Brown River Queen

by Frank Tuttle

  Stitches regarded me with eyes that wept blood around the threads which held them shut.

  And she told you this room was a means of escape?

  “That’s what she said. If Rannit fell. If all hope was lost.”

  Interesting. Shall we proceed?

  Without waiting for an answer, she swept through the kitchen’s only door, a parade of darting lights in her wake. Evis and I followed, stepping over fallen bodies as we entered the hall.

  Something like thunder rumbled and the Corpsemaster’s old house shook. Stitches halted and loosed a bolt of baby lightning that arced up through the ceiling before exploding with enough force to send down a rain of dust and leave Evis and I half-deaf.

  I never liked any of those assholes. Cover your ears.

  We did, and the bolt she threw this time dwarfed the first and knocked the breath right out of me. A portion of the ceiling collapsed, spilling dry corpses in a heap to the floor and revealing a disturbing patch of sky in which the stars spun and whirled as if battered by rushing waters.

  Evis pushed his dark spectacles up on his nose. “So much for subtlety,” he muttered.

  Stitches shrugged and sauntered ahead. Evis and I picked our way through the new pile of corpses and I, for one, was glad to lose sight of that moving, unsettled sky.

  I found the lamp. It had been burning when I saw it last. Now it merely sputtered, the white mageflame reduced to little more than a spark. Stitches regarded it silently for a moment before turning her ruined face to me.

  “Like this,” I said, grabbing the lamp and twisting it clockwise.

  A section of solid granite wall opened, pulled back without sound or fuss. Stitches cast her bevy of flying lights into the darkness, and we saw the stairs leading up and the mummified body heaped at the bottom.

  “The door at the top is locked. I’ve got the key. Might as well go first.”

  As you wish. I sense no overtly hostile magics in your path.

  I clambered up the stairs, careful not to step in the dead man’s dusty remains. We gathered on the top landing.

  I put my key back in my pocket. Evis whistled. Stitches waved her hands about and sent her pet lights flying to and fro about us.

  The door was gone. The massive iron hinges remained, though they were drooped and warped from the heat that had consumed the wooden door.

  “If memory serves, that door was nearly a foot thick.”

  “Someone wasn’t satisfied with just a knock.” Evis peered past the door and into the shadows lurking inside. “I see something moving, maybe twenty feet in.”

  Amazing, said Stitches. Awe filled her not-words. Tarry, gentlemen. This needs study.

  So we tarried. By squinting, I convinced myself I too could see hints of motion in the dark. The motion suggested I was seeing the top portion of a monstrous wheel of some sort, turning quickly and without any sound.

  I’m not sure how long we stood there. My knees went stiff. Evis leaned against the wall and to this day, I believe he took a short nap. More thunders grumbled in the distance, though none was so intense as to rain down dust or disturb Stitches.

  I pondered the ruined hinges and finally decided it would take between three and four casks of the Corpsemaster’s finest gunpowder to blow down her door. That, or a single slouching wand-waver with a spell and a grudge.

  I found myself hoping the Corpsemaster hadn’t been behind the door when it was breached. Anything hot enough to melt iron and so thoroughly consume such a quantity of oak would have made mere ashes of flesh and bone.

  Stitches lowered her hands.

  We may enter. Take care and remain close. There is a powerful magic at work nearby.

  She stepped through the ruined door and we did the same, flanking her, staying one step behind.

  She did something and the room filled with light. At the same time, the hint of motion I’d seen sprang into perfect clarity.

  Evis’s jaw dropped just as far as mine.

  The room itself was just a room. Stone walls. Same for the floor and the ceiling. There used to be a magelamp on a chain suspended from the center of the ceiling. Now the chains hung empty and were fused together in a lump.

  But against the far wall, magic wheeled and spun.

  Stay where you are, warned Stitches.

  Take a wheel. Make it three stories tall. Taller. Then fill it with spokes made of moonlight.

  Set entire worlds in the spaces between spokes. Give the whole works a spin, and step back to see what you hath wrought.

  Snow-capped mountains.

  flash

  Deep forest, sunlight slanting down through green, green boughs.

  flash

  Mermaids singing on spray-soaked stones.

  flash

  Hayfield gleaming in the sun.

  flash

  Mirror-smooth lake and sandy shore.

  Evis spoke first. “Think she’s somewhere in there?”

  Stitches raised her arms. A scurrying army of red-skinned imps—complete with tiny red horns and barbed crimson tails—fell from the air about her, converged on the spinning wheel of worlds, and began leaping into the spaces between the spokes.

  I suspect not, said Stitches. But a few moments will either confirm or dispute my suspicions.

  An imp sat down on the toe of my boot. I kicked it off, and it shook its fist at me and squeaked in indignation before reluctantly joining its brethren in their rush toward the wheel.

  It is as I feared. The spellwork is damaged. Persons who attempt to use it will be dispersed across a number of worlds.

  “Dammit. Can you tell who used it last?”

  I can only determine that it has seen no significant discharge of arcane energies.

  “Dumbed down for the lay folk, please?”

  The Corpsemaster has not passed this way.

  “I can’t picture her letting anyone wreck her house and walk away unscathed,” Evis said. “Looks like we’ll have to get used to the idea that she’s gone.”

  “I’m going to miss the old spook.” No sooner had I spoken the words that I realized what a poor epitaph they made. “She stayed her hand when killing was the easy way. She kept her word when she didn’t have to. She made me a biscuit once. It was awful but I appreciate the effort.”

  “Amen.” Evis faced Stitches. “Is there anything to be gained with further exploration? Anything we can safely remove and return to the House?”

  Stitches turned in circles briefly as her hair floated about her head.

  Regrettably, no. We are not the first to enter this place. The items we might have safely removed are gone and the ones which remain are far beyond my skills. Worse, I can detect three distinct structural spells about to fail due to pressures from without.

  A groaning from the ceiling and a sudden pitching of the floor punctuated her words.

  “Time to go, then. Markhat. Your hat.”

  “What?”

  Stitches whirled and headed for the door. Dust drifted down from the ceiling as the bones of the house groaned and shifted.

  I reached up and something slapped my hand. I fell into place behind Evis and yanked my hat off to find a red-skinned imp perched atop it, hanging on with both little red claws and little red tail.

  The floor tilted. The imp looked up at me, eyes wide, and squeaked something unintelligible. “Stay put or get stomped,” I said, and I pulled my hat down tight on my head and charged down the steps while the Corpsemaster’s house fell apart around me.

  I made it out the Corpsemaster’s front door, my hat, my imp, and my head intact. Evis emerged complaining of the dust on his good black cloak. Stitches loosed half a dozen bolts of lightning into the sky and ran for the carriage, her hands trailing smoke.

  The ground heaved. Behind us, the Corpsemaster’s home sank a dozen feet into the ground. Roof tiles flew, exploding on the street and sending shards of black slate whizzing through the air like a sleet of stones.

  The carriage was in motion as I c
aught hold and dived inside. Evis hauled me in, Stitches cast a soft aura over us, and we sped off into the night as the old spook’s house vanished down into the earth.

  I panted and puffed and mopped sweat. Stitches mumbled to her hands and tended to her tame flying lights. Evis leaned back and grinned, not even breathing hard.

  “That wasn’t as bad as I expected.”

  We are hardly out of the proverbial woods, said Stitches. The collapse of the house has attracted quite a few onlookers.

  “Any of them coming after us?”

  Stitches was silent for a long time while the driver exhorted his ponies to make haste.

  No. They seem more interested in the ruin of the house. I gather the lower levels housed a few items of particular interest to certain esoteric tastes.

  “Lucky for us,” I said.

  A tiny voice above my head mimicked my words, though I believe it exaggerated the breathlessness thereof.

  Evis laughed. “Looky, looky. Markhat picked up another stray. What’s the Missus going to say, old friend? You can’t tie a ribbon around that and call it a kitten.”

  I felt a scampering on my hat, and then tiny claws climbed carefully down my ear before settling on my shoulder. I felt its tail drape itself loosely around my neck, and it chittered something brief and harsh.

  “I don’t think he likes you, Mr. Prestley,” I said. “You don’t, do you, Mr. Simmons?”

  “Mr. Simmons,” it chanted. “Mr. Simmons Mr. Simmons Mr. Simmons!”

  I shall send it back whence it came, finder.

  The imp shrieked and clung to my neck.

  “Is it dangerous? Venomous? Does it drink blood, eat flesh, anything of that sort?”

  It is a construct, formed from a malleable elemental substance which resides in a convenient parallel—

  “Public school, remember? Dumb it down, please.”

  It is probably harmless.

  “Then forget it. Get us out of here instead. Mr. Simmons can stay as long as he behaves himself. You get that, Mr. Simmons?”

  The imp snapped to faux attention and threw me a salute.

  Evis chuckled and reached into his pocket for more cigars. Stitches mumbled spells behind her sewn, bloody lips.

  Mr. Simmons reached out and lit our cigars with a flame he conjured at the tip of his barbed red tail.

  All in all, it was an interesting night.

  We rolled up in front of Avalante just after midnight, despite having fled the fall of the Corpsemaster’s home well after that hour. Which may be why common folk avoid the sorcerer’s district in droves. You never know what tricks Time is going to play once you cross Portend Street.

  Stitches had been slumped over, uncommunicative and bleeding from eyes and lips since we left the magic part of town. I’d wanted to check for a pulse. Evis had suggested that even touching a wounded, friendly wand-waver was a good way to wind up being forever known as Markhat One Hand.

  She’d lolled and hung like a rag doll when a half-dozen Avalante halfdead gently eased her out of the carriage and into a fancy copper box that whirred and clanked and exhaled gouts of steam once the lid was closed.

  “Hell if I know,” replied Evis to the question I hadn’t spoken. “Let’s go have a beer.”

  And so we did.

  “Who was Mr. Simmons?”

  We were seated in the dark confines of Evis’s sprawling office. The usual trinkets glowed and moved in the glass-covered display cases behind his desk.

  I took a long drink of his good dark beer before answering.

  “He was the landlord when I was a kid. Mom called him ‘that old devil.’ We used to draw pictures of him with horns and slip the paper under his door.” I chuckled at the memory of the old man bursting out into the hall, broom held high, cursing and swatting at us as we kids scattered.

  He’d never managed to land a blow. Thinking back, I realized he’d never meant to.

  The smaller, redder Mr. Simmons had leaped from my hat and vanished into the night the instant we’d reached the safety of Avalante’s curb. He’d not even waved goodbye.

  “I don’t think we’ll be seeing the Corpsemaster again.” I emptied my glass and Evis refilled it. “Looks like she’d have put in an appearance, if she could—what with her House being looted and falling.”

  “Looks like.” Evis pondered the shadows over my right shoulder. “Quite a blow for Avalante.”

  “You’ll soon have the Regent in your pocket. That ought to more than make up for the loss.”

  “I hope so. Speaking of which, Gertriss is making the trip to Bel Loit too.”

  I’d suspected as much. Evis toyed with his glass and didn’t elaborate.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were nervous, Mr. Prestley. Worried I might raise some sort of objection to your choice of female company?”

  He shrugged. “More worried you’d have something to say about her taste in men.”

  Aha, I said to myself. Confirmation at last.

  “For what it’s worth, Evis, I think she’s got excellent taste. You have my blessing. I shall, of course, expect a sizable dowry.”

  “I wasn’t joking, Markhat.”

  I downed my beer. “Neither was I. If you just have to find something to worry about, there’s always Mama and her plainspoken country mouth. But not me. Never me.”

  He let the breath he’d been holding escape. He might have spoken, but someone knocked, and a soft voice reminded him of a meeting in five minutes.

  “You can stay,” said Evis, motioning toward the box of cigars on his right.

  I stood. “I’m a married man now. Best be getting home. Darla will be worried.”

  Evis stood and extended his bare hand to shake. He never does that.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Yes. His hand was cold. Cold as a corpse. And maybe he has a mouthful of fangs, and maybe his eyes look like dirty marbles.

  If Mama couldn’t see any further than that, then maybe she needed to put away her fortune cards and take up knitting.

  Avalante supplied my ride home. The clocks might have pointed toward midnight, but by my own estimation we’d left just after Curfew, and we’d spent at least six hours getting into and out of the Corpsemaster’s doomed house. I spent a good two minutes pondering the philosophical and metaphysical ramifications of the lost time before nodding off to sleep myself.

  I was awakened when my borrowed carriage rolled to an abrupt halt. Still groggy, I pushed up my hat and put my hand on the latch when I heard the driver shout and my door swung open on its own.

  “You’re Markhat,” said a towering slab of a man, who leaned in and dared shove a lantern in my face. “Get out.”

  Clever devil that I am, I nodded, put my hand on the door latch behind me, and sprang ass-first through it, away from the large man and his favorite lantern.

  I whirled.

  “Smart one,” said the man with the lantern, who rounded the rear of the carriage. The yellow lamp lit his face and rendered his grin demonic. “Knew you’d try that.”

  The four stalwart Watchmen who ringed me in muttered and nodded, truncheons at the ready.

  A fifth held an old Army issue Mauser crossbow on my driver, who sat wide-eyed and deadly still.

  “You take that crossbow off my driver, bluecap, or I’m going to shove it so far up your ass you can use the bolt for a toothpick.”

  “No need for that, Moris.” The big man spoke. Moris lowered the crossbow with the air of a man who was disappointed at being told he couldn’t shoot a law-abiding stranger.

  “Let’s try this again,” said the giant, after giving Moris a good glare. “You’re Markhat. The finder from Cambrit. That right?”

  “Nope. My name is Flocart. Of Flocart, Simmons, and Vault, attorneys at law. Which you’ll need, if pointing crossbows at innocent carriage drivers is becoming a habit.”

  His face reddened a bit in the lamplight.

  “I know who you are.”

  �
��So why ask? You’re doing this all wrong. The Watch doesn’t ask. They accuse. So tell me, Watchman, what is it I’m accused of?”

  “My name is Captain Holder. Watch Captain Holder.” He emphasized the Watch.

  “What a coincidence. I’m a Captain too. Captain Markhat, they call me, hero of the Battle of Rannit. Still, you should probably salute me, because—”

  I never got a chance to finish. Watch Captain Holder nodded to the four blue-capped Watchmen surrounding me, and I was hustled into a plain, none-too-clean Watch tallbox and whisked downtown while my velvet-covered Avalante carriage and furious driver were shooed away into the night.

  Chapter Five

  By the time my new friend at the Watch was done with me, the morning sun was peeping through the trees, the sidewalks were filling with yawning pedestrians, and my porch was occupied by worried wives.

  Darla watched me haul my weary bones out of the cab. Her arms were crossed tight over her chest. She was dressed and ready for work and I wondered if she’d slept at all.

  I was opening the gate in our white picket fence before I noticed Buttercup. She was standing on our roof right above Darla, her tiny little banshee arms crossed over her chest and her right foot tapping in perfect imitation of my betrothed.

  “Good morning, ladies,” I said, doffing my hat and hoping none of the neighbors was watching my roof. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Darla catches on fast. “Shoo,” she said with a glance at the ceiling. “Run along home, honey. Before Mama comes looking.”

  Buttercup lifted both hands to her mouth in mock terror before twirling and vanishing.

  I reached the three steps that led up to our porch and collapsed on my butt. Darla sat beside me. She smelled of soap and perfume and a fancy new shampoo.

  “How bad was it?”

  I took off my hat and laid it beside me.

  “Bad enough. No sign of you know who. The whole place fell in as we left.”

  Darla was silent.

  “That’s not even the worst part.”

  “What could be worse than—well. That?”