Frank Tuttle - Brown River Queen

A woman was inside. She’d been young. She was corpse-pale, like Evis-but unlike Evis, her lips and her eyes were sewn shut. Tiny points of blood still oozed around the threads.

She turned her ravaged lips up in a smile.

You may call me Stitches, Mr. Markhat.

The hairs on the back of my neck rose. I heard her words but my ears hadn’t played their usual role in the process.

“You get used to it,” said Evis with a chuckle. “Stitches is the House’s finest forensic sorcerer. She’s going along with us. Mind your manners and say hello.”

“Hello, Miss Stitches.” I cleared my throat. “Nice to meet you.”

Likewise. Mr. Prestley holds you in high regard. I trust my appearance will not cause you discomfort.

“Not at all. I’m glad to have a sorcerer along.” I’d nearly used the term wand-waver. In the Army, I’d seen similar slips of the tongue turn fatal more than once.

Stitches, still smiling, pulled her cowl down over her face.

Your association with the Corpsemaster is rare, finder. I understand you have been inside her home. Can you remember what you saw there?

“Bodies. Some were dusty, like they’d been standing in place for a long time.” I thought back, wondering if my new friend Stitches could pluck thoughts out of my head as easily as she put words in it. “No living staff that I saw. Old furniture. Big plain doors. The Corpsemaster didn’t decorate to impress.”

Were you able to pass freely over thresholds? Did you see any evidence of protective magics?

I shrugged. “Bodies opened the doors for me, once I was inside. I don’t remember entering or leaving. I don’t recall any glowing objects, any walls of fire, any lakes of scorpions, if that’s what you mean.”

The hood bobbed in a nod.

My experience was similar.

“You’ve been in the old spook’s-that is, the Corpsemaster’s home?”

The hood turned to Evis. Evis nodded after a moment and reached into a pocket. When he withdrew his hand, Stitches held up her own as well.

Each held an old iron key. Each key was twin to the one in my pocket.

It seems we have this in common, said Stitches. A hint of bemusement touched her words. If we survive this night, it will be because we were all-at one time or another-invited to return.

“She always this cheerful, Evis?”

“You ever met a cheerful sorcerer?” Evis put his key away. “But she’s right. The Corpsemaster didn’t just hand out her house keys willy-nilly. Why’d she give you yours, Markhat?”

I figure there’s a time and a place to keep secrets, and neither of them is when you’re seated across from a sorceress who can probably not only read your mind but yank it out and poke holes in it if she so desires.

“It was right before the bunch from Prince hit Rannit. My key unlocks a secret room. She said I could use it to find safety if Rannit fell. You?”

“Got mine years ago when the House first got cozy with her. She said it would unlock an armory. I was only to use it if Avalante was backed into a corner.”

Mine unlocks the front door. I was instructed to use it only in times of mortal peril.

I bit back a presumptuous comment. Evis saw and gave me the faintest of nods. He’d come to the same conclusion.

The Corpsemaster’s keys were perhaps not the altruistic gifts we’d thought. Or maybe they were, but only as an aside-the old witch had meant for us to come charging to her rescue, if she were to be injured and gone to ground.

Such cynics you both are. Nevertheless, I must concur.

“Doesn’t change a thing,” said Evis. “We still need to know.”

I snorted. “You might. I don’t. Good thing I enjoy your fancy cigars so much, Mr. Prestley. Else I might be tempted to remember pressing engagements elsewhere.”

An idle threat, Mr. Markhat. You would no more abandon your friend than you would sprout wings and fly. Which may well be your undoing.

“What’s your excuse?”

My only reply was a welcome silence in my head.

A match scratched and flared. Evis pulled at his Lowland Sweet until the end of the cigar glowed red. Then he offered one to me.

We smoked without conversation as the carriage rattled through the night, all the way to Portend Street and the tall black lampposts that mark the beginning of Cauldron Town.

We pulled to the curb in a convenient cleft of shadows. Stitches left Evis and me in the cab while she crept around it, muttering and splashing strange lights on the wheels. Evis and the driver exchanged a few soft whispers, and Stitches climbed back inside and we were off.

It is said that even the Regent dare not cross Portend heading east. Because that’s Cauldron Town, where Rannit’s sorcerous sorts dwell, and they have little love for the mere mortals who scurry about their feet.

But cross Portend Street we did, bound for the Corpsemaster’s dark house. We didn’t get half a block from the street lamps of Portend before the air took on an impossible Yule chill and the strains of faraway music sounded above the rattle and clop of our carriage.

It was dark on the nameless street. Dark and cold. Trees rose up, hulking masses of shadow that seemed to shuffle in place, their boughs swaying with a wind that didn’t reach the cab. If there were homes behind the line of trees, they shone no light at their windows, no lamps at their doors.

I can only spare you from the very worst, said Stitches, her face bent low, her hands moving inside her sleeves. Beware the sights, the sounds. Many bring madness. The Corpsemaster’s absence means some may ignore our right to safe passage as her guests.

Evis cussed softly.

“Never thought I’d actually miss the old spook.” I discovered a silver flask of good whiskey in my coat’s breast pocket and proffered it forth. “Evis? Miss?”

“Might as well,” said Evis.

Another time.

Lights began to play in the trees, offering glimpses of movement. I saw silvery wings, a flash of bare female leg, and heard laughter on the wind.

“Come and play,” said the voices. “Come out, come out, join us for the night!”

Evis took a long draw at my flask. I did the same. Pale hands reached down from the black boughs, curling their fingers in invitation.

“We know you, Markhat, the finder,” said a voice.

“We have watched you walk,” said another.

Silence, lest I burn thee with fire.

The leaves rustled, and we were alone.

Stitches waggled a finger at me in warning. Her fingernail was black, and I hoped it was painted that way.

“Should have brought cards,” opined Evis.

“Should have brought an army.”

“We did. Let her work. I’m going to close my eyes and take a nap. You might try the same.”

The twin glints in his white halfdead eyes vanished when he closed them.

I pulled my hat down and stared at my shoes and tried with no success to ignore the voices that called out my name.

I had to shake my halfdead friend awake. One doesn’t wake a halfdead without some risk, but Evis just gifted me with a toothy yawn followed by a lopsided grin.

We have arrived .

“Resistance?”

Nothing of any significance.

“Any sign of our host?”

None whatsoever. The dwelling appears to be unoccupied, although a number of potent spells are still present and functional.

I rubbed my hands together to warm them. The air bore a deep winter chill, though summer still held sway on the other side of Portend Street. “Are we being watched?” My words were accompanied by puffs of steam.

Naturally. I suspect there are many hereabouts who are also curious about the Corpsemaster’s status. I believe that may be why we were allowed to arrive without facing serious opposition.