Frank Tuttle - The Broken Bell

People were beginning to stare. We separated. Mary blushed and laughed. I sought out my customary chair and found a still-warm biscuit wrapped in a linen napkin nestled on the cushion.

The biscuit was accompanied by ham. Honey-glazed ham. A cup of coffee made a miraculous appearance in my hand.

A man, I mused, could get used to such things.

“She’s been up all night worried sick,” opined Mary, as soon as Darla was with two clients and well out of earshot. “Ye ought to be ashamed for yourself, a’ treatin’ such a gentle soul in such a high-handed way.”

“Well, you told me good. Is there any more of that coffee around, because if there is…”

But Mary was gone, a very unladylike word passing her prim country lips.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I didn’t have a hat or I would have hidden my face with it.

Mary was right. I was right. Darla was right.

I didn’t see a damned way to a more peaceful life for any of us.

I wasn’t dozing when Darla plopped in my lap and kissed me.

“Good morning,” she said. She forced a smile. “I should have brought two biscuits.”

“Good morning yourself. And one was fine. A little bird tells me you lost some sleep.”

Darla shrugged. “It’s only sleep. I’ll get it back. You’re here. You even smell good.” Her smile faded. “Wait. These clothes. They’re from the bathhouse, aren’t they? What happened to your others?”

“Relax. Mud, not blood. I spent some time in a pile of trash. I stank, but nobody died. No one was even rude to me.”

“That’s what I love about you, Markhat. The glamorous places you go. Mary, can you handle things for a bit? We need to go hat shopping.”

“Aye, buy him a new head while you’re at it.”

We rose. Her hand was tight around mine. “I’ll be back when I can.”

I had a thousand things to do. Nay, ten thousand. A hundred thousand. I had nefarious plots to foil, kidnappers to double-cross, wars to avert.

So naturally, I took my lady to the Park, and we staved off war and wrack by feeding fat pigeons cornmeal and letting the sun warm the tops of our heads.

I told all. I didn’t set out to. I’d meant to spare Darla the details of my walk with the huldra, my visit inside Hisvin’s house of dusty dead.

But lies no longer come easily with Darla. Even the sneaky lies that are mere omissions of the truth.

I’d thought I’d lost her once. Leaving important things unsaid.

Not again.

She listened and nodded and squeezed my hand now and then, but she didn’t cry or turn away, not once.

And when I’d said it all, we let silence sit with us for a bit.

“I’m disturbed by something,” she said at last.

“Disturbed? Really? Do tell.”

She prodded me lightly with an elbow.

“Why would Mr. Lethway tell the kidnappers you were coming? He knows if you meet an untimely demise, the Regent gets the papers. Wouldn’t getting you killed be suicide for him?”

I nodded.

“So?”

“Could be a couple of things. One, he thinks he’s in the clear if my blood winds up on someone else’s hands. Two, he’s so mad he’s not thinking straight. Three, Pratt sent that note, not Lethway, trying to shake things up so he can use the confusion to make his play.”

“Would Pratt do that?”

“Maybe. He wants Carris and Lethway’s wife. He doesn’t give a damn about anything else.”

“I thought you and Pratt were friends.”

“We might be. Or not. I’ll know tonight.”

She tossed a fresh handful of crushed corn to the pigeons.

“You know what I think?”

“That I’m a handsome devil with charisma to spare?”

“I think Lethway realizes he’s not getting out of this. I think he knew he was doomed the moment you showed him those papers he tried to burn with the Barracks. What if that’s true, hon? What if he’s planning on just killing everyone at that place tonight? What if he doesn’t care if he dies, too, as long as he dies a hero?”

“I’m not following.”

“He’s spent his whole life being a war hero.”

“Actually, he stole half a million of the Regency’s crowns, but go on.”

She looked away from the pigeons and up at me. “He’s ruined, darling. If it isn’t you that turns him in, it will be Mr. Fields. Or this third person. Or someone who just drops out of the sky. His wife is lost to him. And his son. All he has is his name, and he’s about to lose it too. Don’t you see? If he dies tonight, he won’t be exposed as a war profiteer. No one would bother with an investigation.”

I mulled it over.

She tossed more feed to the birds. “I see who’s leaving town, you know. And who isn’t leaving. Old money. War heroes. Honey, these people already have homes out of Rannit. They could go and live well whether Rannit stands or falls. But they’re not leaving. Mary summed it up best.” Darla affected Mary’s backwoods accent. “ They won’t run ’cause they’d rather die being Lord So-and-So than live being just plain Mister. That’s what I’m saying. Please tell me I’m wrong.”

“You might just have a point, oh desire of my heart.”

“I hope not. But keep it in mind.”

“You said you dreamed last night.”

She nodded and looked away.

“Did you dream all that up, then?”

“It’s getting late.” She rose, brushed off her hands and dumped the remainder of the feed sack among the squabbling pigeons. “You need a new hat. I’ll buy you one, and you’ll reward me with a kiss.”

I know better than to pry after the no prying flag is raised.

“Deal.” I grabbed her and kissed her, though no hat had been procured. A trio of passing kids hooted and cheered.

“I love you, Markhat,” she said before we left the Park.

I replied with something similar.

The woman, after all, has impeccable taste in hats.

Before I made for Avalante, I sought out the nearest Army officer I could find, identified myself and barked out a couple of succinct orders.

To my amazement, my orders were met with salutes and “Yes, sirs” and I was assured they would be carried out to the letter and with commendable military haste.

That done, I hailed a cab and made my way toward the Hill.

Darla’s warning kept playing itself out in my mind. If she was right, Lethway was planning an epic dust-up that he had no intention of surviving.

That meant mere collateral parties, such as myself and Pratt, were unlikely to walk away unwounded.

I didn’t see Lethway dying, though, just to save his name.

Unless.

An idea that had been scurrying about, rat-like, in the recesses of my mind darted out into the sun.

The information the kidnappers had demanded. Tons of this, wagons of that.

Lethway’s dealings with iron.

Iron…and steel.

The things from which cannon are made.

I damned near leaped from the cab. If Lethway’s old nemesis had indeed been licking his near-fatal wounds in Prince, it was possible he knew parties involved in the invasion. Hisvin had said they had a sorcerer in their number.

What if taking Carris Lethway was half revenge and half convenient way to shake information about the Corpsemaster’s secret cannon project out of the man most likely to be supplying Hisvin with iron?

Maybe Colonel Lethway knew or suspected that. Hell, maybe he’d known from the beginning, which is why he’d refused to meet any of the kidnappers’ demands for information.

I’d thought him nothing but a greedy old bastard willing to let his only son perish rather than part with a chest full of coin. He was, after all, a thief.

But what if the thieving Colonel wasn’t quite a traitor?

“No,” I said aloud. “Too many coincidences happening at once.”