Frank Tuttle - The Mister Trophy

Mister Smith turned that desk around with two fingers. He looked down, sang something short in Troll and closed the drawer.

Then he turned those big owl eyes on me. “You have done as you said, Finder. I thank you. Here.”

Three lumps of gold appeared in his bloodied Troll paw.

“Your fee.”

Maybe the Troll nightstick around my neck joined with my newly acquired concussion to play tricks on my eyes. I didn’t see three fist-sized chunks of gold in Mister Smith’s four-fingered hand. I saw one of Mama Hog’s wear-worn cards. I blinked, and there it was again, turned over so I saw a bony finger, crooked and beckoning.

“Keep it,” I heard myself say. “No charge. No fee. Not this time. Can’t buy my soul, Mister Smith. Shame on you for trying.”

Then the floor buckled and fell and the last thing I remember about that night is Mister Smith smiling at me.

Trolls really, really shouldn’t smile at people they like.

I woke up. That surprised me so much I sat up and opened my eyes.

Home sweet home, my tiny room behind a room. Someone had shoved the bedding back in my mattress and sewed it back up. The door to the office was upside down, but back on its hinges, and closed.

I swung my legs around, snarled when I rediscovered my broken left arm and spent a few minutes scratching under the splint.

Mama Hog’s short fat shadow slid under the door. “You awake, boy?” she barked.

“No. Go away,” I said.

She opened the door and shut it quickly behind her. In her hands she held a steaming bowl of soup and half a loaf of fresh baked bread and she’ll never ever look that good again.

“Brought you some food,” she said. “Don’t you go puking it up, you hear?”

“I hear.” I sat on the edge of the bed. I was wearing my other pants and I wondered if I’d been dressed by Trolls or fortunetellers.

“The Misters?” I said, grabbing a spoon.

Mama Hog’s warty face split in a grin. “They’re Trolls, boy,” she said. “Took twenty-seven half-dead and mashed them flat. Twenty-seven!”

I whistled.

Mama Hog rattled on. “Mister Smith, he came marchin’ back here with you in one hand and his cousin’s head in the other. You’ve never seen the like, boy-and the other two, they were singing some Troll battle song, all thunder and bellowing. Woke up half the city and scared the Watch near to death. Pissin’ their pants, boy! You shoulda seen ’em run!”

I shoved bread in the soup, sopped it up, made it disappear.

“Where-”

“Don’t choke, boy, don’t choke,” said Mama Hog. She lost her grin. “They’re gone,” she said. “Gone back East. Got to do some heavy purification rituals. They touched the undead, walked our sewers, handled our money.”

I swallowed hard. “When did they-”

“Yesterday,” said Mama. “Noon. After the Watch came sniffing around. Mister Smith gave them that gold around his neck to pay for the damages they did. Then he warned them to keep off your back, and they took off for Troll country.” She smiled. Not a grin, but a smile, and for an instant some of the ugly vanished. “He told me to watch after you, Markhat. Said you were clanless no more.”

I put down the soup. “He said that?”

“He did,” said Mama Hog. “Left you something, too. Here.” She held out an egg-sized chunk of smooth white river rock. “Take it. Tell it to speak.”

I took it. It was heavy and cold. “Tell it to what?”

Mama Hog rolled her eyes. “Tell it to speak. Say ‘Rock, speak to me.’”

“Rock,” I said, “Speak to me.”

Troll grumbles filled the air. “Greetings, my brother,” said Mister Smith. “Forgive our hasty departure. It was necessary, but unhappily so. Mister Chin, Mister Jones and I would have shared with you one last meal of the catfish, had circumstances permitted.”

“We will honor your memory,” said Mister Chin.

“You are welcome among us,” said Mister Jones.

“I have warned your Watch, and the half-dead Houses,” said Mister Smith. “You fought by our side. You fought for the soul of one of our own, one who could no longer fight for himself. You walked with us, through darkness, and when you looked upon the yellow metal you turned away.”

I remembered that, and winced.

“I name you Markhat of Clan-” the translator stopped using Kingdom and choked out a long, wet Troll word. “In all things, we are brothers, now and forever. May your shadow fall tall and your soul grow to meet it.”

“Goodbye, my brother,” chorused the Misters, unseen. “Walk brave, in beauty.”

Silence. Mama Hog took the empty bowl and the dirty spoon from me. “You don’t look much like a Troll,” she said. “But I reckon looks can be misleading. Can’t they?”

I put the stone down. I was tired, and my arm was broken, and the lump on the back of my head started throbbing, but I felt good-better than I’d felt since the War.

Memories stirred. “What was in that bracelet you gave me, Mama?” I asked. “Looked like a bug. Scared old man Haverlock so bad he got himself killed.”

Mama Hog grinned with both her wide front teeth. “Fooled you both, didn’t I? Bracelet wasn’t worth squat. Some flash, some heat-bet he tore it off hisself, before he saw the worm.”

“He did.” I shuddered at the recollection. “He acted like I had snakes in my pockets.”

“We call ’em corpse worms where I come from,” said Mama Hog. “Just one of ’em gets in a half-dead, and pretty soon he’s so full of worms he’ll bust wide open. We don’t have no vampire troubles in Pot Lockney, boy,” she said.

I grunted. Mama Hog stopped, half-through the door. “Them Trolls left you something else,” she said. “When you get your legs back come and see. Took two Trolls to haul it across town. Took me two hours to wipe off the mess.”

I didn’t need to go look. I had seen past Mama when she’d barged in-the Haverlock’s fancy ironwood desk sat in my office.

It’s a fine big desk. I keep Mister Smith’s talking rock in the top right-hand drawer and a keg of Keshian ale in the big cabinet to the left.

And when people ask me how much the desk cost, I just smile and tell them a dear old friend left it to me when he passed away.

It isn’t the truth, exactly, but it’ll do.