Frank Tuttle - The Broken Bell

Gertriss filled me in on the youngest Sprang, who Mama had tied to a chair before dabbing him liberally with some malodorous potion she’d finished brewing about the time I’d poked Toadsticker into someone’s gut. The Sprang kid thrashed and yelled, Gertriss reported, until Mama finished dribbling three full handfuls of her brew over him.

“After that, he calmed right down,” said Gertriss. “He quit cussing. Quit yelling. He was confused for a little while, but then he asked for water and said please, so Mama untied him. He drank. He ate two biscuits, and then thanked Mama and asked if he could see the ogre again.” Gertriss shook her head. “He was a different child, Boss. Probably even a polite one, by Sprang standards. Buttercup even peeked out at him and smiled.”

“So you think he really was hexed?”

“Mama thinks so. I tried my Sight. Never saw a thing.” She seemed troubled by that. I wondered if she was losing touch with her Hog-born Sight, and from the way she bit her bottom lip I guessed she was wondering the same thing.

“Mama have any idea who might have hexed a kid?”

“If she does, she isn’t saying. But she’s angry, boss. Really angry. I wouldn’t want to be whoever she thinks did that. Even if they’re still in Pot Lockney, that might not be far enough away to keep Mama from taking a whack at them.”

I hadn’t considered that. “Think she might try? Is that even possible?”

Gertriss shrugged. “A year ago I’d have said no. Now, I’m not sure. Mama isn’t what I thought she was.”

“Mama is Mama.” I didn’t need to say more. “But the kid-does he have a name, by the way? — he’s fine?”

“His name is Rainy. Mama swears he’s free of whatever was riding him. He’s calm and perfectly rational. Boss, Mama thinks the hex was designed to make the Sprangs want to murder me and you. It started small. Just a little voice whispering how awful we are. The longer it goes, the more powerful it gets.”

“So the elder Sprangs like me less today than they did when I was kicking them around Cambrit. Lovely.” My morning’s plan, to free the Sprangs, revolved wholly around gaining their trust. If they were hexed to hate me against reason, that was likely to be a hard sell.

“Mama got any of that potion left?”

Gertriss nodded. “She knew you’d ask. She made a big batch. Enough to bathe them in it. She said that it hit Rainy so hard because he’s a child. No hex works that well on adults. So maybe they hate you, but by now they probably hate jail more.”

I grunted. I hoped so. I didn’t see the Sprangs accepting my invitation to come over and have a nice bath without Hooga and Hooga holding them by the scruffs of their necks.

We were close to the Old Ruth. The streets were rough, the pedestrians ragged, the smells of the crematoriums pungent.

“I guess we’ll have to hope for the best. You brought the release papers?”

She produced the wax-sealed folder.

“You sure you want to do this, Miss? You can wait in the cab, if you want. Might even be the best idea.”

“No, Mr. Markhat. I’m coming with you. I did what I did, but I had reason. I’m not running anymore.”

I smiled. “Good for you. Just don’t get within grabbing distance.”

The cab rolled to a stop. The weathered, stained wall of the Old Ruth engulfed us in sudden shadow.

“Let’s get this done, Miss.”

“Yes. Mr. Markhat?”

I paused, half-in and half-out of the cab.

“Thanks.”

“We’re partners,” I said, offering her my hand. “Now, come on. Sooner we get these road apples heading home, the sooner I can get a bath.”

She laughed. We headed inside.

The Old Ruth isn’t a cheerful place. Despair and rage have sunk into the stones. The place reeks of human waste.

Local lore claims that thirty or so weedheads a day expire inside those walls. I no longer question that figure, save to say it’s probably too conservative. Number 19 Municipal was an Old Kingdom palace compared to the Old Ruth.

Gertriss and I were shuffled from guard to supervisor to jailer to magistrate. Each visit required a review of the papers I’d procured yesterday and payment of some obscure and likely fraudulent fee.

Gertriss chipped in on those, or the Sprangs would be in the Old Ruth yet.

Our journey took us from the street level offices to a hall two stories underground. In the bad old days, when the Old Ruth had been a fortress, construction had gone down instead of up. Nowadays, the lower you go, the darker and damper and fouler the Old Ruth gets.

The air was enough to choke a Troll. Gertriss was having trouble speaking without gagging. I was faring little better, though the smoke from the numerous torches was burning my throat. We hadn’t seen a single magelamp since leaving the stairs.

Broke and hoarse, we were finally led into an abominable stonewalled room divided by a row of iron bars. The bars sported rust and something darker. A bored guard seated himself on a stool in the corner beside Gertriss and I, a head-knocker in his pudgy fist.

The door closed behind us. Another opened on the far side of the bars.

Feet shuffled, and chains clanked. In marched the Sprangs, sullen, filthy and wary-eyed.

“You.” The eldest Sprang glared at me and spat. His sons followed behind, the youngest supported by the eldest, who glared but was silent.

They were masses of blood and cuts and bruises. Gilgad’s right eye was swollen shut. His lips were bloody. His hair was matted and dark with blood.

His sons were worse. Polter, the youngest, swayed and murmured, his eyes shut, blood trickling from his nose and mouth.

“Bitch.” Gilgad spoke to Gertriss. She didn’t flinch.

“What you need to do, Gilgad Sprang, is shut up and listen. You can either walk out of here, right now, today, or you can rot here. Call my partner names and I’ll decide for you, and I’ll decide to let you rot.” I nodded toward his youngest son. “Your boy is in bad shape. Another day in here and he’ll be dead, and you know it. So are you going to shut up and listen or are you going to bury a son?”

I could see him clench his jaw. Something, him or the hex, wanted to tell me to go to Hell almost bad enough to lose a child.

I almost felt sorry for him then.

He managed to bite back the word.

“All right. Here’s the deal. This paper gets you and your sons out of jail. It does that because the lady and myself agree to pay your fines and fees. Do you understand that, so far? Just nod.”

He nodded.

“There are conditions. First, that you and yours walk out of jail and keep walking right out the East Gate and hitch a ride with a cargo wagon and go home. And once you get home you never ever come back. Because-and this is important, Mr. Sprang-if any of you are ever picked up in Rannit again, all your fines and fees are tripled and you are brought right back here and I tell you this true, you will never see the sun again, or breathe free air. You’ll die here. I’ll see to that. Do you understand?”

He licked bloody lips. “I understand.”

“Tell me what I just said.”

“You pay us out. We go home. Never come back.”

“Good. Now I’m going to ask you a question, you murderous little git. And you’ll answer it, or I swear I’ll tear this paper up and go have myself a big, hot lunch. Why did you come all this way to go after the young lady and I?”

“She stole from our kinfolk.” His voice took on a low growling quality. “She kilt, and she stole.”

“I see. So you were so upset at the financial loss of your kinfolk that you decided to hike all the way to Rannit and do a bit of murder yourself. Touching. Family means everything to you, doesn’t it?”