The Broken Bell

by Frank Tuttle

  Mama was gruffing and puffing and threatening to set out for Pot Lockney at first light to “set them Suthoms straight.” I’d dissuaded her from that notion only barely, and at the cost of most of my voice.

  I’d filled two notebook pages with times and names and dates and places. I wasn’t ready to leap to my feet and declare the identity of the real murderer of Harald Suthom’s brother Ash, but I had my suspicions.

  “I still say they can’t know the same knife killed both Suthoms,” I said. “Especially if the second body wasn’t found for nearly a month.”

  Mama shook her head. “Old woman Nilkill says it were the same. She fancies herself a blood witch. If she says both Suthom’s blood is on that knife, that makes it so, boy, in Pot Lockney.”

  “How convenient. And they know it’s Gertriss’s knife how, exactly?”

  Gertriss sighed. “I carved my name in it when I was ten.”

  I groaned. “Well, at least now I know you didn’t kill the second Suthom, Miss. You’re too smart to use a signed knife.”

  “Boy!”

  “Sorry, sorry, fine. So Harald Suthom meets his well-deserved demise at around eight of the clock. Gertriss is on the road by nine. Sometime in the next few days, Ash Suthom is dispatched with the same knife, wrapped in old burlap, and laid to rest in a briar patch. He lies there until a bear pulls him out and scatters him over old man Ferlong’s cotton patch. That about right?”

  Mama and Gertriss exchanged glances, then nodded yes in unison.

  “Since we know Gertriss didn’t kill Ash on her way out of Pot Lockney, that means somebody else did. Any idea who? Was Ash as charming and well-loved as his older brother?”

  Mama shrugged. “Ain’t none of them Suthoms worth a damn. But I’d never heard tell of Ash ’til today.”

  “He was quiet,” said Gertriss. “Never heard him speak. People were scared of him, just for being a Suthom, but I never heard any stories about him. He worked the cows. He paid his bills. He didn’t cause any trouble at the inn. That’s all I know. Except that I didn’t kill him.”

  I doodled on the paper, drawing a little stick man with a knife in his back.

  “So who found Harald?”

  Gertriss looked at Mama.

  “Way I hear it, it was his foreman, come looking to roust him out and get started working. They knowed he’d been to see Gertriss, he’d bragged about it. Came in and found him dead in her bed, and her gone.”

  I gave my little stick man Xs for eyes.

  “So for all we know this foreman took the knife out of Harald and then left it in Ash.”

  Mama shrugged. “Ain’t no way for me to know that, boy. Nor you.”

  “And then a bear helpfully pulls the corpse out of a briar patch and makes sure he gets a proper burial, right after the good people of Pot Lockney remove a signed knife from his back. How fortuitous. Miss, the next time you go to all the trouble to wrap a corpse and drag it into a briar patch, you might consider removing the murder weapon at some point during the festivities. Especially if said weapon carries your name.”

  Mama opened her mouth to gruff at me, but caught on. Gertriss got there faster.

  “Someone wants me blamed for Ash’s murder.”

  “Oh yes. Bear my ass. They hoped the body would be found, but it wasn’t. So they helped matters along. Now, we’re looking at one of two things here. One, they knew you’d killed Harald, and they knew you’d left town. That made you the perfect pick for killing Ash, too, nothing personal, just business. Or second, somebody back home hates you enough to kill a second man just to make sure you’d be hanged for killing the first. Who would want to do that to you, Miss? Who hates you that much?”

  “No one.” She shook her head. “Honest, Mr. Markhat. Nobody.”

  I dropped my pencil and leaned back in my chair. Fatigue was settling over me like a coat made of rocks.

  “All right. We can worry about who killed the Suthoms later. Right now, here’s what we do.”

  And I spent my last bit of wile making plans for the night.

  Chapter Six

  The Big Bell clanged out midnight before I lay my weary head down to sleep.

  My plan to keep Mama and Gertriss safe from any lingering Sprangs involved installing a pair of ogres at Mama’s door. I chose ogres because they’re out and about after Curfew, and are thus easy to find, and because short of a Troll or a brace of the Corpsemaster’s newfangled cannons there isn’t a better deterrent against mischief than half a ton of implacable ogre.

  I lucked out and managed to catch up with a Hooga, who agreed to bring his cousin Hooga in on the deal. Don’t ask me how ogres keep identities established when they all bear the same name. But this was a Hooga I knew from Darla’s old job at the Velvet, and we were still on an eye-dipping basis, which practically makes us littermates according to Mama’s encyclopedic knowledge of all things ogre.

  I’d given Gertriss orders that she wasn’t to venture outdoors for anything. She didn’t like that, any more than Mama liked hearing the same, but I had to trust they understood the necessity of staying safe behind a wall of ogres until we had a handle on the Sprangs.

  So I handed out coins right and left and made sure the Hoogas understood spilling blood was only to be done as a last resort.

  That done, I turned my attention to the bigger picture, a task made well nigh impossible by my sudden tragic lack of beer.

  After the Hoogas trundled away with Gertriss, Mama and Buttercup, I put my feet on my desk and got out a pad, and tried to make sense of my sundry confusions by putting them down on paper in the form of questions.

  Where is Carris Lethway? appeared at the top of my page.

  Who or what compelled him to leave, and why? followed.

  Exhaustion does strange things to the mind. I didn’t realize I’d written Who has more animosity toward the marriage between Carris and Tamar—the Lethways or the Fields? until after I’d written the last word.

  I put a big question mark under that.

  More entries followed—Was I really drafted? was asked twice, with heavy underlines, and When to tell Darla? below that.

  Finally, I scribbled something unflattering concerning Corpsemasters and wild goats and headed to bed.

  I dreamed that night. I saw cannons, rows and rows and ranks and ranks of them, hurling thunder and belching flame. I saw the sky criss-crossed with lingering smokes, heard the shriek and howl of battle.

  I wasn’t alone, in my dream. The Corpsemaster was there. Not as a corpse, either. She was a woman—a somewhat plain, somewhat aged, somewhat weary woman, with tired green eyes and messy grey hair and a face that had long ago forgotten how to smile.

  It seems we talked, at great length, about Rannit and the Regent and battles and wars. I don’t recall anything that was said, or asked, or answered, save that it seemed a great loss of life was both looming and inevitable.

  When I woke, in that middle of the night’s deep dark, I was not rested. Something stirred in the shadows of my room, and for an instant I thought I spied Three-leg, stretching before prowling out to terrorize his streets.

  But it was Buttercup in my room, crouched by my bed, her tiny face wrinkled in worry.

  Before I could speak, she handed me a ragged sock-doll, hugged my neck and vanished.

  Damned if I didn’t sleep well after that, a banshee’s tattered doll suspiciously close to my pillow.

  Morning came, bringing with it sunlight and singing birds and Three-leg’s insistence that I rise at once. I pushed him off the bed twice before he roused me by raking claws across my bare back.

  While Three-leg dined, I gathered clean clothes and wrapped them in a bundle and stepped out into the street after a quick peek through my barely-opened door. I stopped by Mama’s briefly on my way to the bathhouse. The Hoogas were in place, upright and immovable as granite statues. I don’t speak enough ogre to do more than say hello, but my old friend Hooga can nod for yes and shake for no, and thus I was able to establis
h that Mama had received no visitors during the night.

  I started to knock, but decided on a bath first. I bade the Hoogas good morning, and when I emerged from the hot water a half-hour later I was shaved and soaped and not quite smiling.

  Rannit was stirring to life around me. Old Mr. Bull was on his stoop, sweeping away whatever imaginary soil collected during the night. The newcomers to the neighborhood, the Arwheat brothers, were taking the iron shutters off their windows and trading shouts in their harsh Southlands tongue. They smiled and waved as I passed, and went back to screaming at each other the instant I returned their greeting.

  Mama met me at her door and thrust a steaming mug of coffee at me before I even spoke.

  “Good morning to you too.”

  “Here’s something for you, boys.” Mama reached inside and came out with two black hunks of ogre hash. The Hoogas took them, sniffed them, and ate them without ever taking their big ogre eyes off the street.

  “Come on in, boy. Ain’t nobody up yet but me an’ you.”

  I dipped eyes with Hooga and followed Mama indoors.

  Mama keeps her windows covered with burlap curtains. The only light comes from candles. The candles are handmade by Mama herself, and while I’m sure each has a specific arcane purpose they all smell like sun-baked manure.

  I breathe through my mouth when I visit Mama, most days.

  Her card and potion shop was dark and fragrant, but not quiet. Two sets of snores sounded from the back, and neither was dainty.

  I sank onto Mama’s rickety client’s chair and sipped her coffee.

  “So, no Sprangs came calling last night.”

  “Nobody came calling.” Mama spoke softly. “Not that I figured they would.”

  “I don’t like this any more than you, Mama. I’m paying the Hoogas, remember?”

  “Wasting your coin, you are.”

  I shrugged. Maybe I was. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  “We can’t keep her in that room forever, boy. Nor me.”

  “I know.” Mama’s coffee wasn’t half bad. Or maybe the stench of her blue-flamed candles was making it hard to taste the chicory she prefers.

  “So, what you reckon on doing about it?”

  “I reckon on talking to the Sprangs again,” I said. “In fact, I’ve given some thought to bailing them out myself.”

  “Boy!” Mama forgot to be quiet. The snoring continued. She glared and forced herself back into her chair and shook her head. “Why would you do a damn fool thing such as that?”

  “First, because I’d know when they were out. Second, because the Old Ruth might get one or more of them killed, and if it does they’ll lay that at my doorstep too. Third, because I might just convince them to forget this whole mess and head back home owing me a favor, instead of coveting my head.”

  “Foolishness, boy. Them Sprangs will turn on ye the instant the jail doors open.”

  “If that happens there’s the Watch. If the Sprangs go in again, they won’t be getting out anytime soon, bail or not. You know that.”

  “Do you drink a lot at night, boy? Have you taken up weed? Bailing the Sprangs out is the damn stupidest thing I’ve heard in a long time, and you’ll get nothing but trouble if you do.”

  “It was just a thought, Mama.”

  “Well then, you need to keep on thinking. Or give it up entirely, I ain’t sure which.”

  From the back came a sneeze and the sound of a thin, hard bed creaking.

  “Well, we’re in for it now,” whispered Mama.

  Buttercup appeared at my knee, smiling and rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

  “Good morning, Miss.” I tousled her hair and poked her gently on the tip of her nose. I pulled her doll out of my pocket and handed it back to her. She accepted it solemnly, her banshee eyes suddenly serious. “Thanks. Someone snores like a big girl.”

  She stuck out her tongue and yawned.

  Gertriss popped out of her door, not smiling. Her hair was a tumble, and she had dark circles under her eyes. I decided I would most certainly neither tousle her hair nor poke at her nose.

  She was enveloped in an enormous nightgown that must have started life as a mainsail on a frigate. Her bare toes only peeped out when she walked. I caught Mama glaring at her red-painted toenails.

  “Good morning.” I decided to keep things friendly. “Hope you slept well.”

  Gertriss managed a nod and shuffled off to Mama’s tiny kitchen, groaning as she went. From out of sight came the sounds of cups rattling and sugar being spooned.

  Buttercup pulled my cup down and stole a sip of my coffee.

  “Fie!” snapped Mama. Buttercup giggled and skipped away, vanishing before reappearing behind Mama with her fingers waggling beside her ears.

  Gertriss reappeared, bleary-eyed, sipping coffee and shuffling. “Morning, boss.”

  I nodded. “Mama says the Hoogas didn’t bash any heads last night.”

  “If they did they were quiet about it. Boss, how long can you afford to pay them? Wouldn’t it be cheaper just to buy a door and put a bar on the inside?”

  Mama puffed up. “I ain’t havin’ no garrison gate on the front of my establishment. Makes the clients feel nervous.”

  “And ogres don’t?”

  “Shows what you know. Business will double today just to get a up-close look at ’em. Bah.” With that, Mama rose and hustled off to her kitchen, dragging Buttercup along by one of her long ears.

  “I heard what you said about paying out the Sprangs,” said Gertriss in a whisper. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

  “It does? I imagined you’d be on Mama’s side.”

  “She has a point. I’m not saying she doesn’t. But knowing where they are is also a point. And as pigheaded as they are, getting them out of the Old Ruth might be the only way to get them to listen. Too, I’ve got money saved. I might not be able to pay all of it, but I can do half.”

  “I’m not asking you to do that.”

  “I know. I appreciate that. But I’m insisting. And you know how Hog women can be when we don’t get what we want.”

  I sighed. “Deal. We split it. But we make it conditional to the Sprangs—they leave Rannit, no loitering, no sightseeing, no sneaking back here with clubs. And we have the Watch witness it all, so the Sprangs get tossed back in the Old Ruth if they break the terms of release.”

  Gertriss pushed a wild tangle of golden hair out of her eyes and nodded. “I think it’s a good idea, boss. Cheaper than ogres, in the long run.”

  “Ha!” snapped Mama from the back.

  I laughed. “Fine. Look. Until we know they’ve been rounded up, you need to stay put.”

  Gertriss grimaced.

  “I’ll head by the Old Ruth, see what the payout is. And then I’ll stop by the Magistrate and see if I can get a judge to sign off on this. With luck, we’ll be able to get it done tomorrow, the day after at the latest.”

  Gertriss lowered her voice to the faintest of whispers. “If it takes any longer than that, boss, just get me a cell at the Old Ruth,” she said.

  “I heard that, you ungrateful child.”

  Gertriss winced, rose, headed for her room.

  “Hurry,” she said, making no sound, just mouthing the word before she closed her door.

  Hurry I did.

  The Sprangs, had made themselves quite popular at the Old Ruth by fighting with jailers, prisoners and even each other. They’d managed to increase their original fines by a surprising margin, which made Gertriss’s offer to pay half not only generous but necessary.

  I didn’t speak to the Sprangs themselves, preferring to wait until I knew I could arrange bail. So I cooled my boots for two hours down at the courthouse on Beld, waiting for a judge to deign my petition worthy of the Regency’s precious time.

  I wasn’t entirely miserable. The high ceilings in the old courthouse made it breezy and cool. The benches weren’t padded, but they’re wide and deep and angled just right, which makes sitting on them not merel
y tolerable but enjoyable. And the pair of legal assistants buzzing about with papers and writs and lawyers were young and energetic.

  I decided the redhead was my favorite, because she smiled even when she thought no one was looking. The blonde was better looking, and her skirt was certainly better fitting, but her smile vanished as soon as she thought she lacked an audience. To me, that spells trouble.

  I wasn’t quite napping when the blonde strolled up to me and tapped me on my shoulder. “Sir,” she said. “Judge Hastings will see you now.”

  I rose, stretched and thanked her.

  “Down the hall, second chamber on your right. Have a good day.”

  And she was gone, her smile falling as soon as she turned away. I never saw the redhead again, which is probably for the best, since my Darla isn’t fond of redheads.

  Judge Hastings was a man of few words—specifically, yes, yes, no, yes, and yes. He scribbled notes in his ledger and scribbled more on a roll of parchment and then made the whole thing legal simply by sliding the parchment between the jaws of his seal and bopping the apparatus with his wizened fist to emboss the paper.

  He handed it to me, and I knew without a word I was dismissed. In accordance with His Honor’s reluctance to waste words, I left without using any, the Sprang’s freedom and my bid for peace from them in my hand.

  I started to head back to the Old Ruth and see if I could convince someone there to let me make my pitch to the Sprangs, lest Gertriss and Mama come to blows confined in such close quarters.

  But the morning was gone, and my dealings with the Old Ruth in the past left me with the certainty that I’d need to be the first one through the doors to get the Sprangs out before Curfew. Poor Gertriss would have to hide under the covers one more day, and I’d be out more coins to the Hoogas for tonight.

  Which isn’t the way running a business is supposed to work. I resolved to pay the Lethways a visit and see what I could glean concerning the whereabouts of missing groom Carris. But first, I’d need to see my client.