The Mister Trophy

by Frank Tuttle

  I widened my smile. “My clients will of course be happy to pay for information,” I said. “I believe they’d be most generous.”

  He was about to speak. He knew better, but something that looked like an uneven combination of guilt and greed had tipped the scales, just like I’d hoped it would.

  The doors on the far side of the foyer suddenly banged open and a small, well-dressed army of cooks, gardeners and coachmen marched inside, a tall cadaverous butler at the fore. “Get out,” he said, addressing me with the boldness that comes with knowing you’ve got the other guy hopelessly outnumbered. “Leave this House at once.”

  The doorman with things to tell joined his comrades, his eyes downcast, his jaw set and grim. Whatever he’d wanted to say was gone, and I doubted I’d ever tempt it forth again.

  But I didn’t need specifics to know I’d found at least part of what I’d come for.

  I fixed the skinny butler in a steely glare. “Your shoes could use a shine, Reeves,” I told him. “I won’t have you besmirching the House with your sloth again.”

  Then I hung my nose in the air and beat it out of there. I was sure they’d throw me out anyway—I just wasn’t sure they’d open the door first.

  I put the tall dark houses and the big green lawns to my back and set a brisk pace. The wind in my face was off the Brown River; it stank of dead fish and cattle-barges and, always, something burning, but I sucked down lungfuls of it anyway. House Haverlock had smelled of undertaker’s flowers, and mortuary perfumes, but even the combination of both couldn’t quite erase the odor of death that rode the air in every ornate hall or well-appointed room.

  But I’d stomped on a memory in the old doorman, and that caused me to remember something as well—stories about a big dust-up in the Heights about ten years back. Half-dead in-fighting is hardly unusual—they kill each other much more often than they kill us day folk—but this clash had been unusual in that most of a five-House common hall was demolished and half-dead were actually spotted fleeing the scene, cloaks flapping, shiny shoes a blur.

  What if Mister Smith wasn’t the first Troll to come calling in the Heights?

  Somebody bumped into me and cussed because I’d stopped dead in my tracks. I muttered an apology and took off.

  Even Trolls, it seems, like to edit their truths.

  Chapter Two

  I sat in my office and watched the sun sink. Nine bells rang and curfew fell across Rannit like the ragged cloak it is, which meant that the brave, the foolish and the felonious were still very much out and about. The Watch would stop a few curfew-breakers, send a few home and make “Well, what do you expect?” faces at missing persons reports tomorrow.

  I stowed the Trolls out of sight but in easy reach. Mister Smith was in my room behind the office. Mister Jones was in Mama Hog’s, next door. Mister Chin was squeezed in the alley two Troll-strides down the street.

  There’s a street-lamp right across from my door, and every shadow it cast at my office was that of a half-dead, slinking my way with murder on its lips and mayhem on its mind. I got out my old Army field knife and laid into the long steel blade with a whetstone, pausing to admire its edge only when a shadow bobbed toward my door.

  Two hours after Curfew, he came.

  I never saw a shadow.

  I looked up and my door was opening and there it was, tall and thin and pale. Filmy eyes that looked like dirty marbles met mine.

  I put down the knife.

  Blue lips pulled back from wet white teeth. “You are the finder Markhat?”

  I nodded. The Trolls might as well have been a million miles away.

  “I am Liam. I come on behalf of Haverlock.”

  I found my voice. “Nice to meet you. Pull up a chair. I’ll have the butler bring us drinks.”

  Liam sat, dead eyes boring into mine like he could see secret things written on my bones. “No wise-cracks, Finder,” he said. “I was sent here to kill you. Rip you apart, specifically. I’m trying to do this another way. You aren’t helping. So again I ask—why did you come to Haverlock today?”

  I gave up trying to keep up with his unblinking half-dead stare. “I came on behalf of a client,” I said. “A Troll client. He wants to know if a dead relative wound up decorating your master’s trophy room. I came to Haverlock to see. I believe I explained all that to your domestic staff, before they cited a dress code and showed me to the curb.”

  “What did you see,” it said, leaning a hair’s breadth closer. “And what did you tell?”

  “I told my Troll friend I was tossed out,” I said, adding a little emphasis to the word “friend”. “I told him I saw no Troll heads. I also told him I think it’s there, somewhere.”

  It lifted a pale eyebrow. “You told the Troll that?”

  “I did.” I forced my eyes back toward his. “And I was right. It’s there, or you’d be out grabbing breakfast instead of sitting here making spooky eyes at me.”

  It grinned. Just for a heartbeat, but it grinned a crooked grin and I saw the ghost of the man it once was.

  “You got a mouth, Markhat,” it said. “Reminds me of me, once upon.”

  I guess I ogled. It shook its head. “Surprised I’m still human?” it asked. “I’m full of surprises tonight. First, I’m not going to kill you, so that Troll next door can put down his axe and relax.”

  “He likes holding his axe,” I said. “Keeps him from getting fidgety.”

  Liam grinned again. “We wouldn’t want that. In fact, we don’t want any trouble at all. So what if—and this is just a what if—what if I gave you a certain Troll artifact that may have mistakenly wound up here after the War? What if I apologized, and handed it over, and walked away? What then?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Is this you talking, or old man Haverlock?”

  “Doesn’t matter to you. Answer the question.”

  “It does matter, and you answer mine. You or Haverlock?”

  He ground his teeth. “Do you know what happens to us when we get old?”

  “Fancy dentures?”

  His fist hit my desk, and the mask of humanity fell away. “Some go insane. Haverlock is insane. He wants you dead and your Troll friend dead and he’ll risk the whole House over a moth-eaten curio nobody has seen for ten years. Some of us don’t share his mania. Now answer my question.”

  I shrugged. “I just don’t know,” I said. “Maybe the Troll will walk. I doubt it—Trolls don’t work that way. The honor of the clan has been besmirched. One of their cousins spent twenty years wandering around the Happy Hunting Ground without a head to whistle with.”

  “What about wereguild? We could pay.”

  “Trolls don’t want your money.”

  It ground its teeth again. “I’ll ask my Troll,” I said. “But not with you sitting here. You’re a Haverlock—he’s honor-bound to start the War again if you two wind up in the same room.”

  “I’ll be back.” Liam rose, and a man with a proper skeleton never moved like that. “I hope you have good news.”

  “Sit back down,” I said. “You’ve left out a few things.”

  He kept standing, but cocked an eyebrow and stood still.

  “You haven’t told me how I stay alive after I wave goodbye to my Troll pal, if he takes your offer,” I said. “Say Haverlock goes to cuddle his favorite War trophy, finds it gone. Say Haverlock finds out that the finder Markhat is still walking around with his head and all his limbs attached. Won’t the Haverlock fly into a snit and send less contemplative boys back around my door, late one night?”

  Liam’s dry eyes narrowed. “Haverlock will no longer be a threat to you, Finder,” he said. “Or to anyone else.”

  “Time for a change in top-level management?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And we all live happily ever after.”

  Liam hesitated, mulling that one over. “Yes. We live.”

  I stood. “I’ll ask my Troll. We’ll see. When will you be back?”

  “L
ater,” it said, turning and grasping the doorknob.

  “Watch your step out there,” I said. “Gets rough in the neighborhood, after Curfew.”

  It turned in the doorway and grinned.

  “Especially tonight,” it said.

  The door shut.

  I hit the chair seat and fought back the first case of the shakes I’d had since the War.

  Mister Smith’s heavy treads sounded at my door. “Come on in,” I yelled. “We’re always open.”

  The Troll squeezed inside.

  “I heard all,” said Mister Smith. He loomed over my desk, a mountain of fangs and fur, but he blinked and breathed and looked downright friendly compared to the Liam-thing. “You were brave in the presence of death,” said the Troll. “Your spirit is strong.”

  “My spirit is scared,” I replied. “My spirit hopes and prays you can just take your cousin’s head and let bygones be bygones.”

  “He said he would apologize, did he not?”

  “He said so.”

  “And does he speak for the clan Haverlock?”

  I hesitated. “He speaks for those among clan Haverlock who think their master insane. He speaks for those who would remove the eldest Haverlock as leader, and put another in his place. Will that do?”

  Mister Smith crouched down and got comfortable while his translator gargled and barked. He grumbled back at it a few times—asking, I suppose, for clarifications of weird human concepts like removing and replacing clan leaders.

  “If we receive the head of our cousin and an apology from clan Haverlock,” he said at last, “We will be satisfied.”

  “Who must give you the apology?” I asked.

  “Clan Haverlock,” said his translator. “He who speaks for the clan,” it added, before I could ask again.

  “That won’t be the same guy that actually stole the head,” I said. “I want to make sure you understand that.”

  Mister Smith blinked and burped. “Naturally not,” spoke the translator. “It will no longer be possible for him to do so.”

  I took in a deep breath. “I knew this was going too well,” I muttered. “Too easy.”

  The translator started sloshing that out. “What I meant,” I said, “was that I’ve missed something here. Tell me—why don’t you expect old man Haverlock to apologize?”

  Mister Smith chuckled. “Because,” he said, “part of the apology is the balance of insults. Haverlock kept the bones of my cousin these twenty summers. We will keep his bones for the same span. Honor will be restored, both to our clan and his. Is this not the way of all thinking beings?”

  “So I have to give you old man Haverlock’s bones.”

  “We’ll go and fetch them, if necessary.”

  I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. “I bet you would.” I said. “But they’ll be waiting and even the three of you wouldn’t make it off the Hill tonight.”

  “We might.”

  “You’d die,” I said. “And that would be my fault and who would balance my honor?”

  Mister Smith’s brow furrowed. “You have no clan?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Clanless Markhat, that’s what they call me. No one to wash my socks.” I stood and stretched.

  Something heavy hit the wall outside. Plaster cracked by my doorframe. There was a muffled thud, a squeal like a stepped-on puppy, and a wet tearing sound.

  A Troll voice came from the street. Mister Smith growled back.

  “One of what you call the half-dead approached,” said Mister Smith. “Not the one called Liam of the House Haverlock. This new half-dead withdrew a weapon and approached your door.”

  “What was the ruckus?” I croaked.

  “Mister Jones,” said Mister Smith. “He is sorry. He meant to leave the half-dead creature able to answer to you for the insult to your house, but he fears he squashed it. Shall we see?”

  Something thin and dark was beginning to seep in under the door.

  “Bring me its clothes,” I said. “Toss the rest in a garbage box, if you please.”

  Mister Smith rumbled. There was a shuffling outside, and more liquid tearing noises. Mister Jones was having trouble deciding where clothes ended and half-dead began.

  If it was one of the Haverlocks, I probably wouldn’t live to see Liam’s coup begin. If it belonged to another House, that meant word had spread and someone had decided a Troll vendetta might do to Haverlock what a dozen Families couldn’t. And what better way to touch things off than by bopping off that meddlesome Markhat?

  Mister Jones shoved a wad of clothes through the door. They were wet, and it wasn’t raining.

  I stuck my Army knife in the bundle, plopped it down on my desk, and spread things out with the blade.

  Black pants, black shirt, black coat, black cloak. And one black shoe, foot still comfortably ensconced.

  The shirt-buttons bore tiny dragon heads.

  “He was of House Lathe,” I said. “Not one of Haverlock’s boys.”

  I bundled things back up. “These can go with the rest,” I said. “And thank Mister Jones for me.”

  Mister Smith made rumbles. Mister Jones bowed—I’d never seen a Troll do that before. Then he took the bundle and faded away.

  “Will there be more?” asked Mister Smith.

  “Could be,” I said. “But we’ve got to wait here for Liam.”

  “We will be vigilant,” said Mister Smith. “Fear not.”

  I settled back and grabbed my useless whetstone.

  We waited, my Trolls and I. Mister Smith crouched in the corner and used my desk as an armrest. Mister Jones leaned against the wall outside my door and cleaned his foot-long claws. We kept Mister Chin hidden inside Mama Hog’s, and from the gurgling and choking I guessed that he and Mama Hog were gabbing away like spinster aunts. I’d told Mama Hog to stay with a friend until this mess was over. She’d pretended not to hear.

  Mister Jones growled a couple times between dusk and the tenth hour, but nothing and no one came closer than the corner. I got sleepy despite the steady whirlwind wheeze of Mister Smith’s breathing and the knowledge that dozens of night people might be licking pale lips and heading my way.

  The Watch sounded the eleventh hour. The bell wasn’t yet still when Mister Chin rumbled something long and nasty and Mister Smith unfolded and stood.

  “One comes,” said Mister Smith. “Mister Jones thinks it is he who came before.”

  “Let him in,” I said, standing and slipping my Marine knife in a pocket. “Squash him if he makes rude comments.” I added that in a loud, clear voice I was sure our visitor heard.

  The door opened. It was Liam. He stepped inside, and his face in my lamplight looked pink around the edges.

  “Have a nice supper?” I asked.

  He grinned. His mouth was red and wet.

  “I suppose we have a deal,” he said quietly. “Or is this an ambush?”

  “We have a deal,” I said. “And us Trolls don’t do ambushes. Besmirches our honor.”

  Liam nodded. He hadn’t looked at Mister Smith directly, and he wisely refrained from an eye-to-eye now. “You may retrieve your parcel tomorrow. At a time and a place that will be communicated to you later, via messenger.”

  I frowned. “Why not tell me now?”

  He frowned back. His frown was meaner than mine. “We both have interests to protect. Tomorrow. By messenger. Or else.”

  Mister Smith growled. I shrugged. “Tomorrow, then.”

  “Might I make a suggestion?” said Liam.

  “Make away.”

  “Bring your associates and come with me,” he said. “I can take you to a place of safety, for the night.”

  Mister Smith made boot-in-mud noises his translator didn’t bother to translate.

  “Much as I love slumber parties,” I said, “I think we’ll pass on this one. Thanks anyway.”

  Liam shook his head. “You’ve been seen. You’ve been heard. The wrong people want to make trouble by killing you or attacking the Walking Stones j
ust so Haverlock will have its own private Troll war.”

  “Do tell.”

  Liam cursed. “Three Trolls can’t hold off a dozen Families,” he said. “No offense intended.”

  “None taken,” said Mister Smith, in Kingdom. “But until our insult has been balanced, we may not accept the hospitality of your House.”

  “They are coming,” said Liam, wet lips a tight line across his pale face. “They are coming.”

  “And we stand ready,” grumbled Mister Smith. “Ready to fight. Ready to die.” He puffed up and out, claws slipping out of sheaths, eyes narrowing, muscles tightening and bulking.

  I bit back stammering noises. Liam shrugged. “If you live, you will be told tomorrow when and where to meet.”

  “See to your own life,” said Mister Smith. “We shall see to ours.”

  Liam gave me a long look out of those dead eyes. I tried to look confident and tough and wound up sneezing.

  He left, noiseless as a shadow. The door shut and Mister Smith deflated and I mopped sweat off my brow.

  Mister Smith grumbled something short and loud. Misters Jones and Chin growled back.

  “We go,” he said to me.

  “Go where?” I asked.

  “Underneath. Below. To the tunnels that wind beneath your streets.”

  “Not the sewers.” Please, not the sewers.

  “The sewers,” he said, barking again at his friends. “Quickly.”

  My speech about how Liam was right and how we couldn’t hold off a Night People offensive in my shabby ten-by-ten office and how we had to hide was hastily rewriting itself to exclude Rannit’s sewer system as the hiding place. “What about ‘we fight, we die?’” I asked. “What happened to bravery and heroism?”

  Mister Smith rolled his eyes. “Load of crap,” he said. “Time to fight, we fight. Time to run, we run. Now is time to run. With haste.”

  And so we went, with haste. The Trolls glided, noiseless as clouds. I trotted, feet thumping, pockets jingling until I tossed a handful of jerks out in the gutter. We charged all the way down Cambrit and turned the corner at Artifice and then darted into the foul-smelling alley by Barlett’s Butcher Shop.

  Halfway down the moonlit alley, Mister Chin halted, stooped, rose and vanished. Mister Jones trotted to the same spot and dropped out of sight as well. Mister Smith put a sausage-sized finger in my back and gave me a friendly nudge. “We prepared several egresses some days ago,” he said. “You have but to step into the hole and drop. The Misters will catch you safe.”