I sighed.
“Maybe. Maybe not. If there’s a boat left in Rannit, I might just put Tamar on it. South’s be a good place to be, when the war starts.”
“Evis?”
“It’s ready, hon. Everything we talked about. Whether it’s going to work or not—Hell. I just don’t know.”
She just nodded. That’s one thing I love about her. She isn’t afraid of letting a silence have its say.
I finished my cider while Mary fussed about my damp shirt and insisted I change before I catch my death of cold. I reminded her that war and mayhem were the order of the day, and catching death by cold seemed an unlikely prospect, but then my traitor nose issued forth a great sneeze and I was ushered, cider and all, into the back room where I was instructed to bathe and change into dry, borrowed clothes forthwith.
I was damp, and I did smell of the nether reaches of the Brown, so bathe and change I did. When I emerged, splendid in my new garments and smelling unfortunately of Darla’s preferred lilac soap, I emerged into the company of Darla, who had changed into black pants, a sturdy black shirt and tall, black riding boots while maintaining a steady conversation with me through Mary’s back room door.
“Oh no,” I began. “You are staying right here. No argument. No negotiation. No sweet talk, my sweet.”
She pressed a sword in my hand. To this day, she won’t reveal where she came to own a custom-made Beget steel blade. The hilt of a dagger peeked up from the top of her right boot.
“For all we know, the walls will be down by midnight,” she said. “A mob could come swarming up my street any moment. Or soldiers. Or whatever horror those wand-wavers unleash.”
“I’m not going to let that happen.”
She smiled. “I know you’re not. Which is why I’m going with you.”
“You’ve got three soldiers and a good strong door here.”
“I’d rather have you. Where I can see you. If the walls come down, that’s where I want to be. With you.”
“Darla. It isn’t safe.”
“No. It isn’t.” She crossed her arms and did not smile.
There are moments, small moments, on which larger matters rest.
“Damn it all, anyway.” I shook my head. “We’re going to see Tamar. That part of town should be free of looters and fires. It might not be free of Lethway’s goons or Stricken’s killers. Anyone looks at you crossways, you duck, is that clear?”
Darla smiled.
“Ye ain’t quite as dumb as ye look,” said Mary.
I sneezed again, and sword in hand, took Darla out into the city.
I left my trio of well-fed soldiers with Mary and a warning that if I caught them resting their boots under a table again they’d find themselves leading a three-man charge against the foe armed only with apple pies and mugs of cider.
Darla sat behind me, her arms tight around my chest. I spurred the mare downtown, and she took advantage of the empty streets by breaking into a surprisingly fast trot.
I had fully expected to find the hotel deserted. Instead, I found it filled to capacity and fully staffed.
My old friend from a few days ago was even at his station behind the counter.
Darla and I marched up. He eyed her up and down and lifted an eyebrow.
“Mister, you just love trouble, don’t you?”
“She’s my sister.”
Darla smiled angelically. “He knows better than to say aunt.”
“I’m here to see the missus.”
“Then you’re a little late, mister. The missus checked out first thing this morning. Kid too.”
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow.
“What? When?”
“First thing, like I said. She paid up and left.”
“Was she alone?”
I guess I put a little too much army into my voice. The clerk took a nervous step backward, and Darla slipped a hand on my shoulder.
“He’s just anxious to make sure she’s safe,” cooed Darla. “All this trouble, you know. Everyone is so nervous these days.”
“Like I said, your kid was with her. He took her bags.”
I forced myself to breathe.
“Thanks. Sorry. Been a rough few days.” I let a coin make a pleasant rattle on the counter. “Anything else?”
Darla beamed at him.
The coin vanished.
“Let me check.”
He darted off to confer with his fellow workers. Darla squeezed my hand.
“Someone might have dragged her out of here, kicking and screaming, but if she just walked out, she meant to,” said Darla.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The clerk reappeared, a wax-sealed envelope in his hand.
“She left this for you.”
I took it from him, opened it, and read.
I’ve found Carris,
it read
. He’s hurt, but alive. I’m taking him somewhere safe, and I think it’s best that no one knows where we are. I’m not sure what you did, Mr. Markhat, but I am grateful. Please don’t look for us. We can’t trust anyone now, least of all our families. We’re together again, and we’re making our own decisions, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.
Darla read it as I did.
“How?”
I shoved the letter in my pocket. “The kid. Betrayed by my own son. Oh, how sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”
I gave the clerk a last good glare. “You see which way they went?”
“Out the door is all I know.”
I took Darla’s hand and out that same door we went.
“So the child you hired to play the role of your son was the one watching the Fields’s home.”
“Child? Huh. Treacherous little thief is more like it. Had to be. Tamar knew Carris would come looking for her if by some chance he got free. So Tamar paid the kid to watch the house. Kid sees bloody shirtless Carris arrive, then sees him leave dressed and patched up. I figure the kid caught Carris leaving, told him Tamar was hiding downtown, and then cleaned him out giving up the address. Or maybe he did the same to Tamar, or both. Conniving little bastard.”
“Can you find him?”
I shook my head. “Not likely. And even if I did, I doubt Tamar told him where she was taking Carris. I’m sure she didn’t. Because if she did, he’d have already found me, eager to give them both up for a handful of change.”
Darla nodded.
We’d sought refuge in a tiny deserted park ringed by the big buildings downtown. My borrowed mare munched happily next to the No grazing of horses here sign. Handbills and bits of trash scampered past in the wind, each one proclaiming a more horrific and devastating war than the last.
Neither of us acknowledged any of them.
An eerie silence gripped the town. Eerie because I’d never heard Rannit quiet in the daytime before. Eerie because even after Curfew the streets never felt so dead, so abandoned, so alone.
Darla shivered. I had my arm around her and her head was buried in my shoulder but she shivered anyway, right there in the sun.
“What do we do now?”
I shrugged. “Loot? You like jewelry, don’t you?”
She pinched my elbow.
“Tamar. Carris. The case. I’m still a client, you know.”
“Speaking of which. I don’t recall ever being paid.”
“I pay you in hats and kisses.”
“I could use one of each right now.”
She looked up at me, her eyes big and dark.
“I’m all out of hats.”
“Caterers.” The word rose out of some dim but industrious part of my mind. “Do you know any of the ones Darla was using?”
“You were supposed to suggest kisses just now, light of my heart.”
“And I shall. Soon. But, hon, tell me this. What do you think Tamar is doing, right this moment?”
“Shushing Mr. Tibbles?”
“The wedding. Hon, she’s going ahead with the wedding.”
Darla blinked.
“Rannit is at war,” she said slowly. “There’s chaos in the streets. Her fiancé is wounded and sick.”
“And you really think Tamar Fields is going to let any of that put a stop to her wedding?”
“She mentioned the florist. Canter’s, I think. Or Carter’s.”
“They’ve got be downtown. Probably right around here.”
“That might be so, hon. But look. No one is doing business today.”
I frowned. She was right. We might find the shops, but we’d also find them shuttered and closed.
We both thought of it at the same instant. Our smiles were sudden and wide.
There’s one place that never closes, come war or wrack, dark or doom.
“She’s pestering the priests,” said Darla.
“Badgering the bishops.”
“Hounding the hands.”
“Nothing rhymes with fathers.”
“Bothers does,” said Darla. She rose. “You must promise not to blaspheme in the church, dear. We might wish to married some day too, you know.”
“I’ll keep a civil tongue, just for you.”
“Liar.” She whistled, and damned if the mare didn’t trot right up to us and whinny.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Broken Bell hangs in Wherthmore’s southernmost belfry. Since Tamar intended to be pronounced Carris’s wife on the last peal of the Broken Bell’s afternoon ringing, I didn’t need to bother with visits to any of the other Church mainholds.
Which was good, in that it saved time. And bad, in that it dictated another visit to Wherthmore.
I’m not welcome at Wherthmore in the same way sewer rats are not welcome at the Regent’s tea parties. Something to do with blasphemy. Threatening a body of Holy Hands with violence may have played a role as well.
Laying the actions of a vampire blood cult at a renegade Wherthmore priest’s feet certainly didn’t help matters. I’d led Avalante and a mob of New People right to Wherthmore’s metaphorical altar, and even though all parties involved had thus far kept the ruckus secret I was not high on the prayer list at Wherthmore. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. I suspected it was only my association with Avalante that prevented me from suffering a fatal fall on a patch of rare summer ice in the days immediately following my rescue of Martha Hoobin, a year or so ago.
So as Darla and I charged down empty streets, I concocted and abandoned half a dozen schemes to get past the priests at the door and into the office of someone high enough in the ranks to help.
I was no closer to a brilliant strategy at the end of the ride than at the beginning.
When I saw a mob of red-robed Church acolytes move to close Wherthmore’s big doors at the mere sight of me, I decided to employ reason and calm discussion in the form of just charging the horse up the steps and inside the Church.
Darla screamed but held on tight. The mare, which I had suspected was a bit apostate herself, hunched her neck down and charged, sparks flying from her iron shoes, right amongst the acolytes.
They scattered, tumbling and shrieking, red robes flapping. The church doors burst open, and I added stampeding warhorses over holy thresholds to my lengthy list of sins.
Priests came running out of doors and fled back into them just as quickly. Darla laughed, a wild loud laugh, and I saw her pull her dagger from her boot as the mare trotted between rows of pews.
“Tell Father Foon his old friend Markhat is here to see him,” I shouted. “Tell him if he’s not here soon I’ll come find him myself.”
Darla buried a laugh in my back.
A priest appeared in a doorway. The red mask he held before his face was shaking in his hand.
“How dare you.”
“I dare plenty. You’re not Father Foon.”
“The Father is away on Church business.”
“You mean he headed South at the first hint of trouble.”
A younger priest tugged the first man aside. This young one kept his mask lowered.
“Are you mad?”
“Not yet. But I will be soon.” I let the mare trot forward a couple of steps. “If Father Foon is hightailing it for the Sea, I’ll speak to someone else. Who’s in charge of matters matrimonial around here these days?”
The old priest started sputtering, and the younger man stepped in front of him.
“This is not a circus,” he began. “This is holy ground.”
I cut him off. “Answering my questions is the best way to get rid of me. Not answering them is the best way to wind up with soiled carpets and broken doors.”
I let my hand fall casually down on the hilt of my borrowed sword.
“You know who I am?”
“Yes.” He spat the word in a most unpriestly fashion. “Markhat.”
“Good. Now, the man in charge of marrying people?”
“Father Wickens is here. But you will go no further on that beast.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. She just came for confession, anyway. Something about apples and carrots.” I swung down and offered Darla my hand.
“Have one of your masks see to her, won’t you?”
The man’s face went ruddy with rage.
“And don’t say how dare you again. I dare. This, and plenty more. Now, this Father Wickens, which way to his office?”
He puffed air in and out, trying to decide which Angel of Vengeance to call down upon me.
Darla smiled at him. “We’ll just wander about until we find him, dear,” she said.
I shrugged and made for the nearest open hall.
“Women,” said the priest, “are not permitted beyond this worship hall.”
“Then you’d better fetch this Father,” I said. “Because we’re going to speak to him, with or without your help. Come, dear. Let’s see how priests really live, shall we?”
Boots began to sound. I counted a couple dozen men. All the Churches keep soldiers handy. Smiting the unholy is an ancient religious tradition.
I drew my sword, just in case anyone approaching had smiting on his mind.
“Goodness. A horse, here in the Church. And a pretty horse too. Is she a Yearning Tall?”
I turned.
The speaker was an old man. His red robes hung off him, loose and none too clean. Someone with more enthusiasm than skill had hemmed the bottom so he wouldn’t trip, but hadn’t tackled the sleeves.
He was bald on the top but kept a ring of long white hair around his head, just above his comically large ears. His nose was long and crooked, and his eyes were blue and bright, sparkling at me behind thick spectacles.
He winked, hobbled over to the mare, and began to scratch her behind her right ear. She regarded him warily with a big brown eye for a moment, and then relaxed and settled in for a good long scratch.
“We don’t know much about her,” replied Darla. “She’s a borrowed Army horse. I am Darla Tomas, and this is Markhat. Might you be Father Wickens?”