by Frank Tuttle
“Well, let’s hope they’re seventeen calm days, and that we never see that ugly thing again,” Mug said.
Meralda bit back her reply. Of course we’re coming back, she thought. It’s a threat to Tirlin. I can’t pretend the Arc isn’t there, or just go off fishing.
“She’s brooding again,” Mug said. “I’m off to find a poker game,” he said. “Mrs. Primsbite? Care to go deeper in my debt?”
“Bah,” replied the penswift, rising. “I won the last two rounds. Come and see me when you get a chance, dear. You too, Donchen.”
The penswift followed Mug out the door.
“Yvin has decided to tell the Hang everything,” Meralda said. “He said it was only right, that everyone is threatened by the Arc.”
Donchen nodded. “He is a good man,” he said. “I believe my countrymen will find his forthrightness admirable.”
“He’s asked me to find a way to establish communications from here to the Palace. He didn’t say so, but I think he plans to install a permanent base here. Serviced by a fleet of airships larger than the Intrepid.”
Donchen was silent for a moment. “Have you been asked to return?”
“Not yet.” She squeezed his hand. “But that’s inevitable.”
Donchen shrugged. “I’ve always fancied a life at sea,” he said. “And of course cooks are always in demand.”
“I won’t ask you to do that.”
“I won’t ask you either,” he said. “I’ll just show up.”
“Bridge to Engineer,” squawked the speaking tube. “The number four fan is operational. We’re descending to take on water. Loading ramp in five, please acknowledge.”
Meralda sighed. “It’s always going to be like this, isn’t it?”
“Possibly,” agreed Donchen. He drew Meralda in for a kiss.
“Captain to Engineer,” said the speaking tube. “Acknowledge.”
Meralda rushed for the speaking tube, smiling all the way.
~~~
From the private journal of Mugglesworth Ovis, Decembre 22, 1969
We took to the skies again seventeen days ago, racing through the permanent storm that surrounds the Arc with high hopes and no small number of nervous glances shared among the bridge crew.
This poor airship. I have no idea how she withstood the ripping, tearing winds. We lost the right flying coil to a fire, two fans to lightning, and three gas bags to a hailstorm that also put a chunk of ice through the glass on the bridge. We emerged from the storm barely able to hold five hundred feet off the Sea, and despite Meralda’s round-the-clock work on the coils, our airspeed was no better than sixty for three whole days.
But we didn’t sink, and we didn’t stop. Mistress restored one-quarter function to the burned coil, the skies turned blue and calm, and we made for Sheng Zhen even after the last fan failed.
On the fifteenth day out, the forward spotters sighted flotsam in the waves. The Captain ordered the Intrepid down to fifty feet, and a terrified trio of Hang fishermen were coaxed out from under their capsized wreck of a boat after Donchen took Amorp’s Horn and convinced them the Intrepid was not filled with sky devils bent on consuming their flesh.
With guidance from the rescued fishermen, the Captain turned the airship north. On the sixteenth day, a line of tiny reefs was spotted and the fishermen rejoiced, reporting their village was a mere score of miles away.
When the first gull crossed the sky in front of the Intrepid, the Captain broke out a crate of champagne. Mrs. Primsbite showed a deft hand at consuming it, going so far as to catch up a shocked Captain Fairweather in a brief dance about the Salon.
When the first dark sliver of land showed on the eastern horizon, a band began to play in the Grand Salon, and the party lasted well into the night. I am happy to report a sudden reversal of fortune on the part of both Mrs. Primsbite and Beastie, who are both indebted to me for a combined total of twenty-six crowns and nineteen pence.
We make our first landing on Hang soil in the morning. The rescued fishermen put our position at roughly five hundred miles from Sheng Zhen, but only forty miles from a big city I won’t even try to name or spell. They’re sure we can effect repairs and restock there before hurrying on to the City of Hanging Flowers, as they call Sheng Zhen.
So we made it. Made the Great Sea crossing, made history.
We’ve lost, and we’ve gained.
The airship flies on.
Clear skies and fair winds, until we meet again.
THE END
OTHER TUTTLE TITLES
Dead Man's Rain
The Mister Trophy
The Cadaver Client
Hold the Dark
The Banshee's Walk
The Broken Bell
Brown River Queen
The Five Faces
The Darker Carnival (coming April 2015)
All the Paths of Shadow
Saving the Sammi
Wistril Compleat
Mallara and Burn: On the Road
Passing the Narrows
The Far Corners
Frank invites you to visit his webpage!
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Curious about Frank's other books? Here's a sample from BROWN RIVER QUEEN, Book #7 in The Markhat Files series. Enjoy!
BROWN RIVER QUEEN
by Frank Tuttle
Hammers fell by the hundreds. Lumber wagons rumbled past, either filled to bursting with building materials or freshly emptied and rushing back to the sawmills and the foundries for more timbers and nails. Saws bit deep into kiln-dried pine planks, filling the air with sawdust and the steady scratch-scratch-scratch sound of honest working men earning an honest day’s wage.
Me?
I sat, fundament firmly in the chair I’d placed on the sidewalk. While I sat, I watched a pair of honest working men earn their honest day’s wage by hanging and painting my sturdy new door.
The workmen, a father and son outfit who shared, but did not revel in, the name Wartlip, were less than appreciative of my audience. For what I was paying them, I decided they could bear the unwelcome scrutiny.
My new door is a beauty. It’s white, with a fancy round glass window worked in at eye level. The thick glass of the window is reinforced with a number of steel bars crossed so that worthies such as myself can peek through them, but objectionable materials such as crossbow bolts or the sharp ends of swords will be caught before ruining, for instance, my favorite face. The inside of the oak door conceals a solid iron plate, which means Ogres can spend their days trying to kick their way inside and get nothing for their troubles but twelve hairy bruised Ogre toes.
Right below the window is a bright brass placard which bears the legend ‘Markhat & Hog. Finders for Hire.’
And right below that is the traditional finder’s eye, etched into the brass so that patrons who might have missed the recent rush toward universal literacy can still get close enough to my well-manicured hand to cross my palm with money.
I’m Markhat, founder and senior member of the firm. Miss Gertriss Hog, who bitterly proclaims she does most of the actual work these days, was out doing most of the actual work.
I took another sip of my ice-chilled beer and eyed my new white door critically.
“That top hinge creaks a bit.”
The elder Wartlip muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath.
The Wartlips, like every tradesmen in Rannit these days, had all the work they could get and then some. With half the city lying in various degrees of ruin, anyone who could grasp a hammer suddenly claimed to be a master craftsman and demanded the exorbitant fees to prove it.
I’d waited three days past the appointed date for the Wartlips to show. I wasn’t letting them walk away until my office had a door again, because I knew getting them back to Cambrit Street would be the work of a lifetime.
So they grunted and shimmed and frowned and banged until the door swung without creaking and s
hut without slamming and opened without a yank or a kick.
I counted out coins. The Wartlips had been adamant about coin. “We ain’t takin’ none of that paper money,” the elder Wartlip insisted, shaking his finger at me for emphasis. “Who’s to say it’ll be any good, come tomorrow?”
I hadn’t argued the point. Rannit had nearly fallen to a trio of foreign wand-wavers intent on toppling the Regency and installing some alleged heir to the old Kingdom crown barely a month ago. The invasion had failed, thanks in no small part to my own heroic efforts, but nerves were still shaken and emotions were still raw, and the Regent’s fancy new paper money was viewed by many with open suspicion.
So I counted out five coins, tossed the younger Wartlip a smaller one all his own, and bade the Wartlips a cheery good day.
They and their tools were loaded in their patchwork wagon and headed downtown before I even managed a wave.
Three-leg Cat sidled out of the alley between my place and Mama Hog’s. He gave the door a good hard glare, sniffed it tentatively, and then planted his ragged butt down before it and set about licking his remaining front paw with a feline air that managed to convey his utter disregard for doors far and wide, even closed ones that stood between him and his food bowl.
“Oh, go on in,” I said, working my new latch. The door swung open without even the faintest ominous creak, I remembered to grab my chair, and Three-leg and I headed indoors for breakfast and meditation, respectively.
* * *
I was deeply immersed in profound meditation when the very first knock sounded on my unsullied new door.
Three-leg Cat beat me too it, eager to head out and impose his unique brand of feline terror on the alleys and stoops of Cambrit Street. I took advantage of my new peeping window to see who was calling before I worked the latch.
Outside, wrapped in a mainsail’s worth of black silk against the midday sun, was Evis himself, peering back at me through his tinted spectacles. The halfdead don’t love sunlight the same way I don’t love being bathed in red-hot coals.
“Hurry, please,” said Evis, as I fumbled with the lock. “I can’t pay you if I’ve been baked to cinders on your doorstep.”
I managed to swing the door open. Three-leg Cat darted out, heedless of the halfdead at the door. I’ve noticed most animals shy away from Evis, which I believe pains him deeply.
I stood aside and motioned Evis in. He glided into the comfortable shadows of my office, not quite running but not ambling either. I closed the door quickly and resolved to fashion some sort of shade for the window-glass. Even that much light would be a nuisance for Evis and his dead-eyed kin.
“Sorry about the light,” I said, as Evis stripped off the top layer of his flowing day suit. “I’ll do something about that, before your next visit.”
Evis shrugged it off, but kept his dark glasses on. “Thank you. Everything getting back to normal?”
I sat. Evis sat. He kept his hat on and tilted his head so his face remained in deep shadow.
“As normal as normal gets. Business has picked up. Gertriss is out working now. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”
And she would. My junior partner and Evis were spending a lot of time together of late. Had been since their trip up the Brown River on House Avalante’s new-fangled steamboat.
If I was Mama Hog I’d be making pointed comments about all that. Gertriss is Mama's niece, and Mama is none too thrilled about Gertriss and her recent choice of company. But since I’m not a four-foot-tall soothsayer who claims to be a century and a half old, I don’t stick my nose where it doesn’t belong unless someone is paying me for the effort.
Evis just nodded and put his feet on my desk. His hand moved to his jacket pocket and produced a pair of the expensive cigars he normally keeps in a humidor in his office.
“Uh oh,” I said, opening my desk drawer. I pulled out my note pad and my good pen. “Who’s dead, who’s missing, and how much of the story are you going to leave out?”
Evis kept his lips tightly shut, but managed to feign an expression of deep and sincere injury.
“Now is that any way to respond to an offer of a Lowland Sweet?” he asked. “The last time we smoked these, you remarked that it was your absolute favorite.”
“And you suddenly remembered that and grabbed a pair and ran all the way down here in the sun just to have a puff. Remarkable.” I put the tip of the pen in my inkwell and then down on the paper.
Evis ignored me and began cutting off the ends with a fancy steel cigar clipper. I found my box of matches and plopped them down on the table, never moving my pen.
“So spill it,” I said. “And thanks. I do enjoy these.”
Evis handed me a cigar and struck a match. I puffed and let him light it.
It’s not every day a free Lowland Sweet walks through the door.
“Times are changing,” Evis announced, after lighting his Lowland and puffing out a perfect smoke ring. “That run at restoring the old Kingdom was the last.”
“So say you.”
“So I do. Care to guess where Prince got the money to rebuild?”
Word from up the Brown is that the storm that nearly wrecked Rannit was a mere puff of wind compared to the one the Corpsemaster loosed upon our erstwhile enemies in Prince. We’re still getting the odd rooftop or twisted shell of a building, lifted whole from streets in faraway Prince, drifting past on the lazy, muddy water of the Brown. No bodies, though. Not a one.
The Corpsemaster’s wrath is both thorough and lingering.
“No idea. I thought the city fathers in Prince went broke financing their invasion.”
“They did. But our very own Regent graciously made them a loan. At thirty percent interest. Rannit owns Prince now, Markhat. And the Regent won’t be letting them forget that for a very long time.”
I whistled. I hadn’t even heard that rumored.
Evis grinned a brief toothy vampire grin.
“Looks like our military careers are over,” he said. “It’ll be a hundred years before anyone takes another stab at Rannit. Maybe longer. But here we are, still drawing down a Captain’s pay. By the way, any word from the old spook lately?”
Old spook was code for Corpsemaster. Neither Evis nor I had seen her or her black carriage since the dust-up with Prince. Evis had gone so far as to hint that open speculation in some circles indicated the Corpsemaster might have fallen in the fray, or been reduced by the effort to such a state that she'd gone into hiding or hibernation.
I wasn't quite ready to write her off so quickly, so I just shrugged.
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned ‘pay,’ you know.” I tried and failed to blow a smoke ring. “Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but what really brought you out for a stroll in the sun?”
“I’m here to hire the famous Captain Markhat on behalf of House Avalante.”
“Didn’t you read the placard? I’m a humble finder, not a Captain. My marching days are done. I’ve taken up pacifism and a strict philosophy of passive non-violence.”
“What’s your philosophy on five hundred crowns, paid in gold, for taking a relaxing dinner cruise down the Brown River to Bel Loit and back? With meals, booze, and as many of these cigars as you can carry thrown in for free?”
I blew out a ragged column of grey-brown smoke.
“I’m flexible on such matters. But I’m troubled by the offer of five hundred crowns.”
“Make it six hundred, then.”
“I will. If I decide to take it at all. Because that’s a lot of gold, Mr. Prestley. Even Avalante doesn’t just hand the stuff out to see my winning smile. What exactly is worth seven hundred crowns to House Avalante?”
Evis winced. “You are, believe it or not. Look. Markhat. This isn’t just any old party barge outing. The Brown River Queen is a palace with a hull. The guest list reads like Yule at the High House. Ministers. Lords. Ladies. Opera stars. Generals.”
“And? You said it was a pleasure cruise. We won the war a
nd didn’t lose so much as a potato wagon. Handshakes and promotions all around. Why do you need me, for eight hundred crowns?”
Evis lifted his hands in surrender.
“Because the Regent himself is coming along for the ride,” he said, in a whisper. “Yes. You heard me. The Regent. For every ten who love him there are a thousand who want to scoop out his eyes and boil them and feed them to him.”
“On your boat.”
“On our boat. This is it, Markhat. It’s the culmination of thirty years of negotiations and diplomacy and bribery. House Avalante is a single step away from taking its place at the right hand of the most powerful man in the world. He’ll have his bodyguards. He’ll have his staff. He’ll have his spies and his informants and his eyes and his ears, and that’s just fine with us. But Markhat, we want the man kept safe. We want trouble kept off the Queen. We want a nice quiet cruise from here to Bel Loit and back, and the House figures if anyone can spot trouble coming it’s you.”
“When you look at things that way, nine hundred crowns is really quite a bargain.”
“Nine hundred crowns it is.” Evis blew another smoke ring and then sailed a second one through it. “And one more thing. Bring the missus. She eats, drinks, stays for free, courtesy of Avalante. Is that a deal?”
“An even thousand crowns for watching rich folks drink. I think you just bought yourself a finder, Mr. Prestley.”
“Surely you have a pair of those awful domestic beers hidden away in your icebox,” said Evis. “I believe we have a toast to make.”
I hurried to the back, knocked damp sawdust off the bottles, and together Evis and I toasted my regrettable return to honest work.
Evis stuck around and drank beer and we talked dates and times, which I dutifully scribbled onto my note-pad. He wrapped himself in black silk and darted back out into the sun maybe an hour later, leaving me to my thoughts.
A thousand gold crowns, in good solid gold coin. All for a week of work that, on the surface, seemed to involve nothing more perilous than lounging around a floating casino while maintaining an aloof air of menace.
