Way Out West (The Markhat Files Book 10)

by Frank Tuttle

  “Wealthy and dead,” said Dame Corniss. “Didn’t last the wedding night, poor soul. Lightning struck the house. Burned it to the ground, taking Denon and both his sons from a previous marriage with it. Only his widow survived. Quite the tragedy.”

  “Quite,” I said. “So the grieving widow escaped with nothing but her life, the clothes on her back, and, of course, the Krait fortune.”

  “Funny old thing, lightning,” replied Dame Corniss with a wink. “Don’t think you’re the first to go thinking along those lines either. Of course that only served to alienate the widow, who withdrew herself completely from polite society. I’m sure the rumors are nothing but idle gossip.”

  “The worst kind of idle gossip,” said Dame Fabbers. She took in a deep breath. “Although some of the stories have persisted. She can’t keep servants, for instance. Has to hire poor wretches from Prince or the like. And even those, well, they do come and go quite often, I’m told. Some in the dead of night.”

  “They say she has a violent temper,” noted Dame Corniss. “And is given to strong drink. Perhaps weed as well.”

  “Not society material at all,” concluded Dame Fabbers. “Now, about the others…”

  I spent a solid hour with the Dames and filled four pages with careful notes.

  Our fellow passengers were a colorful lot. Included in their number, if the Dames were correct, was a professional blackmailer, a notorious womanizer on the run from a wronged lord, and some frontier preacher who got himself kicked out of Rannit after he tried to barge into the High House to chide the Regent himself for his sins.

  Nothing in my notes suggested a motive for killing a Watchman. Indeed, quite the opposite—the more outrageous riders all had good reason to get as far away from Rannit as they could, and do so with a minimum of fuss.

  “Thank you, ladies,” I said, rising. They rose as well. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  They held up the backs of their hands, and I kissed each in turn, as Darla nearly choked trying to stifle laughter.

  The rest of our interviews were not nearly as amusing. Grunted denials and muttered variations on the theme of none of your damned business were the order of the day. I dutifully recorded each, avoiding any commentary, knowing the Watch would seize on any excuse to drag me down to Holder’s office and pester me until Yule over any perceived omissions or slights.

  I was finishing with the embalming fluid salesman when I saw Evis bolt upright, his hand reaching for his pistol.

  I heard the screams as the door at the front was flung nearly off its hinges.

  Mrs. Krait charged through at a run, wild-eyed and screaming. A long strip of graying cloth trailed behind her. Part of it was wrapped around her pale neck, and her hands tore at it as she ran.

  A panicked conductor was close behind, appearing to grapple with the trailing end of the cloth, which whipped and coiled and pulled as though caught in a fierce whirlwind.

  “Mome!” shouted Evis. He leaped toward the woman, crossing the bar car in a blink.

  I followed at a gallop, not bothering to draw my revolver. “Cover us,” I yelled, though Darla and Gertriss were already on their feet, weapons at the ready.

  By the time I reached the woman, she’d stopped screaming. Her face was already going blue, and the coils of dirty gray silk looped about her slender throat were drawing tighter every second.

  Evis had the far end of the writhing cloth. The conductor tried in vain to take hold of the middle, and was tossed across the car for his trouble.

  “Dammit, what was the knot?” Evis yelled. He had one end of the thing in his grasp, but only barely, and not for long.

  “Half-hitch,” I shouted, and then I took hold of the woman’s blouse and started digging for the other end of the strip.

  Her eyes went wide. Her lips moved, trying to form words I probably wouldn’t have found flattering.

  “Relax, sister,” I said. “I’m a married man. Hold still.”

  I fished and yanked and pulled, and finally found the end of the cursed thing.

  Putting the proper knot in the writhing band was no easy task. It flailed and pulled and twisted, and the woman’s eyes got bigger. I heard the distinct pop of a rib snapping as it threw a half dozen coils around her torso in an effort to catch my hand beneath them.

  “Got it,” shouted Evis. He let go of his end and raced to me and together we managed to hold the flapping thing still long enough for me to tie a half-hitch knot at the end.

  Just like that, the cloth went limp. Evis and I worked fast to get it off the woman’s neck, managing to free her just as her eyelids started to flutter.

  She took in a wet gasping breath and spent a few minutes coughing. We sat her in a booth, and Darla fetched water and a wet rag.

  I balled up the long strip of cloth. “Take this and burn it,” I said to Rowdy, throwing it to him. Terrified or not, he caught it.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “You’ve got a coal-fired engine up front, don’t you? Throw it in. Right now, son. Unless you’d rather have that slipping under your door later tonight?”

  Rowdy took off.

  Mrs. Krait rubbed her bruised neck and managed a few sips of water.

  “What,” she croaked, “was that?”

  “The Corps called them momes,” replied Evis. “I have no idea what the word means. Sorcerers littered the front with them, in the early days of the War. They are designed to strangle. Nasty buggers. As you’ve seen.”

  She looked from Evis to me. “How did you—” she broke off coughing.

  “They killed plenty of Trolls, sure,” I said. “Plenty more of us troops. Turns out the spells weren’t very selective. So the wand-wavers added a safety. Put a half-hitch knot in both ends, and the mome goes dormant. Praise the Corps,” I added, my tone downright treasonous. “What would we have done without them?”

  Evis regarded the woman’s bruised throat until she covered it with her hands and turned away. “Momes were banned before the War ended,” he said. “The Regent himself ordered the stockpiles destroyed, right after the Truce.”

  “Seems someone missed a few,” I replied. I met the widow Krait’s cold gaze. “When did you first see it?”

  She swallowed hard. Evis made it a point to go and speak with Darla and Gertriss.

  “I was coming to have a drink,” she said once Evis was gone. “I looked down, saw what I thought was a ribbon on the floor. A ribbon, just rolling along. I was about to remark to the conductor about it, when it—when it coiled like a snake and ran up my legs and started wrapping itself around my throat.”

  She shivered. I nodded and waited.

  Her color was a long time returning. The bruises were already darkening, going almost the blue-black shade of her blouse. She finished her water, and I didn’t speak until she winced and clutched at her chest.

  “I think you have a broken rib,” I said. “You’ll want to be careful sitting and standing. Not much to do for it but wrap your chest and tough it out.”

  She just nodded.

  “Thank you for saving me,” she said, not smiling. “You and your…associate.”

  She pushed the word out of her mouth like it was slathered with fresh dog shit. I shrugged.

  “Just doing our jobs, ma’am. Which way was the mome heading when you saw it?”

  “Back that way,” she said, wincing again. “Toward the front of the train.”

  She started shivering. I’d have called for a blanket and wrapped her up in it, but I gathered she wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, not coming from the likes of me and my unsavory associations. Instead, I called for a stiff drink, put it in her hand, and had Darla and Gertriss see her to her compartment.

  “Who the hell looses a mome on a train?” asked Evis as soon as the ladies were out of sight. He was nursing his left wrist, which sported a fresh blue bruise all around it. “That woman probably wasn’t even the target. Damned things always went after anything that moved. Who has a mome in the first p
lace?”

  “Good question.” Even possessing banned magical weapons brought out the worst in the Corps sorcerers, who didn’t concern themselves with trials or hearings or any of the other trappings of law. No, the Corps would just go in, wands blazing, and when the guilty party and most of their neighborhood was ashes, then they’d stop. But only then.

  “This thing is turning ugly,” said Evis. “Maybe we ought to put the women off at the next station.”

  “I’d rather tangle with the Corps,” I said. “We all get off, or we all stay.”

  Evis grunted. “No talking you into letting this one go?”

  “Not yet,” I replied. “But you’re right. This thing is turning ugly. There’s only one kind of person I can think of that might have a suitcase full of momes under their bed.”

  “A rogue wand-waver,” grumbled Evis. “A Corps reject. Marvelous.”

  “I saw something earlier,” I said. I told Evis about the caped man’s glare, and the tingle of sorcery Darla and I had both felt.

  “So what do we do? Barge in and demand to search his pockets for momes?” asked Evis.

  I shook my head. Darla and Gertriss returned, and I waved them over.

  “Nope,” I said to Evis. “But I never met a wand-waver who didn’t travel without a wagon-load of magical paraphernalia. I bet this one is no different.”

  Evis grinned. “The luggage car. Even the railroad can’t open personal property, though. They’ve got laws against that sort of tomfoolery.”

  “Good thing I’m no railroad man.”

  I rose as Darla made it to the booth. “Wasn’t she the most pleasant woman you’ve ever met?” I asked. “We simply must have her over for coffee.”

  Darla snorted. “We do, and I’ll have Slim toss her in the river,” she replied. “I can see why someone might want to strangle her. What was that awful thing around her neck?”

  “Something from the War,” I said. “A mome. We used to call them Troll cravats.”

  “What was it doing here?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” I said.

  Rowdy returned, still pale, mopping sweat from his forehead.

  “Rowdy,” I called, standing. “A moment, please.”

  Darla slipped her arm through the crook of my elbow. “We’re going on our second honeymoon,” I said. “Evis, Gertriss, pray keep watch, and shoot—well, anything and everything, I suppose.”

  Rowdy drew near with obvious reluctance. I could tell he’d require more encouragement shortly, so I clapped him on his back and whispered in his ear. “Relax, kid,” I said. “This time, it’s only burglary.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I could get fired for doing this,” Rowdy whispered, hesitating, his key to the luggage car halfway in the lock. “Might even get prosecuted.”

  “Open it and scram,” I said. “We’ll swear we picked the lock. No one will ever know.”

  “That right?” Rowdy asked, wide-eyed. “I’ve seen men hung for pilfering railroad cars.”

  “On my word as an officer,” I said. “Open it up and get out of here.”

  He slid the key in, turned it, and was gone before the door swung open with a metallic squeal.

  I went first, gun drawn, Darla close on my heels.

  The luggage car didn’t have any windows. I’d counted on there being cracks between the planks to let in some light, but the C&E hired good carpenters. When I shut the door, it was down-in-the-caves dark, the kind of dark that was like midnight solidified and poured over your eyes.

  A match scratched and flared, illuminating Darla’s face in a flickering red glow. “Boo,” she said, before touching the match to the wick of a lantern.

  A coward glow crept through the car.

  Three iron coffins lined the back. One occupied, two vacant. I was relieved to see the lids were still in place, and the bolts holding the occupied coffin shut were still screwed down tight.

  Darla found and lit another hanging lantern, and another, stalking about in the dark without making a sound. I didn’t budge until I could see well enough to avoid banging into things.

  “Where do we start?” asked Darla, eyeing a tall crate speculatively. “I haven’t seen anything marked ‘Banned Military Magics, Handle with Care.’”

  “They should all have a tag or a marking of some kind,” I replied. “Look for the name Winnings.”

  Darla nodded. She began slipping about, bending now and then to shine her lantern on a crate or parcel. “Something’s bothering you, dear.”

  “Murder and war-time magic,” I said, shoving a crate around for a better look at the sides. “I find both mildly distasteful.”

  “Something more than that,” Darla added.

  “The Watchman,” I said. “That just doesn’t make any sense.”

  Darla grunted and her lantern bobbed. “Why? Kill the man, get the key. Seems simple enough.”

  “It’s right out of a stage play,” I replied. “Look. Real killings don’t work that way. People kill, yes, but they tend not to go after armed Watch officers just to steal keys. If you want someone dead, you go after the intended victim, not some guy down the hall.”

  “Isn’t making someone dead easier with a key to their bedroom?”

  “Why do you need a key at all? Just knock and stab. It worked pretty well on the Watchman. But fine, you’re a mad killer, and now you’ve got your precious key. So what? The whole train is alerted. I guarantee you everyone, from little old granny women on down, will be sleeping with a knife in their hand, or worse, if they sleep at all tonight.”

  “You do have a point,” Darla said. “You think something in one of these crates might implicate the guilty party?”

  “Hell if I know. If we were back home, I’d start talking to the people that know these people. Their families, their servants, the neighbors. Can’t do that on a train, so I’m doing the next best thing.”

  “Pilfering their underwear?”

  “Looking for the things they couldn’t bear to leave behind,” I said. “You’d be surprised how often that trips people up, even when they think they’re running for their lives. There’s always something they carry with them they oughtn’t to. Something that slows them down.”

  “Maybe this is such a thing,” said Darla. “This crate is marked WNGS. Close enough to Winnings, I think.”

  I joined her, helped her wrestle a tall pine crate from its fellows. It had been nailed shut, but a hammer and a pry-bar were hanging from the wall, so we helped ourselves and carefully opened the box.

  Darla stifled a laugh. “This certainly is disturbing,” she said. “A heinous crime against fashion.” She poked among the dozens of tight-packed capes, searching for anything hidden among them. I did as well, but found nothing but a stray leather belt.

  “So where’s this Winnings character bound?” Darla asked, as we nailed the crate shut again.

  “Bitter Creek,” I said. “Last stop before Railsend.”

  “Well, he won’t be troubled by chills,” said Darla. She eyed the small mountain of parcels and packages that loomed over us in the shadows. “The Watch would never go to this much effort, would they, dear? They’d just hang somebody at random and give themselves a new round of medals.”

  I started squeezing my way through boxes, squinting to read markings. “I’m Army,” I said. “Tireless and upstanding. A hero in the flesh.”

  “Hah,” replied Darla, moving away. “You think the mome was sent after that dreadful Krait woman, or not?”

  “Anybody stupid enough to send a mome after anybody in particular is probably too stupid to bring one to life,” I said. “They were unreliable as hell fifteen years ago. I doubt they’ve gotten any better with age. So maybe Mrs. Krait was just on the wrong train at the wrong time. It’s a conundrum.” I stooped, squinted, and swung my lantern down closer. “Got another one.”

  Darla hurried to my side. She leaned over the box and frowned. “I don’t like this box.”

  “
You don’t? Did it step on your toes during a Yule dance, or cut in line at the coffee shop?”

  “Don’t make fun.” She set her lantern down and drew a pistol, keeping it aimed at the box, which wisely decided not to draw a weapon of its own.

  “I invoke Kingdom Law,” I said, wagging a finger at the box. “You are under arrest.”

  “Be very careful opening it,” she said. Her knuckles were white on the revolver’s butt, and she had the trigger squeezed nearly all the way back. “Hurry, please.”

  I got to work. The box wasn’t as big as the crate, but someone had been generous with the nails, and getting the lid off took a lot of prying and cursing.

  “Told you,” said Darla, slowly easing the hammer down.

  “Well, hello,” I added.

  If there’s anything wand-wavers covet more than power, it’s fancy glassware. I suppose it’s for boiling up potions and the like—the laboratories below Avalante are lousy with the stuff.

  Packed in wadded old waybills, most dating from the War, was an intricate glass coil, worked with copper wires and brass valves and gold-plated fittings. Suspended in the center of the coil by what appeared to be an intricate spider’s web was a human skull, polished to a bright sterile white.

  The skull was too small to be that of an adult.

  I couldn’t begin to guess at the coil’s function, but I didn’t need to know the specifics.

  “He’s a sorcerer,” said Darla. “The man in the cape.”

  “He’s an idiot,” I replied. “He’s not with the Corps. Which makes him a target for the Corps. They don’t tolerate freelancers. When they find out, and they will, he’s a dead man. Damn, and damn, and damn. We might just all get off at the next stop after all.”

  “Because he’s an idiot?” Darla asked.

  “Exactly. He’s too stupid to know how dangerous he is.” I shut the lid, banged a couple of nails home just to prevent anyone from stumbling across whatever was stored inside.

  “What now?” asked Darla, still eyeing the box as though it might need a bullet or two.

  “We go sit on him,” I said. “If he leaves his compartment we follow him. If he so much as blinks in an eldritch or mystical fashion, we cut him down. If he behaves himself, we toss him off the train at the next stop. Then we send word to the Watch and they alert the Corps and he’s their problem.”