Frank Tuttle - The Broken Bell

“All right. We can worry about who killed the Suthoms later. Right now, here’s what we do.”

And I spent my last bit of wile making plans for the night.

The Big Bell clanged out midnight before I lay my weary head down to sleep.

My plan to keep Mama and Gertriss safe from any lingering Sprangs involved installing a pair of ogres at Mama’s door. I chose ogres because they’re out and about after Curfew, and are thus easy to find, and because short of a Troll or a brace of the Corpsemaster’s newfangled cannons there isn’t a better deterrent against mischief than half a ton of implacable ogre.

I lucked out and managed to catch up with a Hooga, who agreed to bring his cousin Hooga in on the deal. Don’t ask me how ogres keep identities established when they all bear the same name. But this was a Hooga I knew from Darla’s old job at the Velvet, and we were still on an eye-dipping basis, which practically makes us littermates according to Mama’s encyclopedic knowledge of all things ogre.

I’d given Gertriss orders that she wasn’t to venture outdoors for anything. She didn’t like that, any more than Mama liked hearing the same, but I had to trust they understood the necessity of staying safe behind a wall of ogres until we had a handle on the Sprangs.

So I handed out coins right and left and made sure the Hoogas understood spilling blood was only to be done as a last resort.

That done, I turned my attention to the bigger picture, a task made well nigh impossible by my sudden tragic lack of beer.

After the Hoogas trundled away with Gertriss, Mama and Buttercup, I put my feet on my desk and got out a pad, and tried to make sense of my sundry confusions by putting them down on paper in the form of questions.

Where is Carris Lethway? appeared at the top of my page.

Who or what compelled him to leave, and why? followed.

Exhaustion does strange things to the mind. I didn’t realize I’d written Who has more animosity toward the marriage between Carris and Tamar-the Lethways or the Fields? until after I’d written the last word.

I put a big question mark under that.

More entries followed- Was I really drafted? was asked twice, with heavy underlines, and When to tell Darla? below that.

Finally, I scribbled something unflattering concerning Corpsemasters and wild goats and headed to bed.

I dreamed that night. I saw cannons, rows and rows and ranks and ranks of them, hurling thunder and belching flame. I saw the sky criss-crossed with lingering smokes, heard the shriek and howl of battle.

I wasn’t alone, in my dream. The Corpsemaster was there. Not as a corpse, either. She was a woman-a somewhat plain, somewhat aged, somewhat weary woman, with tired green eyes and messy grey hair and a face that had long ago forgotten how to smile.

It seems we talked, at great length, about Rannit and the Regent and battles and wars. I don’t recall anything that was said, or asked, or answered, save that it seemed a great loss of life was both looming and inevitable.

When I woke, in that middle of the night’s deep dark, I was not rested. Something stirred in the shadows of my room, and for an instant I thought I spied Three-leg, stretching before prowling out to terrorize his streets.

But it was Buttercup in my room, crouched by my bed, her tiny face wrinkled in worry.

Before I could speak, she handed me a ragged sock-doll, hugged my neck and vanished.

Damned if I didn’t sleep well after that, a banshee’s tattered doll suspiciously close to my pillow.

Morning came, bringing with it sunlight and singing birds and Three-leg’s insistence that I rise at once. I pushed him off the bed twice before he roused me by raking claws across my bare back.

While Three-leg dined, I gathered clean clothes and wrapped them in a bundle and stepped out into the street after a quick peek through my barely-opened door. I stopped by Mama’s briefly on my way to the bathhouse. The Hoogas were in place, upright and immovable as granite statues. I don’t speak enough ogre to do more than say hello, but my old friend Hooga can nod for yes and shake for no, and thus I was able to establish that Mama had received no visitors during the night.

I started to knock, but decided on a bath first. I bade the Hoogas good morning, and when I emerged from the hot water a half-hour later I was shaved and soaped and not quite smiling.

Rannit was stirring to life around me. Old Mr. Bull was on his stoop, sweeping away whatever imaginary soil collected during the night. The newcomers to the neighborhood, the Arwheat brothers, were taking the iron shutters off their windows and trading shouts in their harsh Southlands tongue. They smiled and waved as I passed, and went back to screaming at each other the instant I returned their greeting.

Mama met me at her door and thrust a steaming mug of coffee at me before I even spoke.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Here’s something for you, boys.” Mama reached inside and came out with two black hunks of ogre hash. The Hoogas took them, sniffed them, and ate them without ever taking their big ogre eyes off the street.

“Come on in, boy. Ain’t nobody up yet but me an’ you.”

I dipped eyes with Hooga and followed Mama indoors.

Mama keeps her windows covered with burlap curtains. The only light comes from candles. The candles are handmade by Mama herself, and while I’m sure each has a specific arcane purpose they all smell like sun-baked manure.

I breathe through my mouth when I visit Mama, most days.

Her card and potion shop was dark and fragrant, but not quiet. Two sets of snores sounded from the back, and neither was dainty.

I sank onto Mama’s rickety client’s chair and sipped her coffee.

“So, no Sprangs came calling last night.”

“Nobody came calling.” Mama spoke softly. “Not that I figured they would.”

“I don’t like this any more than you, Mama. I’m paying the Hoogas, remember?”

“Wasting your coin, you are.”

I shrugged. Maybe I was. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“We can’t keep her in that room forever, boy. Nor me.”

“I know.” Mama’s coffee wasn’t half bad. Or maybe the stench of her blue-flamed candles was making it hard to taste the chicory she prefers.

“So, what you reckon on doing about it?”

“I reckon on talking to the Sprangs again,” I said. “In fact, I’ve given some thought to bailing them out myself.”

“Boy!” Mama forgot to be quiet. The snoring continued. She glared and forced herself back into her chair and shook her head. “Why would you do a damn fool thing such as that?”

“First, because I’d know when they were out. Second, because the Old Ruth might get one or more of them killed, and if it does they’ll lay that at my doorstep too. Third, because I might just convince them to forget this whole mess and head back home owing me a favor, instead of coveting my head.”

“Foolishness, boy. Them Sprangs will turn on ye the instant the jail doors open.”

“If that happens there’s the Watch. If the Sprangs go in again, they won’t be getting out anytime soon, bail or not. You know that.”

“Do you drink a lot at night, boy? Have you taken up weed? Bailing the Sprangs out is the damn stupidest thing I’ve heard in a long time, and you’ll get nothing but trouble if you do.”

“It was just a thought, Mama.”

“Well then, you need to keep on thinking. Or give it up entirely, I ain’t sure which.”

From the back came a sneeze and the sound of a thin, hard bed creaking.

“Well, we’re in for it now,” whispered Mama.

Buttercup appeared at my knee, smiling and rubbing sleep out of her eyes.