Frank Tuttle - The Broken Bell

I wasn’t convinced. But it made sense, in a crazy way. Maybe the old man was feeling guilty. Maybe he was trying to atone.

Maybe my new hat was on too tight.

I watched Rannit roll past. It didn’t really matter, who was motivated by what, or why. The whole wretched mess was set in motion, and it was going to play out in blood and money, and soon.

I settled back in my seat and pulled my hat down. Might as well nap.

Night was going to fall, one way or another, and it didn’t care one whit who lived through it.

House Avalante was a beehive. A beehive that showed every sign of having been enthusiastically poked with a very large stick.

The lawn was full of armed men. Groups of three, widely separated, all with heavy crossbows.

Closer to the House proper, two teams of workmen were swarming over hastily erected scaffolding. Inside the scaffolds, objects I recognized as cannons were being assembled, right out in the daylight.

I halted well beyond the first blade of Avalante grass. I shouted my name, heard it repeated, and within moments Jerle himself stalked out of the big double doors and waved me come hither.

Hither I came, unchallenged. The soldiers in the yard did me the courtesy of not pointing things at me. I passed between the cannons. My only peril encountered was being shouted off the walk by a trio of men struggling under the weight of a long piece of tarp-wrapped iron.

“Nice day,” I said to Jerle. He hurried me through the doors and slammed them shut behind me.

“Nice day my ass, sir,” he muttered. We were walking, quickly, with an obvious destination in mind. I let Jerle lead the way.

“Trouble with the neighbors?”

I kept my voice to a whisper, on the off chance the old man felt like a bit of gossip.

“You could say that.”

I nodded sagely. Clashes between the Houses were as common as weather. Throw in the looming shadow of war, and it was a miracle the whole Hill wasn’t aflame.

“I see the place is still standing.”

The old man grinned. “Sent them packing, though you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Of course not. Glad to not hear it, though.”

I recognized the hallway. We appeared to be heading for the first of the long-talking machines I used to speak with Evis.

“It’s fixed,” said Jerle, reading my mind. “Try not to set it afire again. We like to never got the soot off the walls.”

We arrived at a door. Jerle knocked, spoke and the door was opened.

Inside was the same sparking, rattling behemoth, the same table, the same brass speaking-tube. And the same scowling technicians, who regarded me with the same exuberant enthusiasm little Mary doubtlessly reserved for sewer rats.

“You’ve got to keep this under three minutes,” said one.

“Two and half,” quoth another.

I seated myself before the brass funnel. Nods were exchanged. Levers were thrown. Knobs were twisted.

There came the kind of keening screech of which Buttercup was fond, a snatch of unholy music and then Evis was speaking, caught in mid-sentence.

“…although some people actually prefer a brandy with such a mild tobacco.”

I put my mouth close to the tube.

“It’s a peculiar sort of war that involves comparative beverage lectures,” I said. “Or is that some code for ‘We’ve reached the target and completed the mission?’”

“Good morning, Markhat. How are things back home?”

“Angels and devils, Evis. Are you drunk?”

“Of course not.” Gertriss was speaking. “We’re celebrating, as a matter of fact. We’re nearly at the you-know-where. With the you-know-what.”

“What? How?”

Evis laughed. “You should know. A certain very tall person-”

“With big scary eyes-”

“Yes, as Miss Gertriss noted, with big scary eyes. This person facilitated the mission. Perhaps you don’t recall?”

“I don’t. Much. Are you sure?”

“I’ve been myself. I’ve seen. It’s ready. We’re just waiting for the moment of most drama.”

I cussed. “Waiting? What the Hell for?”

The machine spat a burst of infant lightning. The light left me momentarily blind. Men cussed and threw buckets of sand.

“…better if it’s delivered right to their faces,” said Evis. Then he lowered his voice. “It’s what you said to do.”

“I said no such thing.”

“You said you’d say that.” There was a burst of static, and a blast of that infernal music, then Evis’s voice, faint and thin and fading fast.

“Tell Jerle you need to see Victor. Got that, Markhat? You need to see Victor, about the Yule present.”

“See Victor. Yule present. Got it. When will you be back?”

Before Evis could answer, the machine belched forth another bolt of immature lightning and a great puff of smoke.

Then it fell silent and dark.

“That’s it,” snapped a glaring technician. “It’s gone. That man is bad luck.”

I rose. Jerle was behind me, sepulchral as ever.

“I heard. I will fetch Victor. If sir will come this way?”

I followed him out before any buckets of sand accidentally found their way atop my head.

Jerle was setting quite the pace. I had to trot to keep up.

“Won’t Victor be asleep at this hour?”

“Not today.” We descended a stair, walked a hall, descended another. I was finally led to a tiny sitting room, which I shared with a single lonely chair and an even lonelier marble angel in a nook in the wall.

I had barely made the angel’s acquaintance when Victor appeared.

He stood, still and silent. I rose from my chair and smiled but did not offer my hand.

“It’s good to see you again.”

He was wearing dark glasses, and enveloped within a hundred yards of pure black silk. When he spoke, he did so without parting his lips more than a slit.

“I trust you are well,” he said.

“Evis asked me to see you. Something about a Yule gift. I assume that has meaning to you?”

Victor nodded. “You are to meet with these-,” he struggled for a moment with the word, “- kidnappers, is that correct?”

No point in asking how he knew. “I am. Tonight.”

Again, a solemn nod.

“Mr. Prestley foresaw this. He has instructed me to remind you that the House has offered its services, should you choose to avail yourself of them.”

“I thank you, Victor. And your House. I really do. But I’ll not abuse your generosity. I don’t see where the interests of Avalante and my case meet, in this instance.”

“I concur. They do not. Nevertheless, I am compelled to ask.”

“Thanks. But no thanks.”

Something like a smile flickered across those cold blue lips.

“I expected no less. In that case, I am instructed to give you this.”

From within his billowing silks, he produced a polished oak box.

“Brandy? Chocolates? A bill for the carriages I’ve borrowed?”

Damned if the halfdead didn’t actually snicker.

“It is a weapon. A weapon of last resort. Evis warns you against using it, unless the need is dire and the alternative is certain death.”

I took the box. It was heavy, and it could have used a handle, since my mere mortal hands didn’t have the grip of a vampire.

“Thank you,” I said. “I am again in your debt, and indebted to your House.”

“Well spoken. Good luck, finder.”

“To you too.”

And then he was gone, closing the door behind him.

There was a chair. And the angel still looked lonesome. So I sat, and put the heavy oak box in my lap.

“Let’s see what you are,” I said aloud. I found the latch and pushed. It clicked with the peculiar bright click of freshly oiled brass.

I lifted the lid and peered inside.