The Broken Bell

by Frank Tuttle

  “Be welcome in this Holy Place,” intoned one.

  “May Angels damn you to an eternity in deepest Hell,” said the other. “Apostate devil.”

  I winked. “Nice to see you too.”

  I breezed past the masks, and followed the wide-eyed kid deep into the bowels of the Church.

  As it turns out, the bowels of the Church are furnished pretty well.

  Nothing like Avalante, of course. The halfdead either have an eye for decoration or are careful to employ those who do. Sure, dark is the active motif, but they don’t overdo it.

  Wherthmore, on the other hand, had different ideas of what to hang on walls.

  First, it had to contain an image of a saint. I don’t read Church, so I don’t know who was being depicted, but the halos made it easy for guess who was who. Angels wore wings and wielded mighty swords. Saints bore halos and appeared to be in the final stages of acute constipation.

  Had the renderings not been worked in pure gold, I’d have found them comical in their lack of artistic execution.

  Occupying space between the banners and the flags and the murals and the paintings were swords. Or daggers. Or lances, or standards, or maces, or any of the other usual items employed in the distribution of holy mayhem. Again, gold plates with the flowing script of the Church identified each artifact, but I rushed past one and all.

  I’d seen enough battles in my own past and might be staring another one right in the face.

  We wound down wide, stone staircases. We marched down dark, echoing halls.

  Down and down we went. The smells changed from incense and wood smoke to damp stone and wet hay. Modern magelamps gave way to pitch-fueled torches, which sputtered and flicked from iron sconces set in the walls.

  You could trace the paths of centuries of feet by the soot ground slick and shiny into the stones.

  At last, we reached a wide, short hall. At the far end stood a single, ancient door.

  Behind that, the faint sounds of laughter and voices raised in what sounded like normal conversation.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. An aged priest scampered on ahead, muttered something at the door, and then stood back as it swung ponderously open.

  It was bright within. The air smelled of summer with a hint of recent lightning, and I knew magelamps were lighting the place. The room was not just big but cavernous.

  I stepped inside, and the door swung shut behind me.

  Men turned and looked. Each wore a ridiculous twin to the groom’s hat on my own fool head. I’d been warned not to take mine off, but I’d also comforted myself with the idea that such a rule was the first of the rules to be broken.

  But the sight of a dozen groom’s hats rendered that hope a lie.

  “Welcome to the party,” stated one worthy, hefting his glass of what appeared to be water in a grim salute.

  “Did you bring us anything to drink?”

  “Did you bring a pick and a shovel?”

  Laughter sounded. Old Father Wickens himself came scurrying to the fore at the last remark.

  “Now, now, gentlemen. Let’s not forget why we’re here.”

  “Good morning, Father,” I began.

  He darted forward, caught my sleeve and hauled me past the gathered grooms and toward the back of one of the monstrous columns that kept the roof from meeting the floor.

  “I believe this is the man you seek,” whispered the Father as we walked. “Frankly, sir, I thought you had exaggerated the poor soul's condition. But as you can see—”

  And there he was, slumped in a simple folding chair, his hat over his eyes, snoring.

  Carris Lethway, alive if not well.

  He was dressed as I was, save for the lace at his neck and sleeves and the white spats around his custom-made shoes. The felt of his hat was new, and the leather of his gloves didn’t bear a single scuff or stain.

  I knelt down, wary of the man and his sudden bursts of energy.

  “Carris,” I said. “Carris Lethway. Wake up.”

  He made an inarticulate moan, and shuffled a bit in his chair, but did not awaken.

  “He’s been like this since he arrived,” said Father Wickens. “Frankly, sir, I don’t know what to make of it. He doesn’t smell of liquor.”

  I pushed back his head, and got no response. I pinched his nose. He didn’t react.

  I smelled the faint odor of peppermint.

  “He’s not drunk,” I said. “I’ve seen this before. He’s dosed himself with what the Army docs used to call a Witherspoon.”

  “A what?”

  “A Witherspoon. It’s medicine. A dose will keep you on your feet for a day, maybe more. But first you have to sleep it off. Like this.”

  I pinched his nose again.

  He didn’t flinch.

  “Goodness, what’s in such a concoction?”

  “Damned—um, I have no idea,” I said. “He’ll wake up soon. They usually do.”

  “They usually do? And when will he awaken? I am to lead the grooms in the Prayers of the Husband!”

  “You go ahead, Father. I’ll keep an eye on Sleeping Beauty here. Got another chair?”

  The Father nodded and tottered away.

  He’d been right about Carris and his condition, though. The kid looked awful. His color was blotchy and his breathing was too fast and if he didn’t have a fever it was only because the Witherspoon and Angels know what else were masking it.

  And that would work. For a while.

  But such measures never really solved the problem.

  They just put off dealing with it.

  The Father arrived, scooting a battered old chair behind him. I took it and planted myself across from Carris after making sure I could see the door from where I sat.

  The old priest watched me and nodded approvingly.

  “There is no other door,” he said, chuckling. “I make sure to point that out, you know. This is a room from which there is no exit.”

  “You’re a barrel of laughs, Father.”

  “Your young woman is quite taken with you, you know.”

  “So she tells me. Odds are she’ll grow out of that.”

  “I have a gift,” said the Father. “Do you know I can spot which marriages will last, and which will not, simply by watching the couple in question? Well, I can. I only need a moment. I am never mistaken. Do you want to know my foretelling of you and your Miss Tomas, young man?”

  “Don’t you have a prayer to lead?”

  He shook his head. “Yours is a union that will last for the rest of both your lives,” he said. “I see that, plain as day. Mock if you must. But that is the truth.”

  “I think your grooms are getting out of hand, Father. They’re plotting to remove their hats. I also heard mention of fermented spirits.”

  The old man laughed and patted me absently on the knee. Then he doddered off to dispense prayers and sage admonitions to pick up one’s own socks.

  I’d eyed the grooms and their hatless guests as we entered. None were armed, obviously or not. Most weren’t old enough to be involved with the likes of Japeth Stricken or mean enough to be in the pay of Lethway. I wasn’t writing them off completely as threats, but I was ready to turn my attention back to Carris.

  All he did was snore. I rifled his pockets. I found another bottle, cap sealed with wax, filled with the signature blue liquid that marked it as Witherspoon. That bottle went into my pocket.

  I’d seen men die after drinking too many of the foul things.

  Otherwise, Carris had a goodly amount of paper money, just enough coin to tip cabmen and so forth, and a ring, in a small sturdy box covered in black velvet.

  I had a look. This wasn’t the same ring I’d seen his room, which meant he’d had to buy another. The boy hadn’t skimped. The stone was big and clear, set amid a starburst of lesser stones on a twisting gold band. I figured I could buy a nice house with half of the lesser stones, never mind the big rock or the gold band.

  I snapped the box sh
ut and put it back where I found it. The kid mumbled and tried to push my hand away. I pulled him up straight in his chair and had a look at his wounds.

  The glove concealed the damage to his hand. The empty glove-finger was stuffed with something, and I hoped it was cincee. His missing ear was bandaged beneath black silk, and I was glad to see the skin around it was no longer red and puffy.

  Whoever had treated him did a good job. I judged he’d recover, if we both survived the wedding.

  Father Wickens raised his arms and called for silence. The assembled required three such admonitions before they fell quiet.

  “Let us recite the Prayers of the Husband,” said the good Father. “I will speak the prayer. You will then repeat it. But you will do more than just mouth the words, gentlemen. You will ponder them. And gentlemen, you will take them with you, if you are wise. You are committing to a lifetime, as husband, as father. These words will always serve you well, if you will let them.”

  Someone snickered. It wasn’t me.

  “Omnesium gallatas versos de poxitan verlos,” intoned the Father in the tongue of the Church. “Sageum nox moralis, somto en versoten.”

  “First, be a shield,” he repeated in plain Kingdom. I’d never heard a priest do that before. “Guard your wife as though a treasure, for that she is.”

  “Be a lamp in her dark, as she is the light in your heart.”

  “Let no night pass in anger. Let no day begin with words of reproach.”

  “Wilt thee lift thine own hand against thyself? Wilt thee raise thine own voice in rage against thyself? Then do not these same things against thy wife, who thou hast taken as thine own flesh.”

  Carris stirred. His eyelids fluttered open.

  “Easy, kid. I’m Markhat. Tamar hired me to find you. I’m sure she told you that.”

  He was trying to find his limbs, probably to swing them at me. I knew I had a few minutes. Witherspoons don’t wear off all at once.

  “I came to the Timbers to break you out. I would have, too, if you hadn’t clobbered me. I’m not working for your father. Or for Fields. Just Tamar. Congratulations, by the way. Tamar’s a good kid.”

  He found his tongue and worked it over dry lips.

  “What. Are you. Doing here?”

  “Making sure you live through the vows. Japeth Stricken didn’t die in the fire.”

  “Who?”

  “The man who took you. He’s got an old beef with your father. He might decide to settle up by ruining your wedding.”

  “How do I know. You. Aren’t here to do the same thing?”

  “Because I sat here for half an hour watching you nap and didn’t cut your throat once. Look. Tamar hired me. Mr. Tibbles gave his approval. Your father has tried twice to kill me. Isn’t that proof enough?”

  “So Mr. Tibbles likes you, does he?”

  “Ha. The little rodent would tear my head off if Tamar ever let him out of that basket.”

  He moved in his chair, flexing his fingers working his jaw.

  “So you’re Markhat. Tamar did speak of you.” He managed a sheepish grin. “I suppose I should apologize for hitting you.”

  “You were half-crazy with shock and fever. Forget it. Let’s just get you married, shall we?”

  He stuck out his good hand.

  “Agreed.”

  I shook it. He didn’t knee me in the groin again. I counted that as a sure vote of confidence.

  “What do we do next?”

  “We get you something to drink,” I said. “Walk you around a little. That Witherspoon has got you feeling good now, but you’ll stiffen up if you stay still too long. How many did you drink, by the way? And where did you get such a thing?”

  He stood, with little help from me.

  “Tamar called a horse doctor,” he said. “An old Army vet. He gave me two, said drink the first one on the way here and the second one only if I was wounded again and on the run. How’d you know about Witherspoons?”

  “Former Army myself. Never drank one. Saw it done, though. Can you walk?”

  He took a step forward and nearly toppled. I caught him and held him while he sorted out his feet.

  It took a few tries, but he managed it.

  “Next, you’ll dancing,” I said. He managed a laugh.

  “We’d better take this easy. Look. Let’s just walk over to the fireplace. The warmth will feel good.”

  And that’s what we did, for the next hour. Walk a little, rest a little. Father Wickens kept up prayers and occasional lectures, ignoring the hoots of laughter and sneers that often broke out at his back.

  Snippets of what he said reached us, though. And, contrary to the things I’d heard other priests say down through the years, the Father was actually making sense.

  “It’s a miracle,” I muttered.

  “What is?” asked Carris.

  “Nothing. Forget it. I’m new at this marriage business. What happens next? When will we actually start mingling with the guests?”

  Carris pondered this. “Have you been counting chimes?”

  “Nope. I heard a couple. Might have missed one or two.”

  “We’re down here for five chimes. Then we go to the chapel. We stand assembled behind the Curtain of Grace.”

  “Where are the guests, during all this?”

  “In the Chapel too. Out in the pews. We’re behind the Curtain. No one can see us yet. The Brides come in, and assemble on the other side of the curtain, facing the guests.”

  “Any chance of a last-minute swap?”

  That caught the sharp ears of Father Wickens, who shot a withering glance my way.

  “And then?”

  “The doors are closed and sealed. No one is allowed inside after the brides line up.”

  That part I knew. If anyone planning mayhem was going to slip in, they’d have to do so before that.

  “The Curtain is raised. We face the Brides. The Father reads some more. Then the brides turn. Each groom takes his bride’s hand. One by one, the couples walk up the steps, to the altar, under the Bell. We put the rings on their fingers. Then, one by one, the couples go up and exchange vows. The bell starts clanging out noon. If everything is timed right, everybody kisses their bride on the last stroke of the Broken Bell.”

  I nodded. The plan was for Darla and I to just mouth the words and fail to kiss. That would leave us single at the end of the ceremony, but close enough to Tamar and Carris to lift a sword, should harm come their way.

  The ring in my pocket was just a surprise. I was hoping it would take the edge off a sham wedding after waiting for a real one for so long.

  “That leaves us a couple of hours before the festivities,” I said. “How are you feeling? Going to make it?”

  “Damned right I am.”

  Missing an ear and a finger, barely able to stand without wobbling, and there he was, daring the fates to try and knock him down again.

  He was a Lethway, all right.

  “So, who are you marrying?” he asked.

  “Oh no. Not me, kid. I’m just here to keep you safe, and my bride-not-to-be is doing the same for Tamar.”

  “Darla Tomas, you mean? Tamar told me all about her. Says you two were meant for each other, even if you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

  “Women will talk. Pardon me a moment. Got to see a kid about some firewood.”

  Indeed, the lad who’d led me into the bosom of the father church was heading toward the fireplace, a stack of dried oak in his arms.

  “Let me help you with that, kid.”

  He grinned and split his load with me. A battered silver flask peeked out from amid the faggots.

  “Thanks mister,” he said. “By the way, I reckon you ain’t heard, being cooped up down here. But something is happening on the Brown.”

  He spoke in a whisper, and for that I was glad.

  “Trouble?”

  “Looks like. Big, black cloud hanging over the river to the North. Moving against the wind. I reckon it’s them foreign wa
nd-wavers, saying we’re coming, and we don’t aim to leave.” He looked suddenly grim. “Looks like you picked a real bad day to get hitched, mister.”

  “Looks like.” I found a coin for no good reason. “You got a safe place to hide, kid?”

  He took it. “Safe as any, I reckon. Good luck to you and your lady. You might not talk like one, but I reckon you’re a gentleman, all the same.”

  And then he was gone.

  Carris came wobbling over, a question on his face.

  “Bad news?”

  “It isn’t good. Black cloud coming down the Brown. Sounds like somebody’s idea of a grand entrance.”

  He just nodded. There wasn’t much to say.

  I wondered where the Regency lay, and if Gertriss and Evis and Buttercup had managed to reach the shore. Buttercup was an Old World banshee—surely the mere sinking of a steamboat wouldn’t do more than get her wet?

  I cussed and opened the flask and emptied it, right there in plain sight of Father Wickens and a dozen collected holy grooms.

  I didn’t think any Angel worth her wings would begrudge me that one small comfort.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I’d been right about the chimes. Two had indeed sounded. I counted three more. As the last tone faded, Father Wickens called us to gather close around him.

  We did. Carris was walking better, and his eyes were clear. Worried, but clear.

  I stuck a short plain dagger in his hand as soon as all eyes turned to the good Father. He took it without a word and put it in a pocket.

  “Gentlemen, the time has come. Please line up in this order—Woesmith. Grant. Selby.”

  He rattled off names. Grooms and groomsmen parted with ribald jokes and punches back and forth.

  Carris was next-to-last, by arrangement. I took up the rear.

  “Gentlemen,” said the father quietly, when we were arranged to his satisfaction. “These are troubling times. War and wrack may well be loosed upon us, before this day is done. For that, I am sorry, because no couple deserves to begin their journey together through such fearful times.”

  Nods and murmurs, all around. The Father closed his eyes and prayed.

  “I call upon Numena, the Angel of Peace, and upon Forna, the Angel of Love. I implore you to bless these unions, and guard them, and keep the twin beasts of War and Loss far from them, for all their days. Amen.”