by Frank Tuttle
“Just heading for the Park,” Meralda replied. “Lunch aboard Celestia, you know.”
“Right, right, I’ll be there, if my schedule permits,” Mug said. “Well, we’re off. We’re teaching Bruce street names, showing him good places to land, updrafts, that sort of thing.” Mug turned a gaggle of eyes toward Donchen. “When are you going to get one of these metal monsters?”
“I prefer riding to driving.”
“Walking would be safer. Even the greybeards are scared to ride with her.” Mug’s coils buzzed, and he soared skyward. The crows followed, black wings flapping.
The traffic master waved Meralda ahead. She shoved the accelerator nearly to the floor, and her motorcar leaped past him.
She quickly caught up with Bruce, who was sunning himself on the flat roof of Mortimer’s Merchant Bank. A small crowd pointed and waved. Meralda was forced to weave her way slowly through them before racing once more for the Park.
She parked her motorcar at the gate. Both she and Donchen stowed their hats, scarves, and gloves before rushing past the smiling guards and into the Park.
Celestia shone in the sun. She was parked near the Tower, crowds milling about her landing legs. Blankets and picnic baskets lay in her long shadow. Ice-cream merchants rolled their carts amid the idlers, shouting out the flavors of their wares.
“I see the muralists are making good progress,” Donchen said. Meralda squinted in the sun and nodded.
Scaffolds rose up all along Celestia’s port side. The heat from the derelict had seared every bit of paint from Celestia’s hull, leaving silvery, mirror-bright hull metal exposed. Now a mob of Tirlin’s finest painters was working night and day to repaint her.
“I still think her untouched hull is lovely,” Meralda said.
“Well, she did insist.” Donchen paused, raising his hand to study the unfinished artwork adorning the ship’s hull.
At Celestia’s insistence, the artwork once again depicted a circus. The ship had provided images of her former crew to the artists so that each crewman and woman would be depicted when the work was complete.
“She’ll be beautiful.” Meralda stopped, leaning into Donchen. “I’m determined to see the stars again. No matter what the King says today.”
“I know,” Donchen replied. “I saw your void suit drawings. I only ask that mine include a tie. We are not savages, after all.”
Meralda laughed. “We’re late. We should hurry.”
“A Mage is always on time,” Donchen said, as he resumed his stroll. “Lesser persons are often early.”
Mug’s cage buzzed past, so close it brushed Meralda’s hair. The crows followed.
Meralda offered Donchen her arm. “Quite true.”
Donchen called for an ice cream vendor, and Meralda grinned.
* * *
Celestia’s galley was filled with conversation when the pair arrived.
“How good of you to join us, Mage,” King Yvin grumbled, after a prolonged look at his pocket watch. “I do hope we’re not imposing?”
Meralda shrugged, took a final lick of her ice cream cone, and then handed the rest to Donchen. “Not at all. Hello, Celestia.”
A chorus of greetings arose.
“I see we’re all here,” Meralda said. “Mug. Mother. Mr. Gliff. Mrs. Primsbite. Skoof, you devil. Good to see you.” Meralda spied the jabberwock, curled in a corner but close to her mother. She nodded to it and was surprised when it blinked back in response.
It’s never far from mother now, Meralda thought. Always at her side, just waiting. She shivered and looked away.
Jenkins, the Palace butler, emerged from the galley. “Mage. Mister Donchen. Lunch is ready. If you will be seated?”
Meralda and Donchen sat. The butler hurried away.
King Yvin stood. “You all know this is more than just a meal. I’m sure you all know why I asked to assemble here.”
“I can guess,” Mug replied. “My first column is to be printed tomorrow. You’ve read it, of course.”
“I have. What you plan to print over the course of the next few weeks will undermine our entire history.”
“What I plan to print is the truth.” Mug set his cage down on the table, between a bowl of mashed potatoes and a platter of sliced ham. “You know it is. Everyone in this room, save for Mr. Gliff, is descended from the survivors of the Hub war. Every single one of your great-great-great grandparents, many times removed, stepped off this very ship, some four thousand years ago.” Mug’s eyes converged on the King. “Now, did you come here to order us all to lie?”
The king’s cheeks went red. “Do you think so little of me?”
“It’s not you I distrust, but the crown.”
“Mug,” Meralda snapped. “You’re being rude.”
“I’m being blunt,” replied the dandyleaf plant. “I like you, Your Majesty. You’re smarter than you pretend to be. But if you’ve come here to demand that we conceal what we learned up there, I’ll tell you plain I won’t do it. Sorry, Mistress. But I won’t lie. Not even by omission.” Mug turned his eyes on Meralda. “You feel the same, do you not?”
Before Meralda could reply, King Yvin stood.
“Publish your columns, Mister Mug,” he said. “Meralda. All of you. Tell your stories, as you will. I am here to give you permission, to speak the truth. No. I am here to encourage you to tell the truth.”
Meralda looked to Donchen, who shared her expression of surprise. “I thought—” she began.
“You thought I’d insist we keep all this a secret,” King Yvin said. “As all my predecessors have done.” He smiled suddenly. “Oh, you thought this was a revelation? Mage, the deception was initiated by the first King. It was decided, after the defeat of Otrinvion, that the people were better off not knowing they were the children of a ragtag band of circus folk, who fled a place of monsters and discovered a world of magic.”
Stunned, Meralda searched for words. “You knew?”
“I knew very little. The records were destroyed, long ago. But. In a secret chamber, far below the palace, a machine of sorts sits. Every new King is shown this machine and told the story of a desperate flight from a magical ring. A tripping wheel, they call it. Now it all makes sense.”
“That’s why the Vonats dug in,” Meralda said. “Somehow they knew about the wheel. Knew the Hang were heading for it.”
King Yvin nodded and sat. “There’s a line of communication there, all right. So the Vonats expected the worst and hid. We’re done hiding. If this revelation incites unrest, well, it’s long overdue.”
Mrs. Primsbite spoke. “I had our Social division complete an evaluation of the likely impact on Tirlish society, should they learn the truth suddenly. Purely as a precaution, you understand. Their determination was that, aside from a brief fascination with circuses, there would be no social upheaval.”
“Good to know,” replied King Yvin. “I thought as much.”
Mr. Gliff cleared his throat. “I hope I’m not speaking out of turn. But from my point of view, you people have nothing to hide, and everything to be proud of. You’ve built a fine world here. I know my old shipmates would be proud, every one of them.”
“So I can publish,” Mug said. “Without censure.”
“That’s what I just said,” King Yvin replied. “We came here as outcasts, with little more than the clothes on our backs. We survived. We flourished. That’s the truth I want people to carry. Mage? Mrs. Primsbite? Any objections?”
“None,” said Mrs. Primsbite and Meralda, together.
“Good. Now that’s out of the way. Mage. The Hang seem determined to send another fleet to the Hub. I can’t stop them, but I’d sleep better if you can assure me these Mag are well and truly dead.”
“Nothing biological survived the heat. Of that, I am sure.”
“What if they hid inside one of the derelicts?”
“Then they died indoors. Skoof agrees. There simply was no safe space, even if they had time to try and prepare one. Whic
h they did not.”
“I hope you’re right,” said King Yvin. “We are planning no expeditions to the Wheel at this time.” He paused and grinned. “We have other matters to attend.”
Meralda’s stomach churned. “Other matters,” she said, keeping her tone carefully neutral. “What might those be?”
“Why, the establishment of the Void Corps, of course.” King Yvin leaned forward, his eyes bright with mischief. “We’re going to build voidships of our own. We’re going to explore the worlds of our system first, while we get the hang of things. When we’re ready, we’re going to go beyond our own sun. Then perhaps we’ll return to the wheel. But not to loot or pick through wrecks. We’ll go as traders and explorers and, who knows, maybe even as circus folk.” The King winked. “What do you think of that, Mage?”
“I’m a bit astonished,” said Meralda, carefully. She wondered if her surprise was evident on her face.
“Good,” King Yvin said. “For the time being, the Void Corps will be under the direction of the Royal Thaumaturge. That’s you. I assume you have a few ideas concerning the design of void ships?”
“She’s been sketching them since the moment we got home,” Mug noted. “I’ve been helping.”
“So we’re going back out there?”
“I’ll take that as an acceptance of your new duties,” said Yvin. “I’ve arranged a meeting with your new staff for you tomorrow. Right now, let’s eat. Can’t explore the cosmos on an empty stomach, now can we?”
Jenkins appeared, a bevy of waiters behind him. Plates were set down, one in front of Meralda.
Donchen poked her gently in her side. “Chicken again. One would think the new head of the Void Corps would rate a steak.”
“Void ships,” Meralda whispered in reply. “We’re really going.” Her mind raced, already fixed on the worst of the dozens of design issues she’d identified while idly sketching out plans.
“Celestia can help, dear,” said Donchen, chuckling. “Not that you’ll need much help.”
“She’ll need none at all,” said her mother. She lifted her glass to Meralda. “Well done, daughter. Think of the things you’ll see.”
Meralda smiled and lifted her glass in return.
* * *
Much later, Meralda and Donchen strolled through the Park.
The sun was setting. The sky was bathed in crimson, and a light breeze blew. The crowds beneath Celestia thinned while the vendors packed up their carts. Painters still worked on Celestia’s hull, moving back and forth along the scaffolds while musicians played.
“I still can’t believe it,” Meralda said. “I was sure he’d order us to keep quiet. Sure he’d demand that we take Celestia back to the Hub. All those artifacts. All the machines. Just lying there, waiting to be taken.”
Donchen shrugged. “As was I. But there’s more to the King than meets the eye. Certainly, my countrymen may return from the Hub with a few baubles, a working tool or two. But think of what we’ll learn, out there.” He looked at the sky. “That’s the wiser course. Look to the future, not the distant past.”
He and Meralda both spied her mother and Mr. Gliff amble past in the distance. They laughed and talked, neither apparently troubled by the jabberwock, which followed them. It wore a jaunty feathered hat, which Meralda was sure her mother had placed upon its head.
Meralda shivered. Donchen put his arm around her. “She’s quite safe. I believe it means her no harm.”
“But it just follows her,” Meralda said. “Follows. Waits. It’s unnerving.”
“She doesn’t seem troubled. I believe she even enjoys the notoriety.”
“She might. Oh. I appoint you Void Corps Special Consultant.” She winked. “An unpaid but unfortunately mandatory post.”
“Drafted!” Donchen cried, in mock dismay. “Woe is me! Shall I assume I will be dragged aboard some outlandish flying machine and flung out into the heavens at your side?”
“Precisely.” Meralda halted and turned to Donchen.
“Oh, bother.” Mug dropped close, his eyes darting as he spied the crows soaring past. “There’s no kissing in those void suits you drew, Mistress. I for one can hardly wait to see them in use.” He plunged his levers ahead, and sped off after the crows, shouting.
Donchen touched Meralda’s cheek. “We’d best use the time we have.”
Celestia switched on her exterior lamps for the painters. Meralda and Donchen kissed in her light as the stars, one by one, began to shine.
Other Tuttle Titles
Look for these titles by Frank Tuttle
THE MARKHAT FILES:
Three Mean Streets
Hold the Dark
The Banshee’s Walk
The Broken Bell
Brown River Queen
The Five Faces
The Darker Carnival
Way Out West
THE PATHS OF SHADOW:
All the Paths of Shadow
Every Turn of Light
COMING SOON
The Devil’s Horn (A Markhat Adventure)
A Gun For Sorcerer (A Darla Adventure)
FRANK’S WEBPAGE:
www.franktuttle.com
FRANK’S EMAIL:
[email protected]
Three Mean Streets
Book 1 of The Markhat Files
Enjoy the following excerpt from Three Mean Streets:
Noon found me standing at the edge of a fresh-dug grave. Sunlight mocked and set the blue jays to singing, but couldn’t quite reach the Sarge’s casket, no matter how hard the sun shone.
I crumbled a damp clod of earth, let it fall.
We’d lived through the War, the Sarge and I. Lived through the three-month siege at Ghant. Lived through the fall of Little Illa. Lived through two years in the swamps. I’d once seen the Sarge snatch an arrow out of the air and shove it in a charging Troll’s eye, and now he was dead after slipping and falling in a public bath.
“Bye, Sarge,” I said. “You deserved better.”
I met an Orthodox priest as I walked away. He dipped his red mask in greeting and slowed to a traipse, but I fixed my eyes on a big old pin oak and marched past. I’d said all my words, and had no use for his.
I was halfway to the cemetery gates when Mama Hog stepped out of the shadow of a poor man’s headstone and planted herself squat and square in my path.
And that’s when it started. I knew before she spoke what she was going to say. And I knew that I should have just keep walking, ignoring her like I did the priest, ignoring everything and everybody except a bar-keep named One-Eyed Eddie and his endless supply of tall, cold glasses. The Sarge was dead and I turned forty with the sunrise and the Hell with everything else.
But I stopped. “What is it, Mama?” I said, gazing out over the neat, still ranks of sad-eyed angels and tall white grave-wards. “Come to pick out a spot?”
Mama grinned up at me with all three of her best teeth.
“Come to find you, boy,” she said. “Come to send you some business.”
“The only kind of business I need now is the kind Eddie runs,” I said. “Anything else can wait.”
Mama frowned. “This ain’t any old business,” she said, shaking a stubby finger at my navel. “This is Hill business.”
Behind us, the first spade of dirt hit the Sarge’s coffin with a muted, faraway thump.
“Hill business,” I said. “One of your rich ladies need a finder?”
Mama’s humble card-and-potion shop does a brisk business. All those sleek black carriages that hurry to her door disgorge Hill ladies hiding behind cloaks and veils even in the dead heat of summer. I don’t know how Mama attracts such well-heeled clients, but she does, and more than twice a week.
Mama Hog cackled. “Rich widow, boy. Rich widow.” She grinned and shook her head. “She needs more than a finder, I reckon, but you’re the best I can do.”
The thump-thumps of earth on coffin came faster now. I squinted toward the gate, not wanting the Sarge�
�s widow to catch me in the graveyard. Outsiders aren’t welcome at Orthodox funerals, and the service would begin as soon as the coffin lid was fully covered with earth.
I sighed. “Let’s walk, Mama,” I said. “You can tell me on the way.”
Thump-thump. Another shovel rose and fell.
“He was a good man, your Sergeant,” said Mama. She fell in step beside me. “No words taste more bitter than goodbye.”
“Tell me about my new client, Mama,” I said. “What’s her name, how high up the Hill is her house, and what does she want me to do about her dear sweet Nephew Pewsey and that awful conniving gypsy girl?”
Mama Hog chuckled. “Her name,” she said, “is Merlat.”
Behind us, after a while, I heard the Sarge’s widow start to cry.
The Widow Merlat sat across from me, breathed through her scented silk hanky, and did her best to make it plain she wasn’t one of those Hill snobs who think of us common folk as mere servant-fodder. No, I was all right in her book—not a human being like her, of course, but as long as I kept my eyes on the floor and knocked the horse flop off my boots, I’d be welcome at her servant’s entrance any day.
“You come highly recommended, goodman Markhat,” she said, daring Rannit’s unfashionable south-side air long enough to lower her hanky while she spoke. “The most capable, most experienced finder in all of Rannit. I’m told you are discreet, as well. I would not be here otherwise.”
I sighed. My head hurt and I still had cemetery dirt on my shoes. I did not need to have my face rubbed in my humble origins by a Hill widow who doubtlessly thought her son was the first rich boy to ever take a fancy to the half-elf parlor maid.
“I’m also told you are expensive,” said the widow. She plopped a fat black clutch purse down on my desk, and it tinkled, heavy with coin. “Good,” she added. “I’ve never trusted bargains, nor shopped for them. Money means nothing to me.”
