Frank Tuttle - The Broken Bell

I didn’t recognize the trio of day folk who greeted Darla and I. I did note that they already knew Darla’s name. We were taken immediately to the sitting room, each given cold tea and a decent ham sandwich, and were told we would be seen to as soon as possible.

Darla nibbled. I gulped.

“I expected the House to be darker,” she said, opening her sandwich and inspecting the ham.

I swallowed.

“It’s just ham. We’re guests here. They take that seriously, even if Evis isn’t around.”

She took a healthy bite.

“It’s not bad. Not bad at all.”

“Try to think of them as business associates.”

“I know. And I do like Evis. But-”

The door opened. The door opener wasn’t a day staffer, but Victor, wrapped in black silk and peering at us through black-lensed spectacles.

“Markhat. Miss Tomas.” He executed an old-world bow, obviously aimed at Darla, since he never bothered with such niceties when greeting humble finders. “Be welcome in our House.”

Darla stuck her half-eaten sandwich in my lap and stood, extending her hand. “Thank you,” she said. “A beautiful House it is.”

Victor took her hand, very gently, and shook it twice. Darla beamed.

Victor turned to me. “I regret that we are unable to communicate with our friends on the Regency ,” he said.

There is nothing gloomier than a worried vampire.

“Why? Problems with the long talker?”

Victor shook his head. “Our technical staff believes the problem does not lie here,” he said. “They are unable to determine the nature of the failure.”

“Could it be the dingus at the other end?”

“The dingus, as you name it, is far less complex than the main device, which resides here. It was designed to withstand the rigors of travel.”

Darla put her hand on my shoulder.

“Surely the House has other means of communicating?”

Victor sighed again. The sound of it was that of long-trapped air hissing from an old dry place.

“These methods, too, have failed. Sorcerous and otherwise.”

I cussed. Darla squeezed my shoulder.

“That doesn’t mean they were overtaken. Could be a lot of things. Maybe the wand-wavers from Prince are just filling the Brown with silence spells.”

“Perhaps that is so,” said Victor. His tone suggested he entertained no such notion. “But we must prepare for the worst.”

“The worst being that the barges made it through, the Regency is sunk and four thousand cannon are nearly upon us.”

“Just so.” Victor produced a plain-looking bag from beneath his robes. I took it and nearly dropped it at the unexpected weight.

“More of the explosive rounds for your weapon,” he said. “Also, a contrivance which will allow it to be worn on your waist, much like a sword. The House judges the time for secrecy regarding the weapon to be ended.”

I gently let the bag rest on the floor.

“How many more rounds?”

“A thousand,” he said. “One standard issue.”

“Standard issue? You’re handing these out to the staff?”

“Many have already been trained in the use of small arms. Many more will see training this day. If war comes to Rannit, Markhat, Avalante has no intention of falling.”

Darla tilted her head, curious but unwilling to interrupt.

“You may both take refuge here,” said Victor. “Our chambers are deep. We have long prepared against this day.”

“Thanks. I mean that. But I’ve still got a case to round up, and my client is an unreasonable woman with small regard for petty excuses.”

That earned me another kick in the shins.

“What he’s trying to say, sir, is that we are honored by your offer, and if the time comes, we are honored to fight at your side.”

Victor bowed to her. If he was smiling behind that silk, I couldn’t see it, and didn’t want to.

“As you wish. Good luck to you both. I fear the coming days will be dark ones.”

“Good luck to you, too.”

He bowed again and was gone.

“A thousand what?” whispered Darla. “What contrivance? What weapon? Is that the thing you’ve been hiding in your coat pocket all day?”

“I’ll explain on the way home,” I said. “You need to pick out a dress. I need to polish some shoes. Aren’t we getting married tomorrow? I do seem to recall something about that.”

Darla doesn’t giggle often, but she did then, and we stole a kiss right there inside a house full of vampires.

Some days, you just never know where your path is going to take you.

The rest of that day is, even now, a blur.

I returned my borrowed mare, and in her place I took a sleek black carriage and a pair of sturdy-looking ponies. I repaid a confused shoemaker for the mismatched pair of shoes I’d looted. I sought out a few unsavory acquaintances in search of news of Japeth Stricken, but found my ne’er-do-wells either dead or fled. I even made the long trip to Elfways, hoping Granny Knot had found a pigeon bearing news from Pot Lockney on her windowsill, but found her shack bolted shut and silent

That left nothing to be done but prepare for my wedding.

False wedding, I reminded myself. Sham wedding. An effort to keep Tamar and her young man safe. That, and nothing more.

I watched Darla smile at me from across the cab and hoped she was thinking along the same lines.

As the co-owner of a gown shop, I assumed Darla could simply reach out in any direction and fill her hands with a gown appropriate for a wedding, even a sham one. I assumed some alterations might need to be made, and that would be the business of an hour or so, but I didn’t consider the matter likely to demand more time or resources than that.

Oh, how wrong I was. Within moments of arriving, Darla and Mary and even Martha Hoobin set about conducting what appeared to be a full-on ruthless ransacking of their wares.

Gowns flew. Veils and unmentionables followed. Opinions and judgments came fast and furious, all reduced to a hushed female shorthand-

“This one is too-”

“If only that were-”

“Too light-”

“Too dark-”

I pulled my hat down over my eyes, forgotten in my appointed chair.

I did not sleep. I managed to buckle the contrivance Victor had given me around my waist. The belt held a leather holster for the hand cannon. It was ringed around with clever little leather pockets, each of which held an explosive round. I loaded the hand cannon and filled the belt and put a handful of extra rounds in my pocket just in case those eighty-five weren’t enough.

Darla and Mary and Martha tittered and whispered and plotted. So did I.

I had to have a ring.

Oh, I could just stop by Whistler’s or Trader Mac’s and walk away with a two-penny ring with a bit of sand in the middle. And that would be just fine for a sham wedding.

But I didn’t need Mama to tell me that handing Darla a backstreet petty ring and taking her to a lie of a wedding was going to have repercussions of the negative variety. Soon.

Very soon.

The street outside was all but deserted. Save for the Army, of course. Soldiers marched by in nervous little bands. Lone Army wagons thundered past, sparks flying from iron wheels, bound for destinations on the Wall.

I stood up quietly, so the floors didn’t creak. I unlocked Darla’s door with the stealth of a footpad.

I locked it behind me when I went out. Laid a finger across my lips to the soldiers I left standing there.

She still doesn’t know I left her there, that day.

We all need our little secrets.

One of the mysteries of the matrimonial process is the disparate amount of effort required in the assemblage of the respective costumes required.

By my count, the bare preliminaries involved in getting Darla kitted out for her wedding required seven and a half hours of continuous effort by no fewer than three determined women, each an expert in the field of elaborate costumery. That doesn’t count the night I’m sure Mary and Martha put in, making alterations or creating accoutrements from scratch.