Frank Tuttle - The Broken Bell

They scattered, tumbling and shrieking, red robes flapping. The church doors burst open, and I added stampeding warhorses over holy thresholds to my lengthy list of sins.

Priests came running out of doors and fled back into them just as quickly. Darla laughed, a wild loud laugh, and I saw her pull her dagger from her boot as the mare trotted between rows of pews.

“Tell Father Foon his old friend Markhat is here to see him,” I shouted. “Tell him if he’s not here soon I’ll come find him myself.”

Darla buried a laugh in my back.

A priest appeared in a doorway. The red mask he held before his face was shaking in his hand.

“How dare you.”

“I dare plenty. You’re not Father Foon.”

“The Father is away on Church business.”

“You mean he headed South at the first hint of trouble.”

A younger priest tugged the first man aside. This young one kept his mask lowered.

“Are you mad?”

“Not yet. But I will be soon.” I let the mare trot forward a couple of steps. “If Father Foon is hightailing it for the Sea, I’ll speak to someone else. Who’s in charge of matters matrimonial around here these days?”

The old priest started sputtering, and the younger man stepped in front of him.

“This is not a circus,” he began. “This is holy ground.”

I cut him off. “Answering my questions is the best way to get rid of me. Not answering them is the best way to wind up with soiled carpets and broken doors.”

I let my hand fall casually down on the hilt of my borrowed sword.

“You know who I am?”

“Yes.” He spat the word in a most unpriestly fashion. “Markhat.”

“Good. Now, the man in charge of marrying people?”

“Father Wickens is here. But you will go no further on that beast.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. She just came for confession, anyway. Something about apples and carrots.” I swung down and offered Darla my hand.

“Have one of your masks see to her, won’t you?”

The man’s face went ruddy with rage.

“And don’t say how dare you again. I dare. This, and plenty more. Now, this Father Wickens, which way to his office?”

He puffed air in and out, trying to decide which Angel of Vengeance to call down upon me.

Darla smiled at him. “We’ll just wander about until we find him, dear,” she said.

I shrugged and made for the nearest open hall.

“Women,” said the priest, “are not permitted beyond this worship hall.”

“Then you’d better fetch this Father,” I said. “Because we’re going to speak to him, with or without your help. Come, dear. Let’s see how priests really live, shall we?”

Boots began to sound. I counted a couple dozen men. All the Churches keep soldiers handy. Smiting the unholy is an ancient religious tradition.

I drew my sword, just in case anyone approaching had smiting on his mind.

“Goodness. A horse, here in the Church. And a pretty horse too. Is she a Yearning Tall?”

I turned.

The speaker was an old man. His red robes hung off him, loose and none too clean. Someone with more enthusiasm than skill had hemmed the bottom so he wouldn’t trip, but hadn’t tackled the sleeves.

He was bald on the top but kept a ring of long white hair around his head, just above his comically large ears. His nose was long and crooked, and his eyes were blue and bright, sparkling at me behind thick spectacles.

He winked, hobbled over to the mare, and began to scratch her behind her right ear. She regarded him warily with a big brown eye for a moment, and then relaxed and settled in for a good long scratch.

“We don’t know much about her,” replied Darla. “She’s a borrowed Army horse. I am Darla Tomas, and this is Markhat. Might you be Father Wickens?”

The old man chuckled.

“Why, I do believe I am,” he said. “Father Perk, see to this gentleman’s mount. The rest of you, back to your duties.”

The old man never raised his voice, but feet scuffed and red robes scattered. A pair of kids took the mare away.

Father Wickens beamed at us.

“Few of my visitors are so adamant to be wed,” he said.

Give me credit. I wasn’t the one ready with a hasty rebuttal.

“We’re actually here to talk about another wedding,” said Darla. “But we’d prefer to speak in private.”

“Of course, young lady. I’m always happy to talk. This way, please.” He flashed me a mischievous grin. “We do have hitching posts outside, young man. For your use in the future, you understand.”

I grinned back, despite myself.

The Father chuckled and led us to a room.

Father Wickens listened, nodding and not quite smiling, while we explained our need to find Tamar Fields and her injured fiance before other less charitable parties did the same.

He clasped his hands together on the table when we were done, and pondered the matter for a moment.

“I see,” he said. “You believe Miss Fields is in genuine peril.”

“We do.”

He nodded gravely.

“That is problematic. You see, young man, there is the matter of confidentiality. If a young woman comes to me and asks for the protection of the Church, I can hardly reveal the details of her situation with anyone else.”

“I understand that. But, Father, she’s in deeper than she realizes. If she intends to go ahead with the wedding, somebody might be inclined to show up and finish Carris Lethway off out of petty spite.”

Father Wickens sighed.

“The world is indeed peopled with dark-hearted villains. You believe this to be a real possibility?”

“Father, I’ll be straight with you. I don’t know who got out of that fire. They might all be dead for all I know. But if Japeth Stricken survived, and Carris Lethway’s father lived, then there’s a good chance Stricken is out for blood. That’s a given. And I couldn’t think of a better way for him to get it than show up at a Lethway wedding.”

“This is deeply troubling.”

“Deeply. And it gets worse. The men who were behind the kidnapping-they might not be done, either. Look. Even if you can’t tell us where Tamar is. Even if you can’t admit you even know her, can’t you try to talk her out of this?”

“Hypothetically, let us assume I have already tried just that. Hypothetically, I urged her to take her intended and flee the city before the forces arrayed against her could regroup.”

“And, speaking hypothetically, what did she say?”

“It bordered dangerously near a cardinal sin,” said the old priest, behind the ghost of a grin. “As well as being anatomically unlikely for a man of my age.”

Darla sighed and put her hand on mine.

“There’s no talking her out of it, hon,” she said.

“No. No, I suppose there isn’t.” I met the old priest’s eyes. “I know you can’t tell us anything specific. But speaking purely in general terms, how does a couple go about getting married beneath the Broken Bell anyway?”

Father Wickens pondered that.

“General terms only, Father. This has nothing to do with any headstrong young women. I merely seek to educate myself in the finer points of husbandry.”

“Well,” said the priest. “The couple in question needs to arrive here early that morning. Before the sun is fully risen. Neither man nor wife may cast a shadow outdoors, on that day.”

“Get here with the roosters,” I said. “Go on.”

“The bride to be is escorted to the Meditation Hall, where she may pray, dress and prepare herself for the ceremony.”

Darla nodded. “Is she alone during that time?”

“She may take a single bridesmaid with her into the Hall. No more.”

“The husband. Is he locked away too? In a room without windows or ventilation shafts?”