Frank Tuttle - Brown River Queen

“Certainly. Tavis Green, of the Tavis Greens, was there. We enjoyed a bottle of Fitch together. Oh, and Markum Sate, and Corliss Poole, and that nephew of the Regent’s chief of staff, Malcom Slater.”

I trailed off and watched a vein in Holder’s forehead bulge and pulse.

“You spoke of a waste of time, Captain. Indeed, that is what incarcerating my client will yield you. Time and trouble. I assure you, Avalante will take an immediate and active interest in the matter.”

“Might as well put the bracelets away,” I said. “Maybe one day I’ll slip up and you can clap them on me. But that isn’t today, Captain, and you know it.”

Ten breaths. That’s what it took for Holder to work out the truth behind my words. But work it out he did, and the cuffs went back in his pocket.

“I won’t forget this,” he said after a time. “Nobody dumps chamber-pots on my Watch officers. Nobody.”

I shrugged. “Good for you. Now then. Being completely unaware you had a man watching my door, I find myself suddenly compelled to ask why you’d do such a thing. So. Why?”

“Because a woman is dead and you killed her, that’s why.”

Evis waggled a taloned finger at the Captain’s nose. “My client acted in self-defense during an unprovoked attack by a deranged stranger,” he said. “Even the Watch concurs.”

“I think your client knows exactly who the dead woman was and why she ended up cut in half by a beer-wagon.”

“If I knew who she was, Captain, I’d tell you. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because, as usual, you’re mixed up in something,” said the Captain. “Think you’re above the law, don’t you, Markhat?”

“We don’t see enough law in this part of town to think ourselves above it.” I put my hands on my desk and leaned close. The Captain needed a bath. “Look. I’m not lying. I don’t know who she was or why she came at me. There wasn’t time to ask. But why do you care? The dead wagons haul bodies out of alleys every morning. Nobody asks. What makes this woman so special the Watch is pestering me about her?”

“You’re telling me you don’t know her.”

“I’m telling you I don’t.”

“What happens if I stand up and try to walk out of here, Markhat? You going to turn your vampire loose on me?”

I stood. “Beat it,” I said. “Get out and stay out until you calm down enough to talk sense. Try and snag me again, and you can explain yourself to the Corpsemaster. That clear enough for you?”

“Corpsemaster is dead.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Why don’t you piss me off again and we’ll see?”

He stood. Evis watched but didn’t move.

“We’re not done here.”

“I beg to differ. Get out.”

He did, slamming my door behind him.

Evis glided back into the shadows, chuckling.

“Markhat. Did you really arrange for a Watchman to be bathed in excrement?”

“The Arwheats don’t much care for the Watch. I almost had to force their pay upon them.”

Evis shook his head. “They’ll not forget that. Not for a long time.”

“Good.” I put my hands back behind my head. “Something about that dead woman has the Watch nervous.”

“Indeed. Have you learned anything new about her?”

“Nothing. I was heading to the hotels downtown today to see if anyone fitting her description skipped a bill. Maybe she left something in her room with her name on it, along with a note detailing her dastardly plans.”

Evis nodded. “Still. A bucket of shit?” He shook his head. “As your attorney, I must admonish you against future use of night soil as a deterrent for loiterers.”

“As you say, counselor.”

Evis chuckled and produced fresh cigars.

A Lowland Sweet later, I was heading downtown to mingle with the upper classes.

I was dressed for it, too. Darla’s new hat sat rakishly atop my well-combed head. My coat was pressed and I smelled of a subtle cologne and even my socks were fine, upstanding examples of quietly tasteful footwear.

In light of my recent brief acquaintance with a knife-wielding maniac, I carried several less refined implements upon my person. Toadsticker hung openly at my side. Being a Captain of the guard allowed me to flaunt all but the most stringent of Rannit’s open carry laws.

I took a cab right to the shadow of the High House and stood directly under the Brass Bell when it clanged out two of the clock.

By the time it rang out three, I’d visited four of Rannit’s finest hotels and had half a dozen quiet conversations with desk clerks and concierges. Only one, the concierge at the Bedlam Towers, had the audacity to raise objections to Toadsticker, and he’d quickly swallowed them when he recognized my name.

As I said, being a Captain, however unwilling, in the Corpsemaster’s private army does confer certain favors.

But even my lofty rank couldn’t pry any information concerning small-framed, black-haired women out of the Bedlam Towers or anywhere else. I’d also offered to cover the woman’s bill if she left one unpaid.

No one nibbled at the bait.

My next stop was a pre-War monstrosity of soot-blacked granite called simply Orlin’s Inn. Word has it that Orlin’s is one of Rannit’s most haunted structures, and even in the bright afternoon sun and under a brilliant blue sky, Orlin’s manages to look shadowed and mysterious.

I dodged carriages and pedestrians and clambered up the worn thirteen steps that stretch from the street to the wide, tall doors. The Ogres flanking the entryway dipped their eyes to me in greeting, and I doffed my hat in return.

A human doorman held the door for me.

“Welcome to the Orlin,” he said. He was fat and fifty and bald but his smile was wide and possibly genuine.

“Thanks,” I said. I took off my hat as I crossed the threshold. “Say, maybe you can help me. I’m looking for a woman.”

His smile didn’t waver. “Not that kind of place.”

“Ha. She’s not that kind of woman, either. Twenty, maybe twenty-five. Smallish. Curly black hair. Fancy black dress, last time I saw her. Good teeth. Blue eyes. Ring any bells?”

A coin found its way into my hand. This happy accident was witnessed by my friend, the smiling doorman.

“Quiet, she was. Never got a name. Arrived three days ago. Haven’t seen her since.”

My coin found a new home. I bade my friend farewell and headed for the front desk, lest our conversation be noted as anything but a polite change of pleasantries by the somewhat less jolly-looking desk clerk.

The lobby was everything the Orlin’s exterior wasn’t. The floors were white marble all the way to the desk. There were chairs and low tables scattered about, plants in urns, and even a burbling fountain in the center. Tall, old windows managed to let in just enough light to keep the room from being gloomy. A huge hearth-no fire today-took up one wall. Four long couches faced it, ready to warm street-weary feet come winter and Rannit’s fickle snows.

The desk was a curving thing of oak and stone that took up another wall. Behind it stood a single clerk, whose sharp little eyes bore into the depths of my soul as I smiled and sauntered up.

“Does sir have a reservation?”

I didn’t let my smile drop even a little.

“Sir does, but I’m not due until tomorrow. I’m here a day early on party business.”

I spoke the last in a whisper, accompanied by a furtive glance around the room.

The clerk’s glare softened a bit. He took in the brand of the hat I laid casually on the counter and the cut of my jacket and the enticing aroma of my five-crown after-shave, and his glare softened even more.

“Party business, sir?”

I made frantic shushing noises. “For Heaven’s sake, man, keep it down. The Duchess will be furious if anyone spoils the surprise.”