Frank Tuttle - The Broken Bell

The sun was just creeping up when I hit the streets again. The weapon was in my right-hand coat pocket. I was down to a dozen of the explosive rounds it fired, which meant I’d already fired a dozen times. Try as I might, I could only recall firing the thing six times.

Six times or a dozen, I’d slain a wand-waver, and that’s something no mere sword could have done.

I hoofed it until the cabs starting moving. So I was a good five blocks from Cambrit before I caught a ride. From there, I made good time, and reached Fields’s well-trimmed neighborhood before the sky lost its traces of dawn.

I let the cabbie go. The sidewalks were getting crowded. Carris could hardly expect to mingle in his current state. That limited his hiding places.

I made the block, noting places that afforded cover and a good view of Tamar’s home. I picked out six places. All but one faced the front door.

I checked the long shot first. And found signs that someone had been sleeping there. But I didn’t figure it was Carris, since they left behind a couple empty bottles of cheap red wine and the wrapper from a pub sandwich.

Curious. Someone with an interest in the Fields and their servant’s entrance. Might be the butler from down the street, carrying on with a maid.

Or it might be something else.

But it wasn’t Carris, so I emerged from the hedge with as much dignity as I could muster and joined the passing crowd on the sidewalk.

Next, I checked the same clump of hedges that had recently concealed Mills and. I found blood on the leaves, blood so fresh it was still sticky. A bloody scrap of rag was lying on the grass, beside a pair of ragged shoes.

So he’d grabbed clothes and shoes along the way, and left these when they didn’t fit.

And then, presumably, he’d gone looking for the one person in the world Carris Lethway felt he could trust.

I recalled the hint of murder I’d seen in Fields’s chubby little cheeks. I wasn’t convinced he would murder the kid in cold blood, but there was only one way to find out.

I didn’t even have to knock.

The door opened as soon as my shadow fell across it. Both Mr. Fields and his wife stood within, bleary-eyed and anxious.

“Yes, he’s been here,” said Fields, before I uttered a word. “Been and gone.”

“He was hurt,” said Mrs. Fields. “Badly.”

“I know.” They stepped aside and motioned me in. “I found him last night, but he jumped me before I could explain who I was.”

“He’s looking for Tamar.” Mr. Fields gritted his teeth. “And whoever is looking for him may be looking for her too.”

“Which is why I kept her whereabouts a secret. Relax. Tamar is fine. Do you have any idea where Carris might be headed?”

“Yes, dear, why don’t you tell Mr. Markhat where that poor young man is heading? And why he might be heading there?”

She crossed arms over bosom in the universal sign for wifely disapproval.

Mr. Fields went crimson.

“You sent the kid on a wild goose chase to protect your daughter,” I said before he could reply. “Wonderful. Brilliant. That’s what any father would do, medals and parades all around. But I’m not Carris Lethway, Mr. Fields. So when I ask where you sent the kid, I expect an honest answer.”

“He sent him to Wall Downs,” snapped Mrs. Fields. “You’ve heard of it? Tiny little town fifteen miles south of here? They grow wheat. We buy most of our flour from there.”

I knew of the place. What I knew of it told me it might have a pair of roads, a couple of inns, a canal or two that connected the town to the Brown. Two hundred souls, a couple of big plantation houses and a lot of home-brewed corn whiskey.

Not a bad place to hide someone. Not a good place to send an injured kid.

“Did you give him any specific destination, or just point him south and slam the door?”

“I cleaned him up and treated his wounds and gave him twenty crowns, Mr. Markhat.” He shot a sideways glance at his glowering wife. “I am not as heartless as people seem to think.”

Mrs. Fields suppressed a snort of derision.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I told him she was staying at the Two-Headed Lamb. It’s an inn. North end of town.”

“And then you just let him go.”

“Damned right I did. And I’m not sorry. He showed up here half dead and bloody, raving about kidnappers and fires, and demanding to see Tamar.” He glared at me. “He’s nothing but trouble, I tell you. Just like his devil of a father.”

“He ran, Mr. Fields. Ran all the way across Rannit, after Curfew, wounded and sick. All to see Tamar. I don’t know the kid. But I do know this-his devil of a father would never have do that. For anyone.”

Fields turned away.

“He’s gone. Follow him or not, I don’t care which. His father, though. Dead?”

“I hear he left town.”

“Left? For where?”

“Place called Wall Downs. Something about two-headed lambs.”

He said something less than complimentary. His wife turned and marched away, leaving him alone with me.

“The wedding is tomorrow,” I said. “You should think about getting a new suit.”

He cussed and slammed his door.

There are two ways to travel south out of Rannit-the old forest roads that creep through the forest via the South Gate or down the Brown itself.

A man in a hurry would opt for the Brown. The forest roads are overgrown and prone to disgorge bandits, bears and bobcats from every tallish shrub. Half the bridges are out and the other half were never built to begin with.

River travel, on the other hand, is fast and cheap. Especially to places like Wall Downs, where one could readily book passage on the same barges that deliver cargos of grain, coal or lumber.

So that’s where I headed, cursing the traffic and gritting my teeth. If Carris Lethway wound up aboard a southbound boat before I made the docks, I’d be forced to follow. Even a trip to Wall Downs would wind up taking a couple days, and that was time I didn’t have.

My cab rolled to a halt blocks from the Docks. I leaned out to see why, and found the street clogged with wagons and cabs and carriages, all jostling and scraping, unable to move in anything other than fits and starts.

Even the sidewalks were choked, as mobs abandoned their vehicles and made for the Docks on foot.

I did the same. The cabbie cursed at me despite a hefty tip. I ignored him and joined the masses as half of Rannit headed for a boat out of town.

It wasn’t quite pandemonium yet, but it was a half-dozen pushes and a few thrown punches from turning that way. Men were hauling bundles and chests. Women were carrying babies and bags. Kids were clinging to their parent’s sleeves and bawling with every step.

The Watch appeared, here and there, red-faced from whistle-blowing and bellicose shouting. I saw a Watch nightstick rise and fall just once, when a drunk wouldn’t listen to the sweet voice of reason, but other than that, violence never quite erupted.

It took two hours to make the Docks. There I was confronted with a wall of panicked travelers, each trying to push the other aside in a mad, hopeless bid for a place on anything mildly buoyant that claimed to be heading south.

They say the Watch managed to keep people from being pushed right off the wharfs and into the river by charging the crowd dozens of times with Watchmen mounted on the same enormous Percheron horses bred for use against Trolls.

I never saw the horses. I did hear the screams.

I couldn’t have found Carris Lethway had he been juggling flaming torches and blowing out a tune on a trumpet.

I tried. Oh yes, I did. I waded into that mob, shoved my way ahead with elbows and knees, punched strangers in the kidneys, shoved kindly old dowagers aside with my shoulders. I did exactly the things I imagined Carris Lethway would do, but in the end all I got for my troubles was a fresh set of bruises and a guilty conscience.