The Darker Carnival (The Markhat Files)

by Frank Tuttle

  Wheels began to turn. “And the other half of this nautical enterprise?” I asked. “Would that perhaps be Gertriss and Evis?”

  “Gertriss and Mama,” Darla said. “Evis isn’t involved. Just us girls. We call it Riverside Estates, and we plan to only admit the better class of people.” She looked me up and down. “Though we may on rare occasions make exceptions.”

  I flopped flat on my back on the bed.

  “So I live on a houseboat named Dasher,” I said. “Do we have a crew? Cannons? A full-time barkeep?”

  She lay back and cuddled close. “No, no, and hell no,” she said. “But we have a steam engine, two full decks, hot and cold running water, a claw-footed brass tub, a kitchen, and a rail I painted white so it looks like a picket fence.”

  “We’ll have to learn boat things,” I said. “Port and aft. Stern and abandon ship.”

  “Hush,” she said.

  “Hush, Captain,” I admonished.

  A pillow struck my face. Other pillows flew. Sheets joined the fray. Neither of us heard the knocking at the door until it became a pounding.

  I made sure my bath-robe was securely belted and opened the door. Jerle, Avalante’s dour day man, greeted me with a solemn nod.

  “Mr. Prestley wishes to speak with you,” he said. “Clothing is being procured, and will arrive shortly.”

  “Thanks, Jerle,” I said. Reading the man’s face was like trying to peer through the Brown’s muddy water all the way to the bottom. “Is he any better? Any worse?”

  “Good day, sir,” he said, and closed the door.

  Darla emerged from her cocoon of bed-linens. “That didn’t sound good,” she said.

  “Jerle is professionally gloomy,” I replied. “Pay him no attention.”

  I shaved and combed my hair. Having been procured, clothes arrived. They were more or less my size, and if I ever decided to enter the fascinating world of mortuary services I now had the perfect suit for the job.

  They brought Darla a matching black outfit, with an ankle-length skirt instead of pants and a black pillbox hat draped with fine black lace. She was still changing when I left. Considering the shape we’d last seen Evis in, neither of us made any undertaker jokes out loud.

  I made my way to Evis’s office alone. I fit right in with the halfdead I met in the halls. My new shoes surprised me by being quiet as I walked.

  His door was shut, but before I could even raise my hand to knock I was invited inside. The voice wasn’t Evis’s, but it called me by name, so in I went.

  “Damn,” I said, as my eyes adjusted to the dark.

  “Damn,” I repeated, because no other word seemed to suffice.

  Evis was laid in a steel-framed bed. The bed rested on wheels. Surrounding him was a bewildering variety of what I assumed was medical gear—there were bags of clear liquid draining into tubes and tubes draining into Evis. Devices glowed and chirped and clicked about him. A pair of white-coated human doctors paced to and fro, frowning at this or fiddling with that.

  Evis was propped up in the bed, breathing slowly, his eyes covered with dark spectacles.

  I moved toward him, keeping my hands well away from my pockets.

  A pair of silent black shadows appeared at both my elbows.

  “Easy, gents. I’m just concerned. Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  A slim halfdead, shorter and slighter of build than even Evis, stepped out of the dark behind Evis’s desk.

  “My name is Cord,” he said. His voice was soft and unhurried. I heard a faint accent, but it wasn’t one I could place. “I’ll be speaking on Mr. Prestley’s behalf, as he is unable to conduct extended conversations.”

  One of the doctors held a long syringe up to the room’s only dim light.

  “Is he dying? Evis, can you hear me?”

  Evis stirred. He tried to speak, failed, and wound up giving me a weak thumbs-up before his arm fell limp across his chest.

  “Sit, Mr. Markhat. Mr. Prestley has instructed me to explain his condition. To answer your question, at this moment we are cautiously optimistic that he will survive. Please. Sit.”

  I sat. The halfdead who’d called himself Cord came around to the front of Evis’s desk and propped against it, facing me. Part of me was glad he hadn’t taken Evis’s seat at his desk.

  “Ten weeks ago, Mr. Prestley began an experimental medical treatment designed to modify the condition you call vampirism. His state today is the result of this treatment.”

  I cussed. I didn’t need Cord’s calm voice to explain why Evis had done such a damned fool thing. We’d all of us wondered how and when he and Gertriss would face the inescapable dilemma any half human, half vamp couple would face. Either one party turns, or the other party watches their love age and die.

  “So Evis made himself a third option,” I muttered.

  Cord just nodded, as if he heard my thoughts.

  “Doesn’t look like the treatment is going well,” I said.

  “On the contrary. His vital functions are returning to normal. Barring another setback, it appears he will recover.”

  “Recover? As halfdead, or garden-variety working-class mortal?”

  Cord smiled, keeping his lips closed over his sharp white teeth. “As neither,” he said. “His appearance will be nearly human. He will be able to tolerate sunlight without discomfort. He will retain much of his enhanced speed and agility. Most importantly, his lifespan will not only be maintained, but extended even further.”

  I remember how warm Evis’s hand had been, when we’d shaken hands a few days prior.

  He didn’t have a fever.

  He was just regaining the warmth he’d been born with.

  Cord let me think for a moment, before he continued.

  “While I believe Mr. Prestley will recover, he has named you his executor, should events take an unseemly turn,” he said. He produced an envelope from his coat pocket, and handed it to me. “He wishes that this remain sealed, unless he perishes. Then its contents will be self-explanatory.”

  I took the envelope. It was heavy and thick and I put it quickly away.

  “I’ll do whatever you ask,” I said, loud enough that Evis could hear if he was conscious. “And I’ll do right by Gertriss. But you’d do much better by her, so don’t you dare die.”

  I got no reply from Evis.

  Cord adjusted his tie. “It is the matter of Miss Hog that concerns Mr. Prestley most,” he said. “She is only aware that Evis is ill. She knows nothing of the treatment, or its intent.”

  I bit back a response. One thing I’ve learned about keeping secrets from the ones you love to protect them is this—don’t.

  Lying by omission never ends well, even when it does.

  “Mr. Prestley asks that you reveal nothing of this, unless his demise makes it necessary.”

  “Mr. Prestley is a damned fool, but I knew that already. Fine. Mum’s the word, unless my hand is forced. Can I ask a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Did Evis start this treatment with the blessing of the House, or did he do it on his own?”

  “Mr. Prestley showed his usual initiative.”

  “Angels and Devils. How much trouble is he in, if he lives?”

  “There will be consequences. But if the treatment is successful, the House will add a priceless medical miracle to its vaults.”

  I whistled. They’d add more than that, I realized—Hell, they’d be able to offer something like immortality for sale.

  My jaw went suddenly slack, when I realized who Evis intended to offer this new treatment to first.

  Gertriss. Of course. If she were turned, and then treated, she and Evis could enjoy centuries of premarital bliss as more or less human rich folks.

  “Mama Hog is going to explode,” I said.

  Cord
smiled. “Indubitably. Hence the need for discretion. Mr. Prestley regrets he will be unable to join you in your efforts against the carnival.”

  “I hardly expect him to wheel that rolling bed into the woods,” I said. “Tell him thanks, when he wakes up. And tell him he owes me a beer. Again.”

  “I will do so, sir. While I lack the authority to order the full force of the House to assist you, a small number of Mr. Prestley’s close associates have volunteered to see that Miss Hog remains safe during the conflict. I believe you know Victor and Sara?”

  I nodded. I knew them, not well, but we’d fought together more than once, and I didn’t doubt for a moment their ferocious loyalty to Evis.

  “A pair of rotary guns and a brace of experimental cannon await you as well. The wagon is at The Cat and Fiddle.” Cord straightened. “We have not met, sir, but any friend of Mr. Prestley is also a friend of mine. If there is any additional service I can render, you have but to ask.”

  I rose. “Just get him up and griping,” I said. “Good to know he has friends here.”

  Cord nodded curtly and glided away.

  I let myself out, already building the lies I’d need to tell Gertriss.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gertriss still slept, according to Jerle. She had left instructions to be awakened promptly at three in the afternoon.

  By half-past two, Darla and I were halfway across the Brown River Bridge, laughing at the bridge clowns as they capered and dodged. Darla had asked once if Evis was any better. I’d told her I couldn’t honestly tell, and she’d nodded and left it alone.

  I started to spill the whole works, but decided not to implicate Darla in the lie. Instead, we drove to Cambrit Street, picked up Cornbread from Mama’s shuttered card and potion shop, and then we did not steer for Middling Lane.

  Darla didn’t speak about the fire. We fussed over Cornbread and I had the driver head for the Riverside Estates, because a man should visit his boat at least once before he charges off to do battle with necromancing carnival devils.

  Give credit to Darla, Riverside was nice. Not large or fancy—the whole property didn’t occupy quite a city block—but there were fresh-laid cobblestone sidewalks and a garden that would be beautiful in a couple of years and benches and boat-houses and a promising stand of young blood-oak trees.

  There was a place for cabs and carriages to pull beneath a roof, so we did. A pair of grinning lads appeared and tended to our ponies. Both boys knew their manners, and not once did I get the impression they were sizing me up to decide where a brick might be best laid across the back of my skull.

  From the cab awning to the wharfs was a three-minute stroll. The garden curved artfully along the way. There would be shade beneath the trees, about the time Darla and I were both gray and prone to shuffle.

  Four wide cypress wharfs stretched out over the Brown. Slips extended from each, and eight tidy, squat houseboats rode the lazy Brown, bobbing gently in the nearly-still waters.

  “We can accommodate sixteen boats,” said Darla, smiling. “We’ve already sold two of the vacant slips. Other boats are being built, and should be mooring next month.”

  “What are you charging each boat for rent?” I asked.

  She told me. I whistled in heartfelt awe.

  “Why am I still working? Hon, that’s—” I did math in my head, feeling my jaw drop as the numbers added up. “That’s more than I make in a year. A good year.”

  “Well, we still have to make payments on the lot,” she said. “But even after that, we’re flush.”

  I hugged her. She laughed and wriggled out of my embrace. Cornbread danced at our feet, caught up in our happy tones and adding merry little yips of his own.

  “Come see Dasher,” she said. “I hope you like her.”

  “Which one is she?”

  Darla laughed. “The biggest one, of course,” she said, pointing. “There.”

  I managed to keep walking.

  Dasher was no Brown River Queen, but she was no rowboat, either. Paddle-wheels hung from both port and starboard, each amidships, each painted a cheery yellow that shone in the sun. A single white smoke-stack rose up from her deck, as did a two-story house that could well have been plucked from Middling Lane itself.

  We had a slate roof. We had windows. A railed porch wrapped around the entire upper story. Her decks extended well beyond our living quarters to the fore, and a good ten feet aft. Something like a patio occupied both spaces, complete with benches and new cedar chairs and even what looked like an outdoor grill.

  We both stood on the wharf—our wharf—and took Dasher in.

  “She burn wood or coal?” I asked.

  “Either. In the winter, the boilers can heat us, even if we’re docked. The windows open in the summer. We even have ceiling fans, like the ones at Avalante.”

  “Hot water, you said?”

  “The water will stay hot for three days without a fire,” said Darla, beaming. “Dasher is, and I’m quoting an earnest young engineer, a marvel.”

  I nodded. “I didn’t know Avalante was building houseboats.”

  “Avalante is building everything,” said Darla. “Or they own the firms that are. Shall we go inside?”

  “We shall,” I said, taking her hand. “Cornbread, you are now Chief Executive Dog. Lead the way.”

  He barked and scampered ahead, toenails clicking on the fresh-cut cedar.

  Darla and I followed, and as simple as that, Dasher became home.

  We didn’t have any furniture. No clothes, either, or toiletries. Worst of all, there was an icebox, but no ice, and no beer.

  Nevertheless, we settled in. Darla has the same eye for rooms she does for clothes. Our upper deck is lined with windows to the fore. We sat on the bare clean plank floor and watched the lazy sun drift across the lazier river and we talked about red rugs and brown couches and the best place to put a small table for Darla’s reading lamp.

  Cornbread snoozed between us.

  I’d walked on the moon, not many hours before, but it’s our first afternoon aboard Dasher I’ll remember to my end.

  We let the sun sink low, let the shadows grow long. Then we roused Cornbread and let him piddle into the Brown, an act which seemed to amuse him greatly. Then we locked Dasher up tight and roused our driver and started back for Avalante.

  “Should we take Cornbread back to Mama’s?” asked Darla. Cornbread rested in her lap, his bright mutt eyes alert.

  “Nope. He’s going with us. Someone found our house. If they found Middling Lane, they might find Mama’s.”

  “Do you think Avalante will mind?”

  “Probably. But they’re too polite to make much of a fuss. If he chews on an ottoman I’ll buy them a new one.”

  “You’re planning on going back to the carnival tonight, aren’t you?” asked Darla, after a while.

  “You know the plan. Nothing happens until tomorrow evening.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “That’s because I honestly haven’t decided yet,” I replied. “Will I ask Sara and Victor to sneak a peek from a safe distance, and report back with what they see? Yes. We need to know how the carny folk are dealing with their losses, whether they’re pulling up stakes and packing or digging in for a siege.”

  “That makes sense. What wouldn’t make sense is you joining them.”

  “You’re right about that. I’d only slow them down.”

  “You’re agreeing with me,” said Darla. “I find that suspicious. What are you up to?”

  What was I up to, indeed?

  My next course of action was obvious. I’d dream-walk right into the carnival, just as I had on my last ethereal visit. Of course this time Victor and Sara would also be lurking in the woods, to provide later confirmation that what I saw in my dream-walk was actually taking place.

&nbs
p; I’d watch. I knew I couldn’t interfere, couldn’t grow into a giant and wipe the carnival from the land with a single brush of my mighty giant hand, but if I could walk unseen among them, maybe I could find the black tent again, and have some idea of where to go when our assault began in earnest.

  “Cat got your tongue?” asked Darla.

  “Not at all,” I lied. “Victor and Sara will go. Maybe a few more, if we have any volunteers among Evis’s halfdead pals. But not me. You and I will have our hands full anyway, keeping Gertriss sane.”

  Darla gave me the same look Stitches had turned on me when I omitted mention of gobbling up stray Elves.

  “So no sneaking out of Avalante after dark? No clandestine boat rides, no hiding under mastodons?”

  “I’ll be in bed,” I said. “All night. With a woman.” I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively. “There should be room for you too, if you care to join us.”

  “Bite him, Cornbread,” she said. The tiny mutt yapped at me with all the menace of a lapel flower.

  Well done, said a tiny voice in the back of my mind. She suspects nothing.

  I pretended to smile all the way to Avalante’s door.

  Gertriss was in the midst of a one-woman rebellion.

  She had Jerle trapped in a corner and a perplexed halfdead I didn’t recognize held fast by his elbow. I knew and he knew he could brush her aside as easily as an Ogre can trot through cobwebs, but he merely stood there and regarded Gertriss with the blankest of pale-skinned stares.

  “You will take me to him right this instant,” said Gertriss. “Right this damned instant, do you hear me?” She saw Darla and me, and stabbed a finger in Jerle’s face. “Tell him, boss! Tell this butler we’re going to see Evis, right now.”

  “I can’t do that, Miss Hog,” I said as gently as I could. “We need a moment alone. Let Jerle out of the corner. Him and his friend have sudden urgent business elsewhere. Isn’t that right, sirs?”

  “I’ll let go when they show me Evis.”

  “You’ll let go right now, Gertriss. I’ve got to tell you some things, and you aren’t going to like them, and you damned well don’t want an audience. You either trust me or you don’t. Which is it?”