by Frank Tuttle
“He don’t care nothing for you, boy.”
“Gertriss, then?”
“I fears it.”
Damn. Gertriss had started to tell me once why she’d left Pot Lockney, the pastoral ancestral abode of Hog women since time began. We’d never finished that conversation. I’d never asked, assuming she’d finish the story when she was good and ready.
Now, though, I’d need to press for answers.
I started to speak, but Mama raised a bony finger to her lips and nodded toward Buttercup, who played with dolls at my feet.
I forget sometimes Buttercup is a centuries-old banshee who understands far more Kingdom than she chooses to speak.
“I need to know this, Mama.”
“Tried to tell you once, didn’t I? And as I recall you got all uppity about people needin’ their privacy.”
“That was before the Sprangs tried to carve out my kidneys.”
Mama stirred. “Well. From what I hears, and this is all third-hand mind ye, I reckon she kilt a man who-,” Mama hesitated, picking words carefully, “-who got determined with her. I ain’t got no use for a man what mistreats woman. No use at all.”
Whatever was in the pot threatened to come sloshing over the side. Mama cussed and slowed her stirring before continuing.
“Sounds to me like she did what she had to do.”
“There’s some what don’t see it that way.”
“These Sprangs. They his family?”
“That’s where it gets bothersome, boy. The man she kilt was a Suthom, from over Gobbler way. Ain’t no relation to the Sprangs.”
I frowned. Buttercup saw and handed me the doll she was cooing wordlessly to.
“Thanks, sweetie.” I took the doll by its hands and made it dance on my knee. “So why did these Sprangs come looking for Gertriss?”
“That Suthom boy she killed. Word is he had bought a big patch of farmland from the Sprangs. He was figurin’ on settin’ up with Gertriss there. Well, he paid them half, promised the rest. But she kilt him before he delivered. I reckon they figure she took the half of the money he was holdin’, and I reckon they wants it.”
I nearly forgot to keep the doll dancing.
“Whoa. They came all this way looking for Gertriss because they think she has half of the money a dead man promised them for a farm he’ll never live on?”
“You a city boy. Listen. That Suthom promised that there money to them Sprangs. In their way of thinking, Gertriss was his, and that means she promised it too. So he might be dead, but she ain’t, and by old law she still half-owns that patch of dirt and she owes them half that money.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“Them Sprangs look like they was jokin’, boy?”
“No. No, they didn’t.” I gave Buttercup’s dolly a big dance finish and handed it back to her. She clapped her hands and giggled and hugged me before scampering off to Mama’s back room.
“So if that’s all true, why jump me? They figure I owe them money too?”
Mama grumped and looked away, but I got a glimpse of her face before she turned, and I’ve been a resident of Cambrit Street long enough to recognize Mama’s many faces. I was seeing the rarest of all her faces-the guilty one.
“Mama.”
“Well, they must have got word Gertriss is workin’ for you now.”
“That isn’t reason to start carving on me, is it?”
Mama gave the contents of her pot a glare.
“I reckon word might have got around that she was a mite more than any ol’ employee.”
I groaned. I’d surmised that myself before she spoke the words.
I’d also surmised how the Sprangs, and everyone else in rural Pot Lockney, might have gotten those particular words.
“Why, Mama? Tell me that.”
“Boy, I didn’t think they’d come stomping to Rannit aimin’ to spill blood. I swears I didn’t. A man from the city? A man what knows city people, knows the Dark Houses by name?” She gave her potion a savage turn. “I reckoned them stump jumpers would stay put and let that damn land sit fallow for five seasons, and then it would be theirs and no trouble for us. You.”
“I hate to point out the obvious, Mama, but that isn’t the way things are turning out.”
“I knows it. I’m sorry, boy. But there’s something else a goin’ on here. Something I don’t know about.”
“Do tell.”
“But I aims to find it out. I aims to put it right.”
“I hope you aim to do that before the Watch cuts the Sprangs loose.” I shook my head and had a disturbing thought. “How many Sprangs are there, anyway, Mama? Are there are more of them out there, sharpening their knives and planning trips to Rannit?”
“I don’t know, boy. But I will be a findin’ out.”
“You know we’ll have to tell Gertriss.”
“I know. I’ll be the one.”
“I’ll come back around when I’m done with a bit of snooping. Don’t worry, Mama. She’ll be mad, but she’ll get over it.”
Mama shrugged, unconvinced. Her relations with her niece hadn’t been what Mama was hoping for. This incident wasn’t going to help, not one bit.
Kids. They grow up, whether anyone likes it or not.
I rose, waved goodbye to Buttercup, and headed for Mama’s door.
“Back before Curfew,” I said. “Better make sure you check the peephole before you open up.”
“I ain’t stupid, boy. And I ain’t likely to get bushwhacked by the likes of no Sprangs, neither.”
I bit back a retort and headed for the street.
My plan was to head downtown and pay Darla’s friend Tamar a visit. Darla would be hurt if I sent Gertriss instead, and even more hurt if I kept Tamar waiting all day.
That was my plan.
I had to change it when the Corpsemaster’s black carriage came rolling down my street.
People scattered. Doors and shutters slammed. Hell, the crows picking scraps off the street took to the air and flapped away, all business, without so much as a single harsh caw.
Fool me, the only one left standing when the horseless black carriage rolled to a buzzing halt.
The buzzing came from the cloud of flies that engulfed the accursed contrivance. The cabdriver was a dead man, who sat atop the carriage and grinned down at me from a face that was mostly skull. I wondered what small fault won him his place atop the black carriage.
He clacked his lipless teeth in greeting. I think he would have dismounted and opened the door for me had I not reached out and opened it myself.
There’s no point in denying Hisvin’s carriage.
Not unless you wish to wind up sitting atop it.
I clambered in.
Evis was there, wrapped in yards and yards of black silk and hiding his eyes behind the black lenses of those fancy spectacles the halfdead favor on their rare daytime excursions.
Seated across from him was a dead woman. She hadn’t been dead long. The undertaker’s rouge on her cheeks and the make-up on her hands lent her a nearly lifelike appearance.
“Good morning, Mr. Markhat,” she said. Her voice seemed natural, save for a slight slurring. Her gums behind her too-red lips were white. “I trust you won’t mind if I take up a portion of your day?”
I nodded a grim hello at Evis, unable to read his eyes behind the dark glasses.
“Always happy to be about the Regent’s business.”
The Corpsemaster laughed through the dead woman’s throat. “Well put, finder. I believe you know Mr. Prestley.”
“He’s in trouble too?”
She ignored me.
“There is a thing I wish to show both of you. I can, of course, count on your discretion afterward.”
She hadn’t spoken it as a question. The threat was clear enough.
I settled back into my seat. It was cushioned and it rode on springs to smooth out the potholes. Had it been any other seat in any other carriage I’d have been glad of the luxury.
“This thing-”
The dead woman raised a finger to her dry pursed lips.
“Nice seats in this carriage,” I finished.
The dead woman smiled. Evis rustled in his silks. I wasn’t sure he was awake. I hear the slumber of a halfdead is akin to a coma.
We rattled on. The dead cabman cracked his whip at horses that weren’t there, while a dead woman watched me through eyes gone flat and dry.
All in all, my day was off to a decidedly rocky start.
Evis began to snore.
I clasped my hands behind my head and leaned back into the Corpsemaster’s fancy carriage seat. If Evis was so unconcerned he could slumber, I wasn’t going to be seen fretting.
The Corpsemaster smiled.
“I should’ve brought a picnic basket,” she said. Her smile was so wide it cracked the thick undertaker’s rouge and let slivers of grey peek through at each dimple. “We’re going to have such fun.”
I didn’t ask. I didn’t dare.
I was getting sleepy. It was happening so quickly I almost didn’t notice it. My eyes drooped shut and I caught myself and opened them with a start, terrified at the prospect of dozing off across from Encorla Hisvin, sure that would be construed as a mortal insult to one who bore no insult, however slight.
My arms fell to my sides, heavy as wet sand, and suddenly just as useful.
“Sleep now,” whispered the dead woman. My vision was failing. She leaned forward toward me and stroked my cheek with fingers oh so cold. “Better if you sleep.”
I didn’t have words. Didn’t have the strength left to speak them.
“Sleep.”
I fought with everything I had. Lasted maybe another pair of heartbeats.
I hoped I wouldn’t dream.
Somebody had my right arm and was yanking on it.
“Wake up,” shouted a gruff voice, so close to my ear I could feel warm breath. “You’re too damned heavy to carry.”
The voice was male and unfamiliar. I managed to open my eyes about the time I went spilling out of Hisvin’s carriage and onto the cobblestones below.
An effort was made to catch me, but it was halfhearted and accompanied by a pair of loud guffaws.
I landed, rolled, stood. I would have punched someone in the gut had my eyes not been blinded by a sun that beamed down hot and bright.
“You’re awake. Good. Here’s some water. You’ll want it.”
A cold pitcher was pressed into my hand. I squinted about me, trying to arrange my most recent memories into some semblance of order so I’d know who to hit first.
“Drink it,” said a different voice. “The longer you wait the worse your head will hurt. The Corpsemaster’s naps aren’t the restful, healing kind.”
“Do tell,” I managed. My throat was so dry it came out in a rasp. I gave up on any plans for pugilistic retribution and drank.
The water was cold and clear. It tasted of peppermint and another herb I couldn’t name.
“I’m Piper. This is Lopside.”
I lowered the pitcher.
The sun wasn’t just hot and bright. It was far too hot, far too bright. And it was beaming down out of a sky so blue it appeared to have been freshly scrubbed and painted.
Hadn’t the sky been the color of old lead when I’d set foot in the Corpsemaster’s black carriage?
It was hot. Summer hot, dog days hot, not the milder early spring hot it should have been.
Chills made tiny footsteps up and down my spine. How long had I been in that damned carriage?
I mopped sweat. Felt my clothes stick to me. Hell, I was soaked.
My shadow was pooled and tiny at my feet, on cobblestones that made up a circle maybe twenty yards across. There were patterns set into the circle, formed by swoops and swirls of copper and lead that intersected and wove and parted and looped in ways that made my eyes water.
I thought at first the cobblestone circle was fenced at its perimeter. But as my eyes and head cleared, I could see that while the circle was bounded by a ring of waist-high stakes topped with ornaments of some kind. There was no fencing between them.
Beyond the circle was an endless plain of swaying green grass that flowed like a sea away in every direction. No trees. No walls. Not a hint of Rannit. Nothing but tall green grass rippling in the wind.
And no telltale sign of wagon-wheel ruts that might mark the long way home.
“What the Hell?”
Piper and Lopside snickered. “You all say that,” said Piper.
Piper was little more than a kid. His face still bore an enthusiastic crop of pimples. His Army uniform was too short at the ankles and the sleeves, which only accentuated his boyish appearance.
He wore plain Army dress blues. But the uniform, though familiar, wasn’t complete. His name wasn’t sewn over his chest. No unit identifier. There was no collar insignia, nothing to mark him as infantry or cavalry or sorcerer’s corps or Wagoner. He showed no sign of rank at all. The Sarge would have burst a vein at the sight of such a uniform.
“Would you mind waking your pal, Mr. Markhat?” asked the other man. “I’d rather not startle a halfdead, no disrespect intended, sir.”
Lopside was maybe my age. His uniform matched Piper’s, in that it didn’t tell me a damned thing.
“You didn’t seem to mind startling me.”
“Kids these days.” He rolled his eyes at Piper. “Maybe this will help. You’re a guest of the Corpsemaster. This place doesn’t have a name, because it doesn’t officially exist, but we call it the Battery. Everyone who comes here arrives asleep. You’ll leave the same way, get back home a few hours after you left. No, I don’t know where we are in relation to Rannit. No, I don’t know where the trees went. And no, I don’t know why it’s so damned hot. It’s been this way for eight months. You get used to it.”
I drank some more water.
“Fine. I’ll wake my friend. One question first.”
“I probably can’t answer it. But I’ll try.”
“You said everyone arrives asleep. Who is everyone? Who else comes here?”
“Can’t answer that.”
“Didn’t think so.” But it hadn’t hurt to try. I tossed him the pitcher and eased my way into the carriage.
“Evis,” I said. I poked him gently. “Wake up.”
He didn’t stir. He’d managed to cover his face in a fold of his cloak and I braced myself and yanked it back, exposing his pale face to the sun.
If Lopside hadn’t grabbed me by my belt and hauled me out of the carriage ass-first my career as a finder might have ended then and there, at the hands of a grumpy vampire.
“Evis,” I said, mopping blood off my cheek. “It’s me, dammit. Wake up.”
“Finder?” I kept my distance while Evis composed himself. “What the Hell?”
“Told you,” muttered Piper.
I sighed and grabbed the pitcher.
Chapter Three
Once Evis was shielded from the sun, we set out.
The cobblestone circle, Lopside explained, was just the point of arrival. Leading away from it was a cobblestone path that bore the same metallic swoops and turns as the circle. I learned quickly not to try and follow their meandering path, because that made one’s walk unsteady. Piper and Lopside were clear on the deadly consequences of stepping off the path.
The things lurking in the grass, they explained, were always hungry.
The path, like the circle, was lined with waist-high wooden stakes each painted a cheery white.
Human skulls watched from atop each stake. Fresh white skulls, so new they gleamed. Each skull bore an equally preserved pair of bright blue eyes, and every set of eyes in every gleaming skull followed you as you passed.
“Twenty-two thousand, eight hundred and six,” said Lopside as we walked.
Evis was faster to catch on than I.
“How long did it take you to count them?”
“A month. We get bored sometimes.”
Skul
ls. They were talking about the skulls. Twenty-odd thousand.
I moved my ass to the center of the path.
“How much farther?” Evis’s voice was strained. Even beneath yards of black silk, I imagined that impossible sun was bright enough to nearly blind him.
“Not much.” I heard a far-off shout, and Lopside waved us to a halt.
“They got the oh-threes ready a day early,” he said.
I was about to ask him what the Hell he meant when something louder and sharper than thunder split the air.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
The blasts were so loud I felt them in my chest, felt them rattle my teeth.
Unseen things in the grass made waves on its surface as they fled. Piper laughed.
“Reckon they got the mixture just right that time.”
“Shut your mouth,” Lopside spoke. “Let’s make sure they’re done.”
Smoke billowed up in the distance. The blasts faded, and the smoke dispersed, blowing over us in gouts.
It stank. It was strange, but not entirely alien. I realized I’d smelled something like it, once before.
“Cannon,” said Evis softly. “Remember that smell from Werewilk, Markhat? Same thing.”
“Ours are better,” said Piper. “They’re still using a two-to-one ratio of-”
“I said shut your mouth,” snapped Lopside. “No talking out here.”
Piper reddened and fell silent.
Evis pulled back enough silk to let me see his dark lenses. “Well. This should prove interesting, after all.”
A horn blew ahead of us, then again, and again.
“All clear.” Lopside motioned us forward. “Keep walking. Stay on the path. When you get to the painted red line, close your eyes and take one more step.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Orders. Get moving. He doesn’t like to wait.”
Evis was already in motion. I shrugged and caught up.
“You know what’s going on?”
“Not entirely,” he whispered. “But I’ve heard rumors. It seems Avalante’s research into mundane projectile weapons has been resumed by the Corpsemaster.”
There was nothing around us but a prairie. Ahead was just more of the same, cut only by the curving path we followed.
“It’s flatter than ogre-stomped. And empty.”