Frank Tuttle - The Broken Bell

“Thanks for the beer and the company.”

“Don’t mention it. Old Hammer the cook likes it when he sees a couple of empty plates. I think Darla would at least feed you on a regular basis, Markhat. Something else to think about.”

I found my hat. “Talk to you later, Evis.”

“That’s Captain Prestley, if you please.”

The door opened silently as I reached for it. A pale, silent figure bade me follow.

I followed. I didn’t need his mostly-shuttered lantern. I knew the way by heart.

In fact, I reflected, the lightless halls of Avalante were far more familiar than Rannit was turning out to be.

An Avalante carriage took me home.

Post-Curfew traffic was heavy. Most were black House carriages, bearing their thirsty halfdead passengers to and fro in search of the unwary, the unwise and the just plain stupid.

But most of the traffic was Army. There were cabs and wagons and huge eight-wheeled lumber barges, some loaded with bricks or tarp-covered masses that could have been cannons or catapults or nude statues of the Regent.

All rattled and rushed through the night, safe from the predations of the Houses as long as they were uniformed and going about the Regent’s business.

I understood now how the preparations for war were going at least in part unnoticed by the law-abiding citizens of Rannit. The army was working at night, using the Curfew as a cover. I was sure the soldiers themselves weren’t doing much talking, on pain of long months in the brig or worse.

On a whim, I asked the driver to take a side trip toward Seward, where the longest section of Rannit’s Old Kingdom wall still stood.

He replied with a cheery “Yes, sir” and away we sped, bumping over cobbles and trash.

I watched through my window. Most of Rannit was dark and sleeping. Lights shone here and there, though, and from a few windows figures watched us pass.

We crossed the weatherworn remains of the Old Bazaar and wound our way through the narrows streets of Crike. Crike was awake, if hopelessly drunk. Fires danced in vacant lots, surrounded by huddled figures who shouted and drank and wobbled in the shadows.

Three dark carriages followed us into Crike, but did not emerge. Which meant a few of the careless revelers would be found by the dead wagons in the morning, drained and still.

Emerging from Crike onto Seward was akin to leaving the land of night for that of day.

Oil-lamps lined the street. Huge magelamps, borne by wagons, were parked at regular intervals along the old wall, aimed up so that the top was bathed in lights. Men hurried up and down ladders, bearing tools. A ramp of oak timbers allowed wheelbarrows and small wagons to be driven to the top of the wall.

Hammers fell. Men shouted. A team of ogres hooted as they pulled a pallet of bricks up the ramp, one powerful ogre yank at a time.

My driver whistled. “What is that?”

“New aqueduct.” I wasn’t about to start spilling any of the Corpsemaster’s beans in public.

“They’re building it at night?”

“Easier to work the iron in the dark. Can you wait right here? I’d like to get a closer look.”

“You’re the boss.”

I closed the cab’s door and sauntered toward the bustle.

I don’t know what exactly my intention was. Maybe I was just delaying going home because going home meant lying awake and remembering the hurt on Darla’s face.

Come to think of it, that’s probably correct. Maybe I was remembering that hurt even then, which is why I didn’t notice someone had fall into step beside me.

“Good evening, Captain.”

I’d never have known it was the Corpsemaster save for the bemused tone and the oh-so-faint trace of an accent I’d never managed to place.

What body she was wearing was a mystery. She was clad toe to crown in a plain black robe. The cowl left face in shadow. Her hands were concealed by black gloves.

There was no odor, no buzzing of corpseflies. For all I know, she was out and about in her own flesh and blood. It’s not the sort of thing one asks.

“Good evening, Corpsemaster.” I nodded toward the construction. “It seems to be going well.”

She sighed. “We are at least eight days behind schedule, and nearly a hundred thousand crowns over budget. At this site alone.”

I shook my head in silent commiseration.

“What brings you out, Captain? Not that I’m displeased to see you taking an interest in our efforts.”

“Working a case. Thought I’d swing by here and have a look.” I stopped and squinted into the magelamps. “People are going to start talking about this pretty soon.”

She just shrugged. “Talk is the least of my worries. Do you know of a place called Ringor?”

“North of Prince, isn’t it? Big lumber exporter.”

“There are indications they have allied with Prince. It seems someone has produced an heir to the Old Kingdom.”

“Again?”

She chuckled. “As you say. Again.” She kicked at a loose cobblestone with the tip of a shiny, black boot. “Why are people so eager to revive the very monarchy that nearly cost us the war and drove the Kingdom into chaos and poverty?”

“Human nature. Live and don’t learn, that’s us.” I spied the Corpsemaster’s horseless carriage making its way slowly toward us, fading in and out as it passed beneath street lamps and magelights. I tensed, wondering if I’d been drawn to the site by her, if I was about to be whisked away to a place where the sun was too bright and the day was too long.

“At ease, Captain. I have no plans to spirit you away.” She turned toward me, and I saw the briefest flash of a weary smile before the shadow of her cowl swallowed it up. “You are free to go home. If, of course, you can stay out of jail for an entire night.”

I dropped my fool jaw open but no words came out.

“Oh, come now. There is little that goes on in Rannit of which I am unaware. And you need not fear my interference in your private matters. I will only meddle with such if and when I am asked.”

“Thank you.”

“Although it won’t do for my officers to be arrested with any degree of regularity. I do ask that you keep your brushes with the Watch to a minimum.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

The horseless carriage drew up behind us. The corpse that sat atop it was more skeleton than flesh. His stovepipe hat set well below the empty eye sockets.

The Corpsemaster clambered aboard without a farewell, and the black carriage surged away, whip cracking at mounts that weren’t there.

All around me, workers turned away, pointedly not meeting my gaze.

I turned away from the lights, and found my cabman dozing, and set about for home at last.

I even dozed on the way. I was awakened by the cab slowing abruptly and the cabman soothing his ponies with soft clicks of his tongue.

“Bit of a fire up ahead,” he called.

I was instantly awake. I opened the door a crack to get my bearings.

The cab was maybe half a block from home. I could plainly smell the smoke.

I leaped down onto the sidewalk, nearly breaking a leg, but I stayed upright and broke into a run.

The door on fire was mine.

By the time I got there, the flames were taller than the top of my head and climbing. People were shouting for water and running into each other in the dark. Old Mr. Bull in his white nightgown and pointed white night cap hobbled up to my door and emptied his chamber pot at the root of the growing blaze.

Mama was among those bellowing and running. She was fully clothed down to her iron-toed boots. Gertriss was nowhere to be seen.

I charged into the fray, struggling to get my coat off to use as a flail.

The source of the blaze was obvious. Someone had simply filled a tall wooden bucket with trash and set it ablaze after putting it next to my door. I kicked it away, sacrificed my good coat to cover it, and the Arwheat brothers from a few doors overthrew wet blankets over the streaks of flame still climbing the walls.