The Broken Bell (36 page)

He’d left the biscuits every day for a month, that is, until the day he’d passed to find the doorway filled with chunks of brick and the mama dog and puppies gone.

He’d found her, a block away, nestled under a porch with her pups in tow.

Half-hand was worried that gangs might be moving back into the Timbers, because, as he noted, even busted bricks don’t stack themselves in street-side doorways overnight.

It was a long shot.

But Carris Lethway was being held somewhere in Rannit. The Spook Timbers seemed ideal—abandoned, derelict and big enough to serve as a hiding place for half a dozen secretive thugs and one reluctant guest.

Maybe, just maybe, they’d been daft enough to waggle the name right under Lethway’s nose.

Disengaging from my gaggle of newfound friends took perhaps an hour. I’d been nursing the same beer for twice that time, so the wobble in my walk was just there for show.

I stumbled outside, bracing myself on the wall. I wasn’t in view of the Timbers but it never hurts to assume keen eyes might be watching. I stumbled into the nearest alley and proceeded to make my way toward the Timbers.

It took me two hours to make what was probably three blocks. I stuck to whatever cover I could find—heaps of trash, leaning fences, the narrow, filth-choked alleys between bars and stores and Angels know what. There’s a trick to moving slowly. I hadn’t done much of it since the War, but I hadn’t quite forgotten, either.

The sun sank so low it might as well have been midnight there among the alleys and the narrow places. There was no wind, not even a breath, and the stench from the tanneries and the slaughterhouses settled heavy upon me. My clothes were soiled and wet. I dabbed mud below my eyes, so my cheeks wouldn’t shine, and my transformation from upright citizen to foul creature of the sewers was sadly complete.

It was only then that I dared a direct look at the Timbers from behind a heap of rotting hides dumped in an alley in clear defiance of the Regent’s new refuse statutes.

The place rose up three stories. Most of the roof was gone. Portions of the north wall had been consumed in a fire that burned so long ago the soot was weathered white.

Nothing stirred. Nothing sounded.

I pulled up something sticky and malodorous and slowly, slowly, laid it beside my face. Couldn’t show the outline of a head if a sudden light should shine behind me. Rats scampered at the movement. Two fled across the back of my legs, heavy as cats, and probably as large.

I waited. Counted my breaths. I flexed my muscles, toe to head and back again, to keep my limbs from going stiff.

A bell clanged out Curfew.

The sounds of traffic and reveling stopped. Some streets in Rannit treat Curfew as a tired old joke.

This wasn’t one of them.

I hadn’t stuck my Avalante pin to my lapel. I didn’t move to do so. No halfdead I’d ever met would stoop to feed on anyone who stank as I did. But from the silence and the tightly shuttered windows and the streets that didn’t serve even a single absent-minded drunk, I suspected the halfdead had fed in this neighborhood, and recently.

I waited, and waited, and waited some more. I fought off sleep by reminding myself what the rats were likely to do if they thought I was unconscious.

No more bells rang. The Square was so far away the Big Bell could be struck all night and I’d never hear it.

I’d decided it was nearly midnight when a tiny brief light flared in a gap in the Timber’s second floor wall.

It flared and hung there for a single heartbeat. Then it died in a sudden brief wave.

A match. Someone had lit a fancy newfangled match.

And that tiny red pinprick of light that flared and dimmed and flared again was a smokestick, being sucked and puffed to life.

I let out my breath. The tiny red glow persisted.

Smokesticks are an affectation of the rich and the near rich. So are matches.

Both are likely beyond the means of any poor derelict reduced to hiding in the dubious shelter of the Timbers after Curfew.

I could have danced.

Long shots do pay out, every now and then.

And if my tobacco-fancying friend in the Timbers was who I thought he was, then Carris Lethway was there too.

Almost in sight. But well beyond my reach.

They’d be doubly vigilant, after Curfew. Not necessarily against Lethway or the Watch, but against the halfdead. Which meant men and adequate weapons and all the means to repel creatures far more dangerous than any band of do-gooder humans.

It probably also meant the kidnappers had a day crew and a night crew. I wondered how many men the Timbers might conceal. Twenty-five? Thirty?

Easily, if the basement was intact. And I was betting it was.

I weighed my options. There weren’t many. I could lie here until dawn, and then sneak away while the teams changed shifts.

I could grab a rat in either hand and storm the place alone, as would the heroes of old.

Neither plan resulted in a freed Carris.

I cussed silently and settled in for the evening. Fleas invaded my britches and began to feast. I cussed more, but didn’t dare scratch.

The huldra had lain silent, just as the Corpsemaster had promised. But amid the stench and the biting fleas, a third idea presented itself.

Why not simply call upon the huldra, it asked. Why lie here in filth?

Why not rise up and simply crush them?

Why not take what you want?

If it is true the huldra slept, then what I heard next came from within myself.

All you have to do, said a voice, is tell the huldra your name, once more.

Just speak it. And then you may call upon the same magics you knew just last night. Who are these puny men, that would deter you?

Who are they?

They are nothing.

“I won’t do that.” I spoke aloud, in a ghost’s whisper, but it seemed vital that I give the words my voice. “I am my own. The price is too great. Leave me be.”

Someone tapped on my shoulder.

A face drew up close to mine.

“Well spoken,” it whispered.

It was Mills. Blood still oozed from his dark blue lips.

“You may speak and move about. They will neither see nor hear.”

I gobbled for air, wordless.

“Forgive me. I have startled you.”

“I just pissed myself, sir. That’s a few hundred yards past startled.”

The Corpsemaster shrugged. “Did you know there is a sorcerer among their number?”

Damn damn damn. I hadn’t even considered that.

“I took measures to conceal you. They are unaware of your presence.” Mills turned his dead eyes toward the Timbers. “I assume these are persons of interest to you?”

“Kidnappers.” I fought to keep my breathing steady. “It’s a case.”

Mills nodded, made a tiny motion with his finger. Every flea on me either vanished or died.

“Shall I kill them for you?”

“Tempting. But no thanks.” I made myself look away from Mills. Someone had pulled the arrow from his neck, but the wound glistened and oozed. “May I ask what brings you here, sir?”

“I was in need of a small amusement. And I wanted to convey my thanks to you personally, for delivering the Creeper’s remains, and his maps. They have both proven informative.”

I nodded. The Corpsemaster seemed to be not just talkative but oddly cheerful. I didn’t think she’d need any prodding to get to her point.

“You were correct. This Creeper fled Prince in disgrace. For a while, he earned a living selling sham charms to rustics. Which is why he sent people after you and Miss Gertriss, Markhat. The man she killed once bought a death-curse from the Creeper. There was no actual curse, of course, but the Creeper had to make it seem so, thus the hexed assassins.”

“I figured it was something like that.”

The Creeper was resigned to eking out a meager living fleecing the country folk until information concerning Rannit and her defenses suddenly became highly prized by certain parties in his former home. He was only too happy to augment his income by paying for reports of activities on our walls.”

“He lied?”

“Continually. And with what I must admit was considerable flair. If they believe him, finder, they are coming prepared to face an arcane defense built upon spells developed secretly during the last days of the War.”

“Spells. Not cannon.”

Mills tried to giggle, but could only make a bubbling noise deep in his throat.

“They may have spent months developing measures to defend themselves from magics that don’t exist.”

“Hurrah for our side.”

“Oh, don’t be such a cynic, Markhat. If we can maintain this mistaken belief for a few more days, we will have a considerable tactical advantage, come the first exchange of pleasantries.”

“No way to avoid that, sir?”

Mills sighed.

“I fear not, finder. But see here. Our enemies are deeply suspicious of each other. Their initial attack may result in disaster for them. All that shall be required is for one of them—just one—to turn on another.”

“Think that’s likely?”

“I know my kind, finder.”

“Now who’s the cynic?”

“What’s this?”

Mills pointed.

There was a man on the street.

Not walking, strictly speaking. He did manage a sort of forward motion, but he did so only with considerable effort and after numerous falls, turns and halts for loud shouting matches with persons who didn’t actually seem to be present. Sometimes these conversations turned to fisticuffs, and those turned into falls as the sudden flurry of wild punches was apparently too much to coordinate with the act of walking upright.

“He shall soon be one of mine I suspect.”

I didn’t need to agree. Weedheads so far gone they make that much racket in this neighborhood were unlikely to see many sunrises.

But this was no ordinary weedhead. In one hand he clutched a scrap of paper. He studied it periodically, holding it up to the moonlight, and then turning about as if trying to match something on the paper to something in the street.

He drew closer, muttering, singing, shouting or sobbing. But always checking the paper.

When he drew even with the Timbers, he stopped, fell to his knees and crawled to the ruined front doors.

“Courier,” I whispered. “Probably from Lethway.”

“Lethway? I know the name.”

I watched. The weedhead raised himself up and landed a trio of weak blows upon the door.

There was a glint in the darkness, and something snatched the weedhead inside so quickly both his mis-matched shoes were left behind.

I heard a single anguished cry, a cry cut short, and then nothing.

Beside me, Mills sighed.

“He is being dragged into a cellar,” he whispered. “There are a dozen men. And an ogre. Interesting.”

“Can you hear them?”

“Another one?” said Mills in a voice gone strange and distant. “Damn, boss, they’re already stinking down here.”

“Shut up.” Another voice, fainter, with an accent.

“What’s the old bastard have to say?”

“The meet is still on. Same time. But he’s suspicious. Thinks we may have company. One of his own. And that finder.”

“The finder will be dead well before then.” Another voice, softer than the others. I wondered if Mills was trying to speak as a woman through his ruined throat, or mimic a dry whisper.

“This other. Is he coming alone?”

“Bastard doesn’t know.”

“We’d better plan for extra guests,” said the softer voice. “Even so, they won’t be a problem.”

“What else is he telling? Lot of pages there.”

Silence, while someone studied the note.

“More of the same. I think he’s playing us.”

“What you think is none of my concern.” A new voice, this one cold and hard. “See to the walls. The kid alive?”

“Was last time I checked. Do we need him?”

“For the moment.”

Mills blinked.

“Isn’t this fun?”

“I’m giddy with amusement. Anyone you recognize sound off?”

“The sorcerer, perhaps. An upstart. Barely skilled even in the most basic of the arts.” Mills frowned. “It was he who predicted your imminent demise, Captain. I take a dim view of my officers being slaughtered so close to the eve of war.”

“So do I, sir. Rest assured I’ll be alive and kicking when the fleet sails down the Brown.”

“See that you are.”

Mills rose, made a show of brushing filth from his bloody clothes and winked.

“I shall leave you to your case, Captain. Though I trust you are aware that I can, and will, bring an army to bear on this place, should you ask it of me.”

“I appreciate that, sir. I really do. But this is hardly a matter for the Regency.”

“As you wish.”

Mills turned and walked away, silent as a shadow.

And gone, utterly gone, in just half a dozen steps.

I lay there until the sky grew light. Yes, I dozed. Some kindly angel, or more likely a lingering magic left by the Corpsemaster, kept the rats from chewing me down to bones and boot-heels.

I slithered away from my trash heap. I snuck out of my alley. I stank my way back to Cambrit, so befouled and malodorous even the dead wagons gave me wide berth.

I didn’t dare my office. If someone was waiting for me, with mayhem on their mind, I figured they’d be there, sharpening their knives. So I came up the wrong end of Cambrit and stripped naked in the alley by the bathhouse. I kept my boots and my hat and my long black coat, because naked men stand out on Cambrit even at a distance.

Old Mr. Waters met me at the door. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t lecture me on hygiene. He just took my clothes and shoved them into that enormous cast-iron stove that heats his water and handed me two bars of soap and a towel.

I’d lately taken to keeping a change of clothes, including boots, with Mr. Waters.

“I’ll get ye your clothes,” he said. “And I hope to Hell whatever ye done last night was worth it.”

“So do I.”

I slipped into the merciful waters, and tried to forget Mills and his unblinking dead eyes.

Chapter Twenty

I actually went to sleep in the hot copper tub. I probably would have drowned, had Mr. Waters not grabbed me by the hair and yanked me out.