Frank Tuttle - The Broken Bell

I did not, in fact, have to tell her anything of the sort, because she gathered up a stack of plates and stomped from the room. Whether she’d bought my line of mining lore or was off to fetch the headsman I didn’t know.

Margaret of the inky-black locks grinned and poured me more tea.

“My father was a miner,” she said in a whisper. “I grew up around mines. There’s no such thing as a ram stabilizer, is there?”

“There probably ought to be,” I whispered back. “Are you going to scream for the Watch?”

“Depends. Are you here to help or hurt?”

I swallowed and met her eyes squarely.

“I’m here to bring Carris Lethway home.”

She just nodded and gathered plates.

“End of the hall. Take a right. Next time, a left. Third door on the right. Be gentle. She’s a nice lady. Just sick with worry.”

“Worry about Carris?”

She didn’t answer. She scooped up plates and fled, leaving me alone with a table-full of scraps.

I did linger and finish my chicken. I’m sure that illuminated a deep-seated flaw in my soul, but, as I said, it was good chicken.

I counted doors. One, two, three.

Outside door number three sat a silver platter.

Someone hadn’t touched her lunch.

I paused, listened, heard nothing.

So I knocked.

“Mrs. Lethway?”

I barely heard the muffled reply.

“Mrs. Lethway? May I speak to you, please?”

“Go ’way.”

I winced. The Lady might have missed her meal, but she wasn’t wanting for drink. Not just a dainty sip for milady, either. I could smell whiskey through the door.

“It’s about Carris, Lady. Please.”

“My Carris? Where is he? Is he alive?”

I heard hurried footsteps behind the door and then fumblings with the latch.

Fumblings, and then a soft thud, as though a wife-sized body sank slowly to the floor.

And then snoring.

I cussed. So close. I tried a few more times to rouse the sotted Mrs. Lethway, but to no avail.

Lady Luck seldom smiles all day.

I hadn’t been able to ask Mrs. Lethway a single question, but she’d managed to answer the most important one of all.

I took off my Avalante brooch once I hit the first floor landing. Few of Rannit’s florists were also associates of the Dark Houses.

I passed servants going about their duties and got nothing but nods and smiles. I found my most recent sitting room, heard voices inside, and hesitated for the barest fraction of a second. I’d gotten what I came for, and the front door was just strides away and unguarded, but Darla had given me the hat I’d left on a hook in that room and I was loathe to leave it.

The door was ajar. I stepped through it, not smiling.

The pair of stalwarts who first met me at the door glared and converged on me.

“Where have you been?” demanded the largest.

I made the same huffing noise deep in my throat that I’d seen barkeep Eddie make at customers who dared hint that his glasses could use a wash. When that was not met with violence, I snapped my fingers under the bulky man’s nose.

“I was left waiting-me, left waiting! — in this room for hours,” I said. “Hours! I was forced to seek out a water closet. The hospitality of your House, sir, is nothing short of brutal.” I poked him in the chest with my finger. His face went purple with suppressed rage. “You may inform the groom he will need to seek the services of another florist. Do you hear? I will not stand for rudeness. Walter and Walter has a long history of being retained by the finest families in Rannit for their nuptial floral needs. We have no need of your sort of coin, no need at all. Good day, sir.”

With that, I turned, snatched my hat off the hook, and marched for the door.

The other man darted ahead of me and opened it for me and slammed it behind me.

I squinted in the sunlight. I was unthrashed, well fed and immaculately hatted. I had learned that Carris’s mother knew nothing of his whereabouts and feared him dead.

Not a bad morning’s work, for a humble wedding florist.

My cabbie was long gone, leaving me to hoof it back down the Hill in the hope an empty one would rattle along before I developed blisters on my heels.

The green and pleasant lawns of the Hill kept me company as I walked. The shade was generous and cool. The Houses, all set well back from the street, were quiet and stately, whether they housed murderous halfdead or Rannit’s living rich.

You’d think walking down the Hill would be easy. And it is, at first, but any long walk on an incline becomes difficult after a while. Especially if the walker has been spending too much time behind desks and various restaurant tables of late.

I’d worked up a sweat before I was even a quarter of the way down, and still no friendly cabs drew near. By the halfway point, I was mincing and hopping and my visit-the-rich-folks shoes were reminding me with every step they were neither broken in nor made for long downhill hikes.

So when the peaked roofs of Avalante rose above the blood-oaks, I put my brooch back on and mopped the sweat from my face and decided my dignity could withstand a bit of begging for a ride downtown. I wouldn’t trouble Evis, of course, who would still be deep in his vampire slumber, but I was known to enough of the daytime staff to make the occasional nuisance of myself.

And so it was that I crossed the Brown River Bridge for the second time that day aboard one of Avalante’s many carriages. The bridge clowns gave us wide berth, as they do all of the Dark Houses. I waved at them anyway and got obscene gestures back for my troubles.

My driver, a taciturn older gentleman named Halbert, struck a clown square in the face with the core of the apple he’d been munching on when we left. The clowns applauded and bowed.

“Good throw,” I shouted.

“Thankee.”

I thought for a moment. “Drop me off at the corner of Harold and Skinner, will you?”

I’d told him to head for the offices of Lethway Mining when we’d left Avalante. Now I was having second thoughts about being seen arriving in a cab bearing Avalante’s crest. I doubted the Lethway patriarch was going to be pleased by my visit, and there was no need to drag Evis into this.

“Whatever you say.”

We rattled off the bridge, and I settled back and gathered my thoughts.

Seeing a man like Mr. Lethway is no easy task. He employs a building full of secretaries and assistants and managers just to make sure he seldom actually sees anyone himself.

When I passed through his doors, I was still unsure of which words I would speak to the smiling young woman perched behind the slab of polished granite that took up half the room. The walls were dark oak, recently polished with something that contained lemon juice. The floors were marble. The potted plants in the corners probably earned a higher wage than half of Rannit would ever see.

A bent little man in a fancy footman’s outfit closed the doors behind me. “Welcome, sir,” he said, his voice barely audible. “May I take your hat?”

“You may indeed,” I said. My smile would have dazzled, had there been enough light. “Thank you.”

I crossed to the desk while my hat was slowly conveyed to a row of gold hooks on the wall. Judging by the number of hats already hanging there, Lethway Mining was having a busy day.

“Good afternoon.” I rested my elbows on the granite desk and leaned down a bit. The girl behind the desk smiled, but it was a practiced, neutral smile, and I suspected she wore it all day, whether I was standing there or not.

“Good afternoon.” Her voice was as smooth and as practiced as her smile. “With whom is your appointment?”

“I’m here to speak with Mr. Lethway. My name is Markhat.”