The Broken Bell (16 page)

“Mama.”

Mama cackled. “Well, I had to ask. Now this Packer seemed a mite slow, dim-witted I mean, according to Mrs. Ramsay’s son.”

“If Mrs. Ramsay’s boy is pulling on ogre hair he’s no genius himself, Mama, but go ahead.”

“Well, don’t that sound odd to you, boy? If this Packer be touched in the head, how’d he go thinkin’ about setting your door on fire to get everybody looking the wrong way?”

“So somebody was helping him?”

“Somebody smart enough to stay their distance. Somebody hexed, too, I’m thinkin’, because there was enough spent hex in the air to cover two men thick and strong.”

“Damn.”

Mama nodded. “So there’s another one out there, smarter than the rest. More dangerous.”

I rose and closed and locked my burnt door.

“Gonna take more than a door to end this, boy.”

I sat and sighed. “I know, Mama. Going to have to take the fight to the wand-waver. Either of you have any idea who that might be?”

Both Mama and Gertriss shook their heads. I muttered an unkind word.

We spent another hour turning over possible motives. I couldn’t see anything about a two-acre cornfield that would be worth hexing for, let alone killing. Gertriss was sure that the land her late fiancé had paid down on was nothing special, and that no princely sum was ever involved. And both were adamant that Harald Suthom’s family didn’t number any witch women, anyone with Sight, or any wand-wavers.

But my door and my missing cat were testament to the fact that someone with magical talent and a connection to Gertriss’s former fiancé was determined to see us dead.

Mama at Avalante. The words ran hob-nailed through my mind. Mama and her cleaver, and that famous Mama mouth, setting her halfdead hosts straight with her salty down-home homilies at every opportunity. I’d be lucky if Evis himself didn’t yank my silver brooch off my jacket and rescind my beer privileges forever.

But the idea, repellent though it was, was looking better. I couldn’t be everywhere at once. The Hoogas couldn’t spend their lives guarding Mama’s door. And Buttercup needed somewhere safer than Mama’s back room until this was all over.

There are times, in life, when you must either bow to the inevitable, or be crushed by it.

“Gather up Buttercup and some clothes, ladies,” I said. “Enough for a good long stay.”

Gertriss nodded. Mama’s face pinched and glared.

“And just where you think I’m a goin,’ boy?”

“I need you to watch over Buttercup, Mama. And the safest place to do that right now is at Avalante.”

Mama expanded. Her eyes narrowed, and her jaw clenched.

“If’n you thinks I’m going to sleep under the same roofs as them halfdead devils, boy, you are mistaken.”

“Mama. Please. Hear me out.”

It wasn’t easy, getting a single word, much less a dozen in a line, past Mama’s grumbling.

But I’ve had lots of practice. In the end, Mama cussed and muttered, but she agreed.

“Wonderful. Let’s get you packed.” Gertriss started to bring up her plan to stay with me, but something in the set of Mama’s jaw stopped her cold. For once, I was glad that Gertriss still regarded Mama with a certain measure of terror.

We even packed a bag for Buttercup, who helped us by stuffing it with whatever was closest at hand, be it a spoon or a jar of feathers or a stray bent nail.

Mid-morning saw me putting Mama, Gertriss and Buttercup into a cab and sending them off for Avalante. My last sight of them was of Buttercup leaning out the window and waving before Mama grabbed her and yanked her back inside.

The cab rounded the corner, and I was alone, with only an ensorcelled murderer lurking close by to keep me company.

“Good morning, Miss Marchin,” I said to the woman seated behind the enormous marble desk. “Remember me?”

She smiled, but only a bit.

“Let me guess. You still don’t have an appointment, do you?”

“Oh, I hardly need one, Miss Marchin. Mr. Lethway and I are practically brothers, these days. Why just the other night we shared a cigar at the Troll’s Den. You can ask Mr. Pratt, who I suspect is now tip-toeing up behind me, aren’t you, Mr. Pratt?”

“Dat I am, Mr. Markhat.” There was humor in his voice. I turned around and greeted him with an outstretched hand.

He surprised me by taking it, and surprised me further by not breaking the arm to which it was attached.

His grip was firm but not threatening. Had I not known better, I would have suspected he was happy to see me.

“You got some nerve, coming back around here.” He spoke quietly and kept smiling for Miss Markin’s benefit. “You expecting lunch and a pat on the head?”

“Lunch would be nice. But before anyone pats me on the head, you might want to peep outside. My carriage belongs to Avalante. They know I’m here. Should that carriage return to Avalante empty, there will be unhappy people in unusually high places.”

“Is dat so? Well. Tell you what. Let’s you and I sit on a bench outside and have a little chat. Miss, I’ll be right outside.”

And then he sauntered out the door.

“If Mr. Lethway should inquire, Miss, I prefer fried chicken to baked. And dark beer to pale.”

Miss Markin stifled a snort. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I followed Mr. Pratt out into the sun.

The street was busy. Pedestrians were three deep on the sidewalk. Cabs and carriages and ogre-carts choked the cobblestone street with rattles and scrapes and shouts from the drivers.

Mr. Pratt, true to his word, settled on a bench in the shade of the Lethway building. I sat beside him, leaving room to dart away should any cutlery inadvertently appear.

“Nice morning, Mr. Pratt.”

“Indeed it is, Mr. Markhat.” He pushed the brim of his hat down and closed his eyes. “Now what am I going to do with you?”

“I imagine you have instructions regarding that. Something involving burlap bags and a shallow grave?”

He chuckled. “Why dig a grave when the Brown River flows south all night? But yes. That’s the spirit of the thing.”

“So why am I not being bludgeoned?”

“Too many witnesses, for a start. I’m glad you didn’t come sneaking back around to the House. I might not have had a choice, in that instance.”

“Me, at the Lethway home? You have me confused with someone else.”

“Sure I do.” He opened his eyes and turned toward me. “She’s not always been a drunk, Markhat. You ought to know that.”

“Who?”

A hint of menace crossed his face. “You know damned well who. Mrs. Lethway. You spoke to her, didn’t you?”

“Briefly. We didn’t have much of a conversation.”

He nodded. I decided to fill the silence before one of us thought better of consorting with the enemy.

“You just admitted Carris has been kidnapped, you know. I don’t think your boss would appreciate that.”

“Funny thing, Mr. Markhat. You know who hired me, eleven years ago, and why?”

“Nope.”

“Mrs. Lethway. Bodyguard. For her and the kid. While Mr. Lethway was off squeezing extra pennies out of his precious mines.”

My heart began to pound. I hoped it didn’t show.

“But here you are, working for the patriarch.”

“Kid grew up. House Lethway has its own security. Mr. Lethway doesn’t like it when the Missus leaves the House. When he settled back in Rannit, she didn’t need me anymore. He did.”

But you raised little Carris, didn’t you?
I didn’t speak it aloud. I didn’t need to.

I’d found an ally— all I had to do was hope he didn’t reluctantly, and with deep and heartfelt regret, murder me.

“Mr. Lethway doesn’t seem too concerned about his son.”

“Mr. Lethway doesn’t give two damns about anything but getting another crown richer.” He realized he was speaking too loud, and he took a breath. “I don’t think he plans to pay any ransom, Mr. Markhat. He’s stalling them. Begging for time. That’s not the right way to handle a thing like that, is it?”

“I’m afraid not. Kidnappers don’t practice much patience.”

“They sent an ear in a box last week.” He swallowed and got control of his voice again. “Think it was his?”

I sighed. “I hate to say it, but yes. Probably so.” I let that sink in. “How are they communicating?”

“We get letters. They come here, all hours, delivered by street kids who got the letters from weedheads who got the letters from people they can’t describe. They pay the weedheads in smack and weed right after they deliver, and not one of them has been able to remember a thing. Even when I helped them try to remember.”

I nodded. Using weedheads as couriers was a common practice in Rannit’s thriving kidnapping industry. Most don’t recall their own names after years of puffing weed.

“The letters. Can you get them?”

Mr. Pratt shook his head. “He burns them after he reads them, Mr. Markhat. Doesn’t want a scandal.” He spat into the street. “Bastard even burned the ear.”

I cussed. There wouldn’t even be any evidence to turn over to the Watch, if I somehow surmised who the kidnappers were.

“How much are they asking?”

He let his eyes wander the street before speaking. Maybe he thought a bit too. But eventually, he spoke.

“That’s another funny thing, Mr. Markhat. I don’t think they’ve asked for money.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I can read, Mr. Markhat. Emily—Mrs. Lethway—she taught me. The letters are two, sometimes three pages long. I haven’t been able to read one up close yet, but who takes three pages to say ‘Give us so much money or else?’”

“So if it’s not money, what is it?”

He looked up at the sky and shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe it’s some rival in the business, demanding that Lethway move out of their territory. Maybe it’s some union thing. Who knows what motivates the rich, these days.”

“Same thing that always has. Money or the means to lay hands on it.”

“Cynic.”

“Bet on it. Look. Any chance you could snag one of these letters before Lethway gets it?”

“Been trying. He’s a hawk where they’re concerned, though. Haven’t even come close yet.”

“Keep trying.” I wondered if I could believe a word of this. But I couldn’t see any angle to it. If Pratt wanted to finish what Lethway had started in the Troll’s Den, all he had to do was invite me to a quiet room upstairs. He hadn’t.

“Did they ever mention a deadline?”

“He let that slip once.” Pratt gave a date.

It was also the date of the wedding. I cussed under my breath.

“What?”

“Nothing. Probably nothing. Same day as the wedding. They probably picked that on purpose, to give it a little extra emphasis.”

“Makes sense. I looked into the Fields. Bakers. Carris loves the girl. Don’t think they’re involved.”

I just nodded.

“So where does all this leave me and you, Mr. Pratt?”

“Well, Mr. Markhat, in a moment, I’m going to stand up and grab you and make a big show of threatening you. You’ll say something smart and push off. I’ll report you spun a line of nonsense and tried to bribe me.”

“Won’t your boss know we talked for a long time?”

“He’s in a meeting with the mining union right now. My partner is out back having a snort. Miss Marchin will tell the boss we talked, but as long as she sees us arguing that’s all she’ll tell.”

“You take a lot of chances.”

He shrugged. “So do you. Look, Markhat. I like the kid. I like the lady. I’ve got some money of my own. If you can find out who’s got Carris, and where they’ve got him, I can sure as Hell pay you a fee and go and get Carris myself. “

“I’m already working for his fiancée. But when I find out who took Carris, I’ll be back around to talk. I won’t accept any payment, but I might ask a favor. You in turn will refrain from decapitating me. Deal?”

He laughed. “Deal. Now. You can punch me, if you want. Not in the jaw. I just had these teeth fixed.”

I rose and backed away, into what I was sure was Miss Markin’s view. I put up my hands in a stay back gesture.

Mr. Pratt came roaring off the bench and clamped those beefy paws hard on my shoulders and gave me a powerful shove.

“Next time you come around dis place, I feed you to the ogres,” he bellowed.

I took a step forward, but didn’t swing. Whistles blew, and a pair of blue-capped Watch sergeants came charging out of a café.

“What’s the problem here?” demanded the first.

“White shoes after Armistice Day,” I replied.

“Beat it, both of you.”

I turned on my heel and made for my borrowed carriage, a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

Chapter Eleven

Neither smile nor song lasted all the way across town. I had time to kill before my meeting with Tamar, which meant I had time to go and try to mend fences with Darla.

Which also meant I’d have to tell her about Hisvin and the cannons and the war and my new rank.

I wasn’t eager to speak about any of that, to Darla or anyone else. And Hisvin would probably shoot me with a pair of Aught Eights if she knew I was about to go spilling state secrets to my fiancée.

“Well, I didn’t like getting drafted, either.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” I shouted. “Talking to myself. Sign of not drinking enough.”

The driver laughed, and before I could prepare any elaborate speeches or, better still, come up with a convincing stall for time, we were in front of Darla’s dress shop.

I bade my borrowed driver to wait. He was dozing before I finished. I took a deep breath and ambled up to Darla’s door and marched through it with a smile.

The place was busy. Half a dozen women were idling about, chatting and oohing and ahhing over the latest creations. Mary the salesgirl had two clients to herself, Darla had a pair and Martha herself, Darla’s partner, was pinning fabric around a plump girl standing on a stool with her arms spread.

Darla smiled at me. I’ve gotten proficient at reading her smiles, and I thanked a nameless Angel that she smiled her I’m-genuinely-glad-to-see-you smile.

There’s a plain wooden chair in the corner put there just for me. I parked my fundament upon it, pulled down my hat, and allowed myself the appearance if not the substance of a brief nap.

My appointed chair and I kept each other company for the better part of an hour before Mary closed the door with a weary sigh, Martha darted into the back to make hasty alterations, and Darla stuffed a surprisingly thick wad of newfangled paper money into the till.