at a quick walk, waving my arms and keeping the blind corpse moving toward me. I figured I had a good twenty feet of floor before my back found the wall.

  I hadn’t figured on an overturned chair. I tripped over the damned thing, dropped my fresh slugs, nearly let the corpse lay a cold white hand on me before I managed to scramble up and scamper away.

  Darla appeared, guns blazing. Her shots had no more effect than mine.

  I drew Toadsticker. Before I could swing him, a dozen halfdead sailed down the stairs, and twice that poured out of the shadows behind us.

  They fell on the dead man like furious crows, silver blades flashing. I saw him grab, saw him take hold a few times, but the halfdead just shrugged him off and kept hacking.

  Their blows had far less effect than they should have. Swords broke. Crossbow bolts barely penetrated the dead man’s loose skin—until the Regent’s creature entered the fray.

  She didn’t charge in. She didn’t even rush. She strolled up to the dead man, plucked a pair of halfdead out of his grasp and cast them away. When the walking corpse laid his hands upon her, she simply took hold of his wrists and held them still.

  The ring of halfdead closed in, blades flashing. Where a moment ago their sw
ords had been useless, now they bit deep. Thick black blood flew.

  It didn’t take long. Darla turned away. I loaded my gun and put it in my pocket and joined the ring of halfdead at the corpse.

  The pieces still twitched and struggled. The mouth worked, teeth clacking, white tongue testing the air like some blind damp worm. The hands still tried to crawl and clench into fists, though each was pinned to the deck with a fine silver blade.

  Small groups of halfdead managed to push the gamblers who’d been touched against the floor. All but one writhed and bellowed. Blood pooled under the still man, black in the dim light.

  “Boy,” said Mama Hog, who came stamping up behind me, her infamous meat cleaver in one hand and a red-tipped fire poker in the other. “Boy, that wand-waver needs you, right now.”

  I didn’t have to ask. A dozen halfdead nodded and broke ranks, flanking me and Mama without a word or a sound.

  Stitches was standing near the stage, her metal-vaned staff glowing in her hands. Darla was beside her, guns drawn.

  Do not come near. Sorcery is at work here.

  I approached to stand by Darla. Mama stomped up as well, keeping the hot end of her poker in constant motion.

  “What the hell?”

  Things looked almost normal, at first. Couples were dancing, some in the decadent modern style made recently popular by a finder and his wife, some in the formal bows and turns of an Old Kingdom dance.

  The casino was largely empty. The appearance of the walking dead has a tendency to clear a room. But these people danced, and danced, and from the looks of horror on their faces, and the way their jaws worked—trying to scream—it was obvious they were being compelled to dance.

  “Dammit, tell the musicians to stop,” I said.

  “They can’t,” said Darla. “None of them can.”

  A woman twirled past, her arms raised, her feet moving in perfect time to the waltz. She should have been smiling.

  She was trying to cry out.

  A man rushed up to her, shouting and pleading. He stood in her way and she knocked him aside. He tried to grab her, to pick her up and carry her away, but even with her feet off the floor, she continued to spin and twirl, dragging him with her.