The Broken Bell

by Frank Tuttle

  She tried to find a smile.

  “You never talk about your parents.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m just changing the subject. Tell me about your father.”

  “Not much to tell. Dad left Mom to go be a soldier.”

  “Did he come home, when he was done soldiering?”

  “They sent a letter. Died out West. Mom didn’t last too long after.”

  She pushed my hat aside and found my hands and clasped them.

  “You are not your father.”

  “People get killed in wars.”

  “That doesn’t mean we should stop living.”

  “I haven’t. Stopped living. But.”

  Rannit flowed past us, ogres and cabs and Watchmen, all bellowing and rushing and unaware of what their futures held. We watched in silence for a bit.

  “I thought you were getting tired of me.”

  I cussed. “Sorry. No. I’ll never get tired of you. I’m not trying to get out of anything, Darla. I just don’t want to leave you a widow.”

  “So you’d break my heart instead? You nearly did, you know. Break my heart.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t. I lived through one war, Darla. Barely. Now I’m older and slower and nobody’s luck holds forever. Does that make sense?”

  She just nodded. She nodded and sank her head on my shoulder, and we held hands and didn’t speak.

  “You need to ask how much a Captain earns,” she said after a while. “Not because it’s important. But because you need to stop thinking about this as a death sentence. Hisvin needs to know you plan to survive. I need to know you plan to survive.”

  “I’ll do my damnedest.”

  She snuggled up closer.

  “We could run away.” She shivered. It wasn’t cold. “We could run away, right now, tonight.”

  “Thought about it. Take you and Three-leg. Run and keep running until we got our paws wet in the Sea.”

  “We’d live in a grass hut.” She shivered again. “You could fish all day. I could wear tropical flowers in my hair.”

  “I pictured things the other way around.”

  She laughed, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  “We’re Rannites, born and bred, aren’t we?”

  I felt her nod her head yes. I wrapped my arms around her.

  “Then we stay. Stay and see it through.”

  “As long as we stay together, I don’t care what else happens. We are staying together, aren’t we, Markhat?”

  “We are.”

  “Then that’s all that matters.”

  We rode. Darla cried a bit. Then with one last fierce hug she was my smiling Darla again, fussing with her makeup, gently needling me about needing a haircut and a shave befitting an officer.

  We talked about Tamar too. I laid out my meeting with Lethway and my night in jail and my conversation with Pratt. I assured her I would find Carris Lethway before Hisvin dragged me off to war, and she countered by indicating that as long as the war was being directed at Rannit’s walls I was expected home for supper each evening, cannons or not.

  I let her out in front of her shop. She hopped down and said goodbye and nothing in her face indicated she’d just learned about a war marching our way.

  “See you tonight,” she said. Then she waved and whirled and was gone.

  “Where to?” called the driver.

  I gave him Tamar’s address. Darla’s perfume lingered in the cab. My shoulder was still damp where she’d cried.

  Tamar wasn’t at the shop. Her father was, but so was a crowd of hungry diners, so all I got from him were glares. I’d hoped to chat with him, maybe get him rattled enough to talk about why he hated Carris Lethway. But there are times and there are places, and this was neither.

  I did the next best thing and went to the man’s home to sit on his chair and speak to his daughter. Tamar had given me the address, so I settled back into my seat and watched the street from there.

  If Mama’s rogue hex casters were following me, they were too good to be seen. I grinned at the thought of the cab fares they’d be racking up, even trying. Keeping up with me on foot today wasn’t going to be possible.

  The neighborhoods changed a few blocks from the Fields home, losing the shops and the eateries and the bathhouses in favor of lawns and homes and parks. While it wasn’t the Hill or the Heights, it was nice. Nice and freshly painted and new. The roofs didn’t lean. The walls didn’t buckle. Glass windows weren’t broken.

  I spied a white house with blue shutters and a blue door beneath a spreading oak. A white cat lay curled on the porch swing. Two black dogs played behind a picket fence.

  Darla would love that place, I thought. I wondered how much it would run, and whether a man on Captain’s pay could afford it.

  My next thought was wondering how far from the walls it stood, and would it withstand cannon fire.

  I turned away. The driver missed a turn and swung around, and then we were at the Fields home, and I clambered out.

  “Wait here a bit,” I said.

  “You got it.” He was parked in a patch of shade. He pulled out an apple and began to munch.

  I hadn’t taken a dozen steps toward the house when I heard a familiar frenzied yipping, and Mr. Tibbles came charging out of the half-open door.

  He saw me. He stopped, yapped furiously for a moment, and then turned and ran back toward the door, barking over his shoulder and watching me the whole time.

  Dogs are dogs, even if they’re tiny and done up in ribbons.

  I charged the door. I wasn’t hauling Toadsticker around in broad daylight, but I did have a pair of brass knuckles in my left pocket and my Army knife down my right boot. I paused at the door long enough to retrieve both, and then I darted inside.

  Mr. Tibbles stopped yapping, but kept his hackles up and growled a low, determined growl. He mounted a carpeted stairway and bounded up it, huffing with each leap. I followed, knife in hand, glad for the carpet and the dog’s sudden attack of good sense. Last thing I needed was a barking dog announcing my arrival.

  Halfway up the stair, crashings and screams sounded from above. A man yelled, another bellowed, and then a woman screamed and glass broke.

  Mr. Tibbles leaped over the last stair tread. His paws hit a hardwood floor and skittered and slid. He ran in place for an instant, legs pumping, and then he found his footing and raced down a short hall with me on his heels.

  At a corner, the little dog yapped. A man shouted “Shut that damned mutt,” and I heard heavy boots come thump-thumping my way as Mr. Tibbles vanished around a corner.

  An instant later, he reappeared, airborne and tumbling. The man who’d just kicked the little dog hove into view.

  He had time to open his mouth before I punched him in it. The brass knuckles made a mess. Blood and teeth flew.

  He had a short wide knife. I slashed first, cutting deep into his wrist. He dropped his blade, and I kneed him in the groin. When he went down I lashed out and landed a good solid kick on his head.

  Five paces away, his partner had his arms around Tamar’s waist. He was behind her, holding her aloft, laughing and shaking her, while she kicked and screamed and tried to reach his face.

  He didn’t see me for those four crucial steps it took me to get close enough to knock the living Hell out of him with the hilt of my knife.

  I had a clear shot to the back of his head. He began to fold without a word, but before he could fall Tamar sprang free and grabbed a black oak walking stick from beside a bureau and brought it down hard, square on his temple.

  I grabbed the stick, but was too late. The man had a dent in his skull. His breath rattled and wheezed and he collapsed, ruined head lolling. I knew without checking for a pulse he wouldn’t be getting up and grabbing young women from behind ever again.

  I heard a groan. My dog-kicking friend was being savaged about his ears by Mr. Tibbles, who was making a good show of small-scale mauling. I parked Tamar in
a chair and made my way to the survivor, who regained enough presence of mind to bring his hands to his face and weakly call for help.

  I kicked him in the gut. Mr. Tibbles looked on with approval. Tamar began to cry.

  “You move and I’ll kill you,” I said. “Nod if you understand.”

  He nodded. Blood was gushing from his mouth and running freely down his shirt.

  I returned to Tamar, kneeled in front of her, made her look me square in the face.

  “Were there more? Did you see anyone besides these two?”

  Her gaze went past me and locked onto the dead man on the floor. The pool of blood around his head was expanding.

  I shook her, gently. Mr. Tibbles growled.

  “Miss Fields. How many?”

  “Two,” she said. Her voice was distant. “Just these two. They said they were here to see Father.”

  “Did they come in a carriage?”

  She just stared.

  “All right. Here’s what we’re going to do. Which of the next-door neighbors is your favorite?”

  “The Marshalls.”

  “Good. We’re going to go see the Marshalls. You have them summon the Watch. I’ll stay here. Can you do that?”

  “I killed him.”

  “No. I killed him. I came in and found you struggling and we fought and I killed him.”

  “No. I did it—”

  I put my face close to hers.

  “No. I did it. Me, you understand? They laid hands on you, and I barged in and we fought. You’re in shock. But that’s what happened.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing. I killed him. Got it?”

  She tried to form a word and failed. I gathered her up, and Mr. Tibbles leaped into her arms, and we sidled around the moaning man.

  “I catch you up and walking, I’ll kill you,” I said. “Stay put or die. Your choice.”

  I took Tamar out of there. I didn’t like leaving the man behind, but if they’d come in a carriage they probably hadn’t come alone, and I didn’t want to risk giving anyone another shot at Tamar.

  I might not be so lucky next time.

  I made my way out of the Fields home without incident. The road was filled with cabs and carriages. None slowed or stopped. Tamar was turning pale and shivering. I couldn’t see any marks on her, but I was beginning to wonder if she’d taken a blow to the head during the fracas.

  I yelled once I was out the door. My driver saw a distressed young woman and bloody brass knuckles and dived from his perch to the street, a fair-sized Avalante sword suddenly gleaming in his hand.

  “We need to get next door,” I shouted. He came running, dodging cabs right and left. “Keep an eye out for company.”

  The Marshalls were home. They took Tamar in and sent a lad for the Watch and within moments Tamar was surrounded by a dozen anxious men of various ages, weapons at ready, while another half dozen maids and cooks stood at the doors with rolling pins and skillets in case their men-folk were taken by surprise.

  I brushed off questions, and my driver and I hustled back to Tamar’s house.

  The dead man remained, but he was alone. A trail of blood led out the door, and then stopped, and I knew I’d let my best chance of getting to the bottom of this mess stroll cheerfully away.

  “Never a dull moment,” said my driver. “You hurt?”

  He was looking at my gut. I was bleeding from a shallow gash right above my navel. I hadn’t felt a thing.

  “It’s nothing. Ruined another shirt, though. Which way you think he went?”

  The driver shrugged. “No way to tell.”

  “You’d better take off.” The bleeding was getting worse. I cussed and found a handkerchief and pressed it to the wound. “I had to kill one of them. The Watch is likely to scoop you up too.”

  “We can both be gone before they get here.”

  I shook my head. “Thanks. But head on back to Avalante. Tell Evis I’ll be a little late dropping by tonight.”

  Whistles began to blow. “My name’s Reggie.” He stuck out his hand and realized I was in no condition to shake it and grinned. “Tell you what. I’ll be parked two blocks north of here for the next three hours. If they cut you loose, I’ll give you a ride.”

  “Deal.” My head was beginning to swim, but I wanted to pilfer the corpse’s pockets before the Watch had a chance to do the same. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  We parted. I hurried through the door and back up the stairs, wary but alone, half-expecting the dead man to be gone too.

  For once that day, I was lucky. The corpse was still there, staining the Fields' floor with a dark pool of blood. The walking stick that had killed him was gone. I realized it must have been his, since the other man had taken it.

  I knelt and searched his pockets. All were empty. No copper, no paper, no helpful scrap of this or incriminating corner of that.

  His blank eyes stared up at me. They were as cold and merciless in death as they had been while he held Tamar and laughed at her distress. I reached down and closed them with my bloodied hand.

  The Watch burst inside, whistles blowing, men shouting.

  “Up here,” I called. I turned but remained on my knees and put my hands high up over my head. “Second floor. I’m a licensed finder. The girl is safe next door.”

  Booted feet came rushing up stairs. I waited for the forces of Law and Order to come thundering my way.

  Reggie the driver promised to wait three hours.

  I was wondering if I’d be out in three years.

  It’s a good thing my story was simple and basically true, or I’d never have managed to tell it so many times without getting tripped up. I told it to the sergeant on the scene. I told it again a half dozen times on my way to the Watch house downtown. I told it again another dozen times, at least, inside the Watch house.

  Each retelling was met with more of the same. The same blank impassive faces, the same rounds of questions, the same heavy sighs and orders to write it down and sign it and then start over again.

  I was never charged, although I admitted killing a man. They never used his name, which told me they didn’t know him either. No one ever hinted that Tamar landed the killing blow, which told me she’d managed to stick to the plan.

  After a small eternity spent reliving the same twenty seconds of terror over and over again, I was simply ushered into a crowded waiting room and told not to leave Rannit.

  Waiting for me was Tamar, still pale, and her father, still furious.

  I stood. My back ached and my mouth was as dry as a mummy’s scalp, and all I wanted to do was go home and have a bath.

  “I’m not the one who got you out,” said Mr. Fields, his voice low and barely audible over the din of the waiting room. “I’d have left you to rot.”

  “Father.” Tamar hugged me briefly. She was still shaking. “He saved my life.”

  “He’s the reason your life was in danger in the first place.”

  “No, Mr. Fields, that just isn’t true. Those men would have come around had I never been involved.” I leaned down to put my face level with his. I’d had a long day so I poked him in the chest with my finger. “Thing is, Mr. Fields, they didn’t come to see me. They came to see you. But you wouldn’t play nice, so they came to get your daughter. I don’t know who they are, or why they did such a thing. But I believe you do. And the longer you keep that a secret the longer your family is at risk.”

  “How dare you—”

  “Is it the same people who took Carris Lethway? I’m betting it is. Which means you and the Lethways have something in common, besides kids in love. Are you going to tell me what that is, Mr. Fields? Or am I going to have to keep digging?”

  A couple of Watchmen were taking an interest in our conversation.

  “You’re mad,” he sputtered. “Mad.”

  “I’m not the one keeping secrets while men come after his daughter.”

  “Stay away from us,” he said. “Stay aw
ay. I’m warning you.”

  “Are you making threats against my person, Mr. Fields?” I raised my voice. “Are you threatening me with bodily harm in a Watch house?”

  His round little face went from red to purple.

  Tamar grabbed his arm.

  “We’re leaving,” she said. “Father is overwrought.”

  “He certainly is. I’ll walk you out. These streets aren’t safe.”

  “Stay away from my daughter. Stay away from my home.”

  “If I’d stayed away today you’d be childless, Mr. Fields, and I think you damned well know it.”

  To this day, I believe Fields would have murdered me on the spot, Watch house or no, had Tamar not hauled him forcefully around and marched him out the door.

  “Two men tried to kidnap that pretty young woman not six hours ago,” I said, loud. “Be a shame if they tried again, right outside a Watch house.”

  To my amazement, a trio of burly young Watchmen exchanged nods and followed Tamar outside.

  I let the Fields go. No point in further infuriating any secretive bakers with my presence just yet.

  “You really got a way with people,” quipped a Watchman.

  “I missed my calling. Should have been a priest. What time is it, anyway?”

  “Five of the clock, near enough.”

  I’d thought it was later. I had plenty of time to head back to my office, take care of a few things and then head on over to Avalante to see if Mama had reduced the place to ashes yet.

  “Thanks,” I said. I knocked a layer of imaginary dust off my hat and headed for the door, and for the second time in as many days I stepped out of a Watch house a free if somewhat disheveled man.

  I took care of a number of chores that afternoon.

  I didn’t replace my door. Not yet. Not when there was still a good chance persons would set fire to it again any moment.

  Instead, I nailed a couple of oak planks across the burnt spot, on the inside, to deter any door-kickers. I also dabbed a fresh layer of Mama’s stink-hex all over the doorframe. So far, I’d smelled nothing, but I’d forgotten to ask how long the stuff would last out in the sun so I figured I’d err on the side of caution.

  I also rubbed a generous dollop on the wall of the Girt building at the corner of Cambrit and Holt and on Mr. Tackart’s famous sausage sign at the other end of my street. I pass one or both corners every day, and so would anyone coming to see me with mayhem on their mind. Whether I’d smell even Mama’s hex-stink over the open sewers was anybody’s guess.