by Frank Tuttle
“These people got names?”
“Bertold Ordwald. His wife Renilda. His daughter Alfreda.” She sucked noisily at her coffee. “They’ll be comin’ around, at first light. I ken they’ll be eager to talk.”
“So you were out there, last night. In the woods. In the dark.”
Mama nodded. “Mr. Ordwald told some tales. I needed to see a few things for myself. Before I wasted a pan full of biscuits on you.” Mama grinned. “You think there’s anything in them woods can scare Mama Hog, boy?”
“Not a thing,” I said.
Buttercup came prancing out of her room. Buttercup’s room once belonged to Gertriss, before Gertriss moved into an apartment downtown last month.
I wasn’t sure Mama would ever get over that sting.
“Well ain’t you the prettiest wood sprite on Cambrit Street!” said Mama. “You done a good job gettin’ your face dirty.”
Buttercup preened. She had indeed rubbed just enough soot on her chin and nose to conceal the unearthly perfection of her banshee skin.
I finished my coffee while Buttercup made a game of running from Mama and her hairbrush.
Mama knew about the mastodons. Knew about the balloons. Knew about me and the slilth. I wondered if Mama had watched me cross the Brown River in four easy strides, had seen me grow or shrink as the whim struck me.
Buttercup darted beneath the table and slithered up into my lap, shedding her false wings in the process. Mama hooted in mock dismay.
“Boy, you’re in the way,” she said.
“One last thing, Mama. What is it these Ordwalds want from me?”
“They wants their daughter back.”
Mama nearly got a grip on Buttercup, but she took a banshee hop-step and got away.
“You said I couldn’t give them what they want,” I said.
“You can’t. She’s dead, boy. Dead and gone. I can see that much, plain as day.”
“You know I don’t take on revenge jobs, Mama. For any amount of coin.”
Mama paused, puffing and glaring. “I knows that, boy. But justice ain’t vengeance. That poor slip of a girl is dead but I fears she ain’t at rest. Just listen to them. That’s all I ask. Make up your own mind.”
I gently disentangled myself from Buttercup’s persistent grasp and made my way to Mama’s door. If a biscuit fell in my pocket, I’m sure that was nothing but chance.
“Thank ye kindly,” said Mama as Buttercup squirmed shrieking away. “I means it.”
My mouth worked but nothing came out. I nodded and got out of there just as Buttercup vanished through a wall.
Chapter Three
The sun was peeking over the rooftops along Cambrit Street when the knock came at my door.
Back in the day, when I lived in the tiny room behind the office, I’d have probably stumbled out of that room cussing and shedding bed-clothes. I’d have yanked the door open with a glare and a wary eye.
Not so these days. Gertriss keeps the desks clean and puts fresh fireflowers in a vase on both. Red for her, blue for me. The place smells of lilacs. Even Three-leg Cat adopts a posture of calm repose and refrains from breaking wind when clients come calling.
It’s a brave new world, I’m told, so I opened my door with a smile and a hearty “Good morning.”
“I tell thee plain, there is nothing good about it. Not a damn thing,” replied the man who’d just knocked. He kept his balled fist raised, in case something in the vicinity of my smile needed a good thumping. “You are Markhat? The finder?”
He pronounced ‘there’ as ‘zere’ and ‘the’ as ‘zee.’ I’d heard that accent before, during my stint in the Army, spoken by farm kids from the endless grassy plains out east.
“I am Markhat zee finder,” I replied. I let go of my smile, since he wasn’t having any. “Mama Hog send you?”
“Oh for Heaven’s sake, stop trying to bluff the man, Bertold,” chirped a voice from regions behind and beneath Bertold. “We did not come all this way to sell livestock.”
Bertold’s scowl went flush with red. I stepped back and motioned him inside.
“Have a seat,” I said. “We can talk.”
Bertold didn’t budge.
He was a big man. Not the kind of big we get around here, which is usually a combination of old country tall and new city fat. No, Bertold was tall and rangy and he might have a head of stark white hair and a fifty-year-old beard of the same snow-white hue, but his shirt and sleeves bulged and his neck was a mass of sun-tanned muscle lined with old healed scars.
I crossed my arms over my chest.
“I don’t know where you’re from, or how they do things there, but I do business in Rannit,” I said. “In Rannit, we sit down in my office and close the door and have nice private conversations which may or may not lead to a job. Mama vouched for you, and she makes a damned good biscuit, but I’m about to close my door and if you’re on the wrong side of it when it shuts, you can look for another finder, and good luck.”
I reached down and grasped my latch. The man’s piercing blue eyes glinted like chips of glacial ice but he didn’t so much as take a breath.
“Honestly,” chirped the female voice, and a tiny woman in a homespun bustle-skirt and an old-timey frontier bonnet swept past her giant, caught him by his belt-buckle, and dragged him bodily inside.
She was diminutive, but no less work-worn than the shuffling Bertold. Her hair was every bit as gray, and her face was lined with wrinkles, but she smiled up at me and most of the years fell away.
“Please forgive my husband’s stubbornness,” she said, still tugging at the behemoth’s belt. “I am Renilda Ordwald. My husband is named Bertold, and he’d have told you that himself if he had any manners.”
“That be enough, wife,” growled Bertold.
“No. It isn’t. You heard what Mrs. Hog said. This finder is our last and only hope, and here you are, giving insult.”
“No insult given,” I said. I pulled an extra chair around and put it in front of my desk. “People don’t come to see me unless they’ve walked through Hell itself. Please, Mr. Ordwald. Sit. You’ve come this far. I don’t charge for consultations.”
I knew at once I’d said precisely the wrong thing. His knuckles went white on the back of my chair. “You think I have no coin? You think I am a poor man?”
“I think the act of coming here and hiring help is making you angry,” I said. I sat, and Mrs. Ordwald did the same. “Which makes you a proud man. Nothing wrong with that. Unless it gets in the way of doing what needs to be done.”
Mrs. Ordwald bit her lip.
We let the silence linger. I clasped my fingers together behind my head and smiled at Mrs. Ordwald.
Finally, the giant let out his breath. His frame slumped, and he pulled out the chair and sank down into it.
Damned if he didn’t start bawling. Right there, in my office, crying without a sound. His chest heaved and he shook like a man elf-struck. Tears and snot rolled down his face and his neck but the man never uttered a sound.
His wife put her hand over his.
We waited until he was done. When he was done, we pretended we hadn’t seen.
I got out my note-pad and my fancy gold-plated ink pen.
“So tell me all about it,” I said. “Start at the beginning.”
“That damned carnival,” he said. His hands clenched into fists. “That damned carnival. Took my Alfreda.”
Dutifully, I wrote down her name. The action gave father Ordwald something to focus on.
“The carnival took her. How? When?”
“Three years ago, on the first day of fall,” said Mrs. Ordwald. She kept her hand on her husband’s. He didn’t meet my eyes and didn’t speak. “A good summer, we had,” she added. “Five thousand head of prime beef, we sold in the single day. The single day! It was my idea, Mr. M
arkhat. Take the children to the carnival. We’d all go, we would. All see the sights, eat too much and laugh at the clowns and go home full of candy apples and carnival pies.”
“Wasn’t your fault,” muttered Mr. Ordwald. “Was mine. Alfreda, she does not wish to go. Go you will, I say. Put on your finest, and get into the wagon.” He took in a breath and his chest trembled.
Before Mrs. Ordwald could refute him, I spoke up.
“What’s the name of the carnival?”
“Dark’s Diverse Delights,” said Mrs. Ordwald. “We have the waybills. The posters. At our hotel. If such things you want.”
I scribbled, remembering mastodons, seeing balloons bobbing in the dark.
“What does this man of the city know of them who travel by night?” asked Mr. Ordwald. His voice cracked as he spoke. “What does this man know of anything, outside his walls?”
“They travel by air, towed by Troll horses,” I said. “Thirteen balloons. I figure the whole outfit numbers around two hundred souls.”
“Two hundreds and seven and ten,” said Ordwald. He looked up at me for the first time. I’d taken a chance by describing the carnival from my dream-walk, but I’d impressed the man at last. “Two hundreds and seven and ten, not counting the dozen Ogres and the pair of half-breed Northish giants and a stunted Troll. And not a soul among them, finder of the city. Monsters, all. You mark my words. Monsters, to take my Alfreda.”
“So you took the kids to the carnival,” I said. “What happened? Walk me through it. I ask just one thing—tell me what you saw. Not what you think, or suspect, or surmise. Just what you actually saw.”
They nodded.
“Start that night of the carnival,” I said. “You’ve just parked the wagon. Who climbs out?”
Mrs. Ordwald spoke first. “We were five then. Orval. Bivel. Alfreda. They were with us.”
I wrote. “Orval and Bivel—sons or daughters?”
“Sons. Bivel died last year. Orval is working a lumberyard south of Prince.”
“Go on.”
“We went here and there,” said the father. “Clowns danced. Foolish, they were. Children, unruly, running about disorderly. There was music, tents, crowds. I caught Orval trying to sneak off into a devil woman’s veil-dance and I box his ears for him.”
“Ears boxed,” I said, when they both stopped talking. “Fine. Got it. Now tell me about the last time you saw your daughter.”
“They dare not take her at the carnival,” said Ordwald. “You think they dare? You think I let them lay hands on my little Alfreda?”
His wife managed to push down the fist he raised against me.
“We were leaving,” she said. “It was nearly midnight. We had our backs to the tents. We were laughing. Talking. Happy. For the last time.” She set her jaw and continued. “A man stepped out of the dark. Startled me, startled us all. But he was quick to speak, quick to set us all laughing again.”
“He was devil,” said Ordwald. “A prancing devil. I saw the evil in him, finder. Was I to be made the fool by his quick tongue? By his high speaking?”
“This devil have a name?”
Mrs. Ordwald nodded. “Thorkel. Ubel Thorkel. Master, he says, of the Dark Carnival. He gave us his card. Gave our Alfreda a single red fireflower. Thanked us for coming. Wished us a good night.”
“I saw how he looked at her, finder,” said Mr. Ordwald. “Oh, he was a clever man with clever words. But I see his eyes, and I see what he wants for my Alfreda, and I told him then and there he’d have none of her. Not that night, not any.”
“And how did he react?”
“He laughed, Mr. Markhat. He laughed, said he meant no offense. He bade us farewell.”
“Did he leave?” I asked.
“Yah. As quickly as he came,” said Mrs. Ordwald. “Slipped back into the shadows. Like the ghost, he was. Like the ghost.”
“Then what?”
“We went home,” she replied. “We took to our beds. We slept. When we awoke, Alfreda was gone, her bed empty. Her bedclothes scattered on the floor.”
“We have dogs,” said Mr. Ordwald. “Good dogs. Do they bark? Do they make a noise?”
“I’m guessing they did not,” I said.
“You tell me, man of the city. What manner of creature walks by night, unseen and unchallenged? What manner of creature can pass eleven Northland wolfhounds, each trained for the kill, and not raise an alarm?”
“No man I know,” I replied. “Your dogs. Would they have barked at your daughter, had she left in the night?”
I nearly got punched. It took all of Mrs. Ordwald’s strength to keep that angry, farm-fed fist still.
“The Sheriff, he asks the same,” said Mrs. Ordwald, quickly. “The answer is yes. They would have barked at Alfreda, but not attacked. They bark at anyone moving about after dark. Anyone at all.”
I nodded. “Your ranch. It’s how far from the closest road, and the nearest neighbor?”
“Twenty and six miles to the old king’s road,” muttered Mr. Ordwald. “Ten and two miles to the Sutter ranch.”
“The Sutters have no sons at home,” added Mrs. Ordwald, quickly. “The Sheriff asked that too.”
“Lost a tooth for his trouble, he did,” said Mr. Ordwald.
“Any of Alfreda’s clothes or personal items missing?”
Both Ordwalds shook their heads no. “Her hairbrush, it is on her dresser,” said Mrs. Ordwald. “All her shoes, her boots, are there. Her rings, her necklace, her angel pin. All there.”
“She is a good girl, Alfreda,” said Mr. Ordwald. “She does not go outdoors without her angel pin above her heart.”
“Did either of you notice Alfreda acting strange before that night? Giving things away? Getting letters or unusual visitors?”
“No,” they chorused. “None of these things.”
“You said she didn’t want to go to the carnival. Did she say why?”
Father Ordwald lowered his head. “I did not ask,” he said.
I stretched. Three-leg Cat came strolling in from the back, leapt atop Gertriss’s desk, and gave us all a good hard glare in turn.
With some people, silence spurs talk. Not the Ordwalds. They waited, jaws tight, faces blank. I wasn’t sure whether to keep asking questions or break into song.
“And you haven’t seen her since,” I said, returning Three-leg Cat’s glare.
“No one has. I have spent my fortune, finder, searching for my Alfreda. Sheriffs we have hired. Men of arms.”
“We have followed this carnival for three years,” added his wife. “To Weston. To Prince. To Bel Loit. To the Outlands, and back. We hire lawyers. Finders. None can bring us Alfreda.”
“So I have to ask,” I said. “What makes you so sure Alfreda was taken by the carnival?”
“I will tell it,” said Mrs. Ordwald. “Let me.”
Her husband nodded once.
“The carnival was gone when we first went there to search,” she said. “Nothing left but stakes and trash. But my husband, he takes two ranch-hands, two mules. They follow the Troll horse trail. Thirty days they follow, and they find the carnival near a place called Tomb Stones.” She licked her lips. Her nails were digging into the back of her husband’s hand. “My husband, he buys a ticket. He walks among the tents. There he finds our little girl.”
Mr. Ordwald made a choking sound.
“Men,” she said, in a whisper. “They paid to see her. On her tent, the placard reads ‘living dead girl.’”
“They do not just watch,” said Mr. Ordwald. He spoke the words slowly and precisely. “Men go inside, with her. Men come out. More go in. I take my whip, finder. I take my whip and—”
“They beat him nearly to death,” said his wife. “The ranch-hands find him in the woods. They think him dead too, until he stirs. My Bertold is not so easy to kill
.”
I watched the man’s face change from beet-red to corpse gray and I pondered the truth behind those words.
“Mr. Ordwald. You are sure you saw your daughter, that night?”
“I saw her. She was pale. So thin, how you say? Gaunt. Gaunt and white. Her eyes are black. She walks, but so clumsy.” He took his wife’s hand in his, and she gritted her teeth as he squeezed.
“She sees me, finder. At first I think her dead. But she sees me and she opens her mouth and she tries to scream.”
“Then?” I asked.
“Then nothing. I wake up in the woods. I cannot hear for many weeks. Cannot walk. My cattle men bring me home.”
“And you told all this to the Sheriff?”
He worked up a glob of spit and remembered his manners and swallowed it instead. “They go to see that devil of a carnival master. He blinds them with lies. All believe me a fool.” His wife wrenched her hand away. “I tell you, I am no fool. I saw her. She walked. Dead or alive, we will take Alfreda home.”
Mama’s words came creeping back to me. That poor slip of a girl is dead but I fears she ain’t at rest.
“Let’s start with places and names,” I said. “Every place you’ve followed this carnival to. Every finder, every man you hired. Names, dates, what they did or didn’t do.”
Mrs. Ordwald produced a sheaf of folded, dog-eared papers, and we got down to business.
Chapter Four
I bought three newspapers before I hired a cab to take me to the River Gate. The trip across town gave me plenty of time to read.
The Rannit Times had a month-long head start on its competitors, the City Daily and the Old Kingdom Crier. But the Daily was printing pictures, it was a full ten pages longer than either of the other two, and its ink didn’t smudge. I declared the City Daily my favorite of our newly-resurrected newspapers just as my cab rolled to a stop on the River Gate plaza. Aside from a pair of fishermen hawking catfish from a barrel, the plaza was empty.
