Brown River Queen (23 page)

Stitches shrugged.
Nothing. Hers is a magic ancient beyond even my ken.
 

Something changed in the not-voice Stitches used.
 

There are cycles to magic, finder. Seasons, if you will.
 

I looked around. Evis was lighting Mama’s cigar. Gertriss and Darla were trying to keep Buttercup seated and inconspicuous. I gathered no one but me was hearing Stitches speak.

The child you call a banshee was created during an age when arcane conditions were different from those which exist today. If I continue my seasonal analogy, your Buttercup was born on the longest day of summer, when magic burned hot and bright.

I nodded, hoping Stitches would continue.

If that was summer, then today is early spring after a long cold winter. The magic that imbued the banshee is not even possible today. Nor will it be for some long time. But she still wields a shadow of it, which means she is unbound by the rules beings born in winter must obey.

I dared a whisper. “So that’s how she walked through your spells.”

I doubt she even noticed them.
 

Inspiration made my heart sink.

“How many other of these summer-born critters do you think might be out there?”

A goodly number.
But these creatures, and their domiciles, are known. Cataloging such creatures is commonplace among my peers. Most summer-born slumber, nearly in hibernation, awaiting the end of the magical winter. Those who do not sleep have taken to the Deep. They do not walk among us.

“That’s a relief,” I whispered, though no one was paying me any attention. Another disturbing thought arose. “But Buttercup wasn’t in any catalog, was she?”

She was not. Either her childlike nature has kept her hidden or she has hidden behind a childlike nature.
 

Buttercup made us both jump by emitting a loud snort of giggling from beneath the table. Darla and Gertriss struggled to pull her back into her seat.

“So, what does all this have to do with our little dinner cruise?”

Everything.
Stitches paused long enough to waggle her fingers. The noise around me diminished, though mouths still moved and musicians still plucked at their strings.
Even those who slumber are not entirely removed from the world. They leave behind—we shall call them agents. Agents dedicated to preventing the rise of cannon. Of rifles. Of steam engines. Of anything and everything that could pose a threat to their masters, when they wake.
Stitches gestured, taking in the
Queen’s
bustling casino floor.
So yes. Our little dinner cruise, as you call it, has taken on a significance only a few understand.

I wasn’t thrilled to be numbered among that few.

“So the attacks on Avalante. On the Regent. Hell, even on me—it’s these agents trying to keep us from forging cannon big enough to blow their masters to bits?”

In essence. They see the Regency as a possible point of emergence for technologies and sciences which could one day endanger even the most powerful magical beings.
 

“So what the hell is the Regent doing taking long boat rides when he ought to be hiding deep in a bunker somewhere?”

Conflicts are never resolved through defense alone.

I grabbed for a beer, found only empties.

“Draw them out. Make himself such a tempting target, and so far from the High House that the agents can’t resist taking a whack.”

Thus revealing their allies among Rannit’s sorcerous elite. Hag Mary we know. Her compatriots we do not. Yet.

“Do me a favor and stop spilling state secrets. I’m getting the uncomfortable impression it’s not healthy to know any of this.”

The Corpsemaster trusted you. I trust she had reason to do so.

“I hear the Corpsemaster was a little too careless with her trust. That true, Stitches? About who killed her?”

She knew damned well who it was we weren’t talking about. The Regent.

It may interest you to know the huldra was also a relic of the summer years.

I cussed. No answer was as damning as a cheerful confirmation.

“That explains all the sudden interest in it. Can’t have that running loose.”

Indeed. I still fail to understand why the Corpsemaster allowed such a potent object to be introduced so haphazardly in the midst of a growing conflict.

“She had a wicked sense of humor.”
 

The noise around us returned to its previous level. Darla and Gertriss looked up suddenly, as though I’d spoken.

“Boss?”

“Dear?”

“Nothing. Was just calling for Dutson. He owes me a beer.”

The omnipresent Dutson appeared at my side, bearing a frosty brown bottle and a clean crystal glass.

“Shall I pour, sir?”

I indicated my assent with a wave of my aristocratic right hand and was pleased when it didn’t shake.

If what Stitches said was true, our little dinner cruise was drawing far more interest than I’d ever imagined possible.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“A rowboat and a fast horse.”

Dutson merely nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He toddled away. Darla gave me a questioning glance. I grinned and shrugged, which is our private code for ‘explanations will follow.’

Mama Hog broke the silence that followed with a long country belch. “Better out than in,” she announced through a proud gap-toothed grin. “I’d like another plate of them mashed-up taters, if’n you please.”

“Oh,
shit,
” said Evis.

Mama assumed a rare expression of surprise. “Well, never ye mind, then.”

Gertriss went pale, put a hand up to cover her mouth. I turned to see what they were seeing.

The Regent isn’t a tall man. Nor is he physically remarkable in any way. He’s neither young nor old, fat nor thin, muscular nor flabby. His hair is dark, halfway between black and brown. His nose is neither hawkish nor flat. He’s got a chin, but I’ve seen stronger. He’s so unremarkable he can, for instance, walk through a crowded casino without attracting the kind of attention one would expect for the most powerful man in all the remnants of the Kingdom.

Oh, more than a few realized who it was that brushed past them. Faces turned his way. Jaws dropped. More than one celebrant assumed the panicked flush of the undiscovered criminal and darted unceremoniously for the
Queen’s
upper decks. But most just kept on drinking or rolling dice or glaring at their cards, unaware and blissful because of it.

The Regent might be physically unremarkable, but the woman on his arm was remarkable in every way. She wore a tight black gown worked with threads of silver that glittered and shone in the
Queen’s
magical lamps. Her long black hair was braided and piled high in the fashion of fine city ladies. Her shoulders and arms were scandalously bare, and the contrast of her pale skin and the black gown was striking. She didn’t smile. Her eyes, big and dark, never stopped moving among the crowd, and something in my gut told me she was more dangerous in that tight black gown than any two dozen of Avalante’s halfdead foot soldiers, guns or not.

“Well, damned if it ain’t His Highness hisself,” muttered Mama Hog. “Looks like he’s headin’ this way, too.” Mama gave Evis a wink. “Now, I’ll be more’n willing to share my taters with the man.”

Evis repeated his earthy expletive. Gertriss stood, putting her hand light on Mama Hog’s elbow.
 

“Mama, why don’t we take Buttercup upstairs?”

Mama hooted with laughter, but rose and threw down her napkin. “I was just messin’ with you, boy. Thank ye kindly for the meal. I’ll be leavin’ you to your business.”

And then she surprised us all by nodding, taking Buttercup by her hand, and walking quietly away.

Mama was right. The Regent was making a leisurely beeline right for us.

“Evis, say the word. Do we stay or go?”

“Stay,” said Evis. “If he’d wanted to talk privately he’d have sent for me.”

“We’ll keep it brief,” I said. “Just ‘Yes, Your Honor’ and ‘No, Your Honor.’ The less said the better.”
 

And then, without warning, the Regent stood before us.

“Do not stand,” he said. His voice was deep and smooth and he didn’t quite smile as he spoke. “And do not salute. Let’s not turn this into a state event.”

Dutson appeared, a pair of waiters in tow. Within seconds the table was cleared, a new tablecloth laid, and a pair of new places were set.

We kept our mouths shut. The Regent seated his lady friend and then settled into his own chair. We’d become the center of attention for maybe a dozen onlookers, but no more.

Like everyone else, I’ve heard rumors that the man is a secret sorcerer. At that moment, I believed it.
 

“I trust your accommodations are acceptable, sir.” It was Evis who broke the silence.

The Regent nodded curtly. A waiter I’d never seen placed a long-stemmed glass of wine by the Regent’s hand. He picked it up and made a show of swirling it about and smelling it, but he never brought it to his lips.

“They are more than adequate, Mr. Prestley. I commend your House.” He put down his untouched wine. “Mr. Markhat. Mrs. Markhat. Sorceress.”

Each of us nodded. Darla and I managed a somber ‘Your Honor.’

“You were attacked.” He spoke to me. His eyes, if you dared look into them, were brown. There wasn’t a damned thing ordinary about his gaze.
 

“I was. Or I seemed to be. I suppose the hex could have been randomly choosing targets and I got lucky.” Darla kicked me in my shin. “Your Honor.”

“I think not. Neither do you. We both suspect the next attempt on my life will occur soon. Perhaps at this table.” He shrugged and glanced at his silent companion. “I might as well taste the wine, don’t you think?”

She smiled, displaying teeth longer and sharper than any halfdead ever had. She blinked, and her eyes changed, showing yellow vertical slits. Long black talons sprang from her elegant fingertips.

The woman hissed. Her breath stank of the grave.

The Regent smiled a small smile, right at me. “My companion suggests caution.”
 

The woman blinked and her eyes were normal. She closed her lips. Her talons retracted. Each left a tiny drop of glistening venom where they had lain.
 

The Regent kept looking at me. I spoke only when it became obvious Evis wasn’t going to. “So your people didn’t manage to grab the attacker?”
 

Darla kicked me again.

“The attack was designed to occur only after my assailant was safely away,” replied the Regent. “The hexed dagger, as you call it, drew attention to you. While my staff was occupied determining the nature of that threat, the real attack commenced. It was invisible. Entirely arcane. Surprisingly powerful.”

I was seated two places down from the Regent, on a boat under attack by bogeymen right out of legend, being glared at by a female with talons and fangs. I decided we’d left our bag of caution back in Rannit and plowed in before Darla could contrive to stuff a napkin in my mouth.

“Old magic, was it? Something out of legend?”

“Precisely. Fortunately, I too have access to unique and powerful arcana. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

His woman purred. The sound of it raised every hair I had.

“And you think they might try again here, any moment.” In a crowded casino, I nearly added. And you took a seat right by my wife.

“It’s almost as if I’m taunting them, isn’t it, Mr. Markhat? Barging down here, my wand-wavers nowhere in sight, nothing to protect me but a single beautiful woman.” The creature’s purring grew louder. If she’d had a tail, she’d have swished it languidly. “That’s just the sort of behavior one might expect from an arrogant megalomaniac. Carelessly endangering the lives of innocents because he believes in his own innate invincibility.”

“Not what I said.”

“But what you meant. And, if that were the case, you would be correct. But I must ask you to trust me, Mr. Markhat. I assure you there is a method, as they say, to my madness.”

Trust you? I thought. Like the Corpsemaster trusted you?

Careful,
said Stitches in a tiny whisper in my head.
Think happy thoughts. Or at least not treasonous ones.

“You’re the boss,” I said. I met his eyes but didn’t attempt to smile. “We’re all just trying to get you to Bel Loit and back alive.”

“In that, I wish you luck. Now I will try my hand at the tables. Mr. Prestley. Join us.”

Evis rose with all the cheer and enthusiasm of a man bound for the gallows.

“Don’t be so glum, Mr. Prestley. I have no intention of looting Avalante’s coffers this evening. I am not a skilled gambler.”

“Somehow I doubt that. Your Honor,” I said. Darla hissed, but my words were out.
 

The Regent laughed. “Remember your mission, Mr. Markhat. Bel Loit and back, alive.”