The Broken Bell

by Frank Tuttle

  Darla sat behind me, her arms tight around my chest. I spurred the mare downtown, and she took advantage of the empty streets by breaking into a surprisingly fast trot.

  I had fully expected to find the hotel deserted. Instead, I found it filled to capacity and fully staffed.

  My old friend from a few days ago was even at his station behind the counter.

  Darla and I marched up. He eyed her up and down and lifted an eyebrow.

  “Mister, you just love trouble, don’t you?”

  “She’s my sister.”

  Darla smiled angelically. “He knows better than to say aunt.”

  “I’m here to see the missus.”

  “Then you’re a little late, mister. The missus checked out first thing this morning. Kid too.”

  It was my turn to raise an eyebrow.

  “What? When?”

  “First thing, like I said. She paid up and left.”

  “Was she alone?”

  I guess I put a little too much army into my voice. The clerk took a nervous step backward, and Darla slipped a hand on my shoulder.

  “He’s just anxious to make sure she’s safe,” cooed Darla. “All this trouble, you know. Everyone is so nervous these days.”

  “Like I said, your kid was with her. He took her bags.”

  I forced myself to breathe.

  “Thanks. Sorry. Been a rough few days.” I let a coin make a pleasant rattle on the counter. “Anything else?”

  Darla beamed at him.

  The coin vanished.

  “Let me check.”

  He darted off to confer with his fellow workers. Darla squeezed my hand.

  “Someone might have dragged her out of here, kicking and screaming, but if she just walked out, she meant to,” said Darla.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  The clerk reappeared, a wax-sealed envelope in his hand.

  “She left this for you.”

  I took it from him, opened it, and read.

  I’ve found Carris, it read. He’s hurt, but alive. I’m taking him somewhere safe, and I think it’s best that no one knows where we are. I’m not sure what you did, Mr. Markhat, but I am grateful. Please don’t look for us. We can’t trust anyone now, least of all our families. We’re together again, and we’re making our own decisions, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.

  Darla read it as I did.

  “How?”

  I shoved the letter in my pocket. “The kid. Betrayed by my own son. Oh, how sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”

  I gave the clerk a last good glare. “You see which way they went?”

  “Out the door is all I know.”

  I took Darla’s hand and out that same door we went.

  “So the child you hired to play the role of your son was the one watching the Fields’s home.”

  “Child? Huh. Treacherous little thief is more like it. Had to be. Tamar knew Carris would come looking for her if by some chance he got free. So Tamar paid the kid to watch the house. Kid sees bloody shirtless Carris arrive, then sees him leave dressed and patched up. I figure the kid caught Carris leaving, told him Tamar was hiding downtown, and then cleaned him out giving up the address. Or maybe he did the same to Tamar, or both. Conniving little bastard.”

  “Can you find him?”

  I shook my head. “Not likely. And even if I did, I doubt Tamar told him where she was taking Carris. I’m sure she didn’t. Because if she did, he’d have already found me, eager to give them both up for a handful of change.”

  Darla nodded.

  We’d sought refuge in a tiny deserted park ringed by the big buildings downtown. My borrowed mare munched happily next to the No grazing of horses here sign. Handbills and bits of trash scampered past in the wind, each one proclaiming a more horrific and devastating war than the last.

  Neither of us acknowledged any of them.

  An eerie silence gripped the town. Eerie because I’d never heard Rannit quiet in the daytime before. Eerie because even after Curfew the streets never felt so dead, so abandoned, so alone.

  Darla shivered. I had my arm around her and her head was buried in my shoulder but she shivered anyway, right there in the sun.

  “What do we do now?”

  I shrugged. “Loot? You like jewelry, don’t you?”

  She pinched my elbow.

  “Tamar. Carris. The case. I’m still a client, you know.”

  “Speaking of which. I don’t recall ever being paid.”

  “I pay you in hats and kisses.”

  “I could use one of each right now.”

  She looked up at me, her eyes big and dark.

  “I’m all out of hats.”

  “Caterers.” The word rose out of some dim but industrious part of my mind. “Do you know any of the ones Darla was using?”

  “You were supposed to suggest kisses just now, light of my heart.”

  “And I shall. Soon. But, hon, tell me this. What do you think Tamar is doing, right this moment?”

  “Shushing Mr. Tibbles?”

  “The wedding. Hon, she’s going ahead with the wedding.”

  Darla blinked.

  “Rannit is at war,” she said slowly. “There’s chaos in the streets. Her fiancé is wounded and sick.”

  “And you really think Tamar Fields is going to let any of that put a stop to her wedding?”

  “She mentioned the florist. Canter’s, I think. Or Carter’s.”

  “They’ve got be downtown. Probably right around here.”

  “That might be so, hon. But look. No one is doing business today.”

  I frowned. She was right. We might find the shops, but we’d also find them shuttered and closed.

  We both thought of it at the same instant. Our smiles were sudden and wide.

  There’s one place that never closes, come war or wrack, dark or doom.

  “She’s pestering the priests,” said Darla.

  “Badgering the bishops.”

  “Hounding the hands.”

  “Nothing rhymes with fathers.”

  “Bothers does,” said Darla. She rose. “You must promise not to blaspheme in the church, dear. We might wish to married some day too, you know.”

  “I’ll keep a civil tongue, just for you.”

  “Liar.” She whistled, and damned if the mare didn’t trot right up to us and whinny.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Broken Bell hangs in Wherthmore’s southernmost belfry. Since Tamar intended to be pronounced Carris’s wife on the last peal of the Broken Bell’s afternoon ringing, I didn’t need to bother with visits to any of the other Church mainholds.

  Which was good, in that it saved time. And bad, in that it dictated another visit to Wherthmore.

  I’m not welcome at Wherthmore in the same way sewer rats are not welcome at the Regent’s tea parties. Something to do with blasphemy. Threatening a body of Holy Hands with violence may have played a role as well.

  Laying the actions of a vampire blood cult at a renegade Wherthmore priest’s feet certainly didn’t help matters. I’d led Avalante and a mob of New People right to Wherthmore’s metaphorical altar, and even though all parties involved had thus far kept the ruckus secret I was not high on the prayer list at Wherthmore. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. I suspected it was only my association with Avalante that prevented me from suffering a fatal fall on a patch of rare summer ice in the days immediately following my rescue of Martha Hoobin, a year or so ago.

  So as Darla and I charged down empty streets, I concocted and abandoned half a dozen schemes to get past the priests at the door and into the office of someone high enough in the ranks to help.

  I was no closer to a brilliant strategy at the end of the ride than at the beginning.

  When I saw a mob of red-robed Church acolytes move to close Wherthmore’s big doors at the mere sight of me, I decided to employ reason and calm discussion in the form of just charging the horse up the steps and inside the Church.


  Darla screamed but held on tight. The mare, which I had suspected was a bit apostate herself, hunched her neck down and charged, sparks flying from her iron shoes, right amongst the acolytes.

  They scattered, tumbling and shrieking, red robes flapping. The church doors burst open, and I added stampeding warhorses over holy thresholds to my lengthy list of sins.

  Priests came running out of doors and fled back into them just as quickly. Darla laughed, a wild loud laugh, and I saw her pull her dagger from her boot as the mare trotted between rows of pews.

  “Tell Father Foon his old friend Markhat is here to see him,” I shouted. “Tell him if he’s not here soon I’ll come find him myself.”

  Darla buried a laugh in my back.

  A priest appeared in a doorway. The red mask he held before his face was shaking in his hand.

  “How dare you.”

  “I dare plenty. You’re not Father Foon.”

  “The Father is away on Church business.”

  “You mean he headed South at the first hint of trouble.”

  A younger priest tugged the first man aside. This young one kept his mask lowered.

  “Are you mad?”

  “Not yet. But I will be soon.” I let the mare trot forward a couple of steps. “If Father Foon is hightailing it for the Sea, I’ll speak to someone else. Who’s in charge of matters matrimonial around here these days?”

  The old priest started sputtering, and the younger man stepped in front of him.

  “This is not a circus,” he began. “This is holy ground.”

  I cut him off. “Answering my questions is the best way to get rid of me. Not answering them is the best way to wind up with soiled carpets and broken doors.”

  I let my hand fall casually down on the hilt of my borrowed sword.

  “You know who I am?”

  “Yes.” He spat the word in a most unpriestly fashion. “Markhat.”

  “Good. Now, the man in charge of marrying people?”

  “Father Wickens is here. But you will go no further on that beast.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. She just came for confession, anyway. Something about apples and carrots.” I swung down and offered Darla my hand.

  “Have one of your masks see to her, won’t you?”

  The man’s face went ruddy with rage.

  “And don’t say how dare you again. I dare. This, and plenty more. Now, this Father Wickens, which way to his office?”

  He puffed air in and out, trying to decide which Angel of Vengeance to call down upon me.

  Darla smiled at him. “We’ll just wander about until we find him, dear,” she said.

  I shrugged and made for the nearest open hall.

  “Women,” said the priest, “are not permitted beyond this worship hall.”

  “Then you’d better fetch this Father,” I said. “Because we’re going to speak to him, with or without your help. Come, dear. Let’s see how priests really live, shall we?”

  Boots began to sound. I counted a couple dozen men. All the Churches keep soldiers handy. Smiting the unholy is an ancient religious tradition.

  I drew my sword, just in case anyone approaching had smiting on his mind.

  “Goodness. A horse, here in the Church. And a pretty horse too. Is she a Yearning Tall?”

  I turned.

  The speaker was an old man. His red robes hung off him, loose and none too clean. Someone with more enthusiasm than skill had hemmed the bottom so he wouldn’t trip, but hadn’t tackled the sleeves.

  He was bald on the top but kept a ring of long white hair around his head, just above his comically large ears. His nose was long and crooked, and his eyes were blue and bright, sparkling at me behind thick spectacles.

  He winked, hobbled over to the mare, and began to scratch her behind her right ear. She regarded him warily with a big brown eye for a moment, and then relaxed and settled in for a good long scratch.

  “We don’t know much about her,” replied Darla. “She’s a borrowed Army horse. I am Darla Tomas, and this is Markhat. Might you be Father Wickens?”

  The old man chuckled.

  “Why, I do believe I am,” he said. “Father Perk, see to this gentleman’s mount. The rest of you, back to your duties.”

  The old man never raised his voice, but feet scuffed and red robes scattered. A pair of kids took the mare away.

  Father Wickens beamed at us.

  “Few of my visitors are so adamant to be wed,” he said.

  Give me credit. I wasn’t the one ready with a hasty rebuttal.

  “We’re actually here to talk about another wedding,” said Darla. “But we’d prefer to speak in private.”

  “Of course, young lady. I’m always happy to talk. This way, please.” He flashed me a mischievous grin. “We do have hitching posts outside, young man. For your use in the future, you understand.”

  I grinned back, despite myself.

  The Father chuckled and led us to a room.

  Father Wickens listened, nodding and not quite smiling, while we explained our need to find Tamar Fields and her injured fiancé before other less charitable parties did the same.

  He clasped his hands together on the table when we were done, and pondered the matter for a moment.

  “I see,” he said. “You believe Miss Fields is in genuine peril.”

  “We do.”

  He nodded gravely.

  “That is problematic. You see, young man, there is the matter of confidentiality. If a young woman comes to me and asks for the protection of the Church, I can hardly reveal the details of her situation with anyone else.”

  “I understand that. But, Father, she’s in deeper than she realizes. If she intends to go ahead with the wedding, somebody might be inclined to show up and finish Carris Lethway off out of petty spite.”

  Father Wickens sighed.

  “The world is indeed peopled with dark-hearted villains. You believe this to be a real possibility?”

  “Father, I’ll be straight with you. I don’t know who got out of that fire. They might all be dead for all I know. But if Japeth Stricken survived, and Carris Lethway’s father lived, then there’s a good chance Stricken is out for blood. That’s a given. And I couldn’t think of a better way for him to get it than show up at a Lethway wedding.”

  “This is deeply troubling.”

  “Deeply. And it gets worse. The men who were behind the kidnapping—they might not be done, either. Look. Even if you can’t tell us where Tamar is. Even if you can’t admit you even know her, can’t you try to talk her out of this?”

  “Hypothetically, let us assume I have already tried just that. Hypothetically, I urged her to take her intended and flee the city before the forces arrayed against her could regroup.”

  “And, speaking hypothetically, what did she say?”

  “It bordered dangerously near a cardinal sin,” said the old priest, behind the ghost of a grin. “As well as being anatomically unlikely for a man of my age.”

  Darla sighed and put her hand on mine.

  “There’s no talking her out of it, hon,” she said.

  “No. No, I suppose there isn’t.” I met the old priest’s eyes. “I know you can’t tell us anything specific. But speaking purely in general terms, how does a couple go about getting married beneath the Broken Bell anyway?”

  Father Wickens pondered that.

  “General terms only, Father. This has nothing to do with any headstrong young women. I merely seek to educate myself in the finer points of husbandry.”

  “Well,” said the priest. “The couple in question needs to arrive here early that morning. Before the sun is fully risen. Neither man nor wife may cast a shadow outdoors, on that day.”

  “Get here with the roosters,” I said. “Go on.”

  “The bride to be is escorted to the Meditation Hall, where she may pray, dress and prepare herself for the ceremony.”

  Darla nodded. “Is she alone during that time?”

 
“She may take a single bridesmaid with her into the Hall. No more.”

  “The husband. Is he locked away too? In a room without windows or ventilation shafts?”

  Darla kicked my shin under the table.

  “The grooms are taken, collectively, to the Fellowship Rotunda. Libations are served, and the groomsmen may gather there as well.”

  Darla sniffed and wrinkled her nose.

  “How lovely.”

  “Other priests may conduct themselves differently, Miss, but I do not tolerate the Rotunda being used as a beerhall,” said Father Wickens. “Which may, I confess, contribute to the reduced number of marriages over which I preside. But I insist on dignity.”

  “Which is why Carris and Tamar came to you,” said Darla.

  The old man dipped his head in an old-fashioned bow.

  There was a lot more of the same. Shoes had to be placed on feet at a certain hour, and not before. Flowers of specific colors were affixed to veils and lapels in this fashion, but not before certain songs were sung. Guests had to arrive in batches of ten, wines had to stay on the north ends of certain rooms. There were even restrictions on the partings of hair and the wearing of copper buttons.

  And when the big moment arrived and the Broken Bell was struck, the grooms had to be holding the hands of their new brides, he facing east and she facing west, and they were to kiss just as the last echoes of the Bell faded.

  When the Father ran out of ifs and buts, I stood and stretched my legs.

  “Thanks, Father. Looks like all we have to do is show up and keep our eyes open for trouble.”

  The Father frowned.

  “Um. Are you, dear, a bridesmaid?”

  “No.”

  “And you, sir? A groomsman?”

  “If I say yes, will that get me inside?”

  The Father shook his head. “You could come as guests, of course. But that will only place you in the presence of the bride and groom near the end of the day.”

  “Not good enough, Father. The people I’m worried about won’t stand in line patiently waiting their turn.”

  “We have armed men among us, you know. I’ll see that they are in place—discreetly, of course.”

  “That might be enough, and it might not be.”