Her robe stank of wood smoke. Her sleeves were scorched and torn. When she pulled back her hood to reveal her face, it was black with soot.
Her bleeding lips, though, were trying to form a smile.
Good. You are here. Mrs. Markhat.
“You look like hell,” said Evis. “Sit, if you want.”
I believe I shall. The day has been taxing. She crossed to the vacant chair and settled gingerly into it, as though favoring numerous injuries. I got them. All of them.
“The bentans?”
Yes. I know who made them, Mr. Prestley. I know who, and I believe I know why.
“Spill it.”
I shall. But first-
She raised her hands and traced out a complicated pattern in the air. There was a sound, and for an instant her fingertips left visible trails of light.
She clapped her hands and the luminous pattern faded away.
Precautions. The living simulacrums were animated by the hand of Hag Mary herself. I trust you are acquainted with the name, Mr. Prestley?
I didn’t like the way Evis went suddenly stiff and still.
“That’s just a legend.”
I fear it is not. Hag Mary lived, and lives still, and something has stirred her to send these bentans against Mr. Markhat.
“I hate to interrupt, but what the hell is a Hag Mary, and what have I ever done to her?”
Evis turned his dark spectacles toward me. “Hag Mary. One of the worst of the old-time sorcerers. This is pre-Kingdom stuff, Markhat. Prehistoric. Hag Mary was said to be a fallen Angel, gone mad with being cast down with us mortals.”
Nonsense. Stitches finally relaxed enough to settle back into her chair. Fallen Angels?
“You don’t believe in Angels?”
As I said, nonsense. But whatever her origin, Hag Mary was indeed, for a time, a powerful, formidable sorceress. Her obsession with the Old Ones was her undoing, though, and she spiraled down into madness-both figuratively and literally.
“How so?”
She began to excavate a series of prehistoric ruins that lay below Rannit. Deeper and deeper she dug, until she just vanished from sight. Eventually, from memory.
“You’re sure it’s her that raised the bentans?”
Her house is long ago fallen, but a number of her personal possessions remained behind. I acquired a minor item myself, some years ago. It retains an arcane signature, one that is an exact match to the one that animates the bentans. There is no mistake. Hag Mary raised those creatures, and Hag Mary set them upon you.
Darla took my hand. “Why? Why would this…creature do such a thing?”
I suspect Hag Mary is merely being used. If she was quite insane a millennia ago, she is a gibbering lunatic now-one without the measure of reason required to plot against your husband, Mrs. Markhat, or anyone else. No. Her powers are still formidable, but I doubt they are her own. Someone, or a group of persons, is fearful that Markhat still holds the huldra. Without the Corpsemaster to subdue Markhat, or for that matter to shield him, they have decided to take it, using the most powerful tool they have. Hag Mary.
“If I had the damned thing, I’d have used it by now. Can’t they see that?”
Their brand of rationality is hardly compatible with your own, Mr. Markhat. You pose a threat. They seek to eliminate that threat. Most curious, though, is the timing.
“Our little dinner cruise.” Evis cussed. “You think this is all connected to the presence of our special guest.”
The Corpsemaster, right hand of the Regency, is fallen. Creatures more ancient than history are stirring. It bears consideration, Mr. Prestley. Careful consideration.
“We should call it off.” Evis’s words were barely more than a whisper. “Claim engine trouble. Claim anything.”
“We can’t live here forever,” said Darla. Her grip on my hand was painful. “There has to be a way to prove he wrecked that awful thing!”
I fear the only way to satiate them is to produce a huldra. Produce it, and give it to them.
“I don’t suppose we can just have Mama whip up a batch, can we?” I asked.
I would be surprised if three more remain in all the world. And crafting even a dubious facsimile of such a thing is well beyond my skill, and indeed, beyond the skill of anyone alive. No. You shall have to find another huldra, Markhat. It is the only way.
Evis appeared to conclude an intense internal debate.
“We can’t go on with this, knowing that the Regent is probably the target of a coup.” He rose. “I’ve got to speak to the House elders. Stitches, Markhats, make yourselves at home. We’ll talk later.”
And then he vanished into his back room. The light beneath the door went out.
Stitches pulled her hood down so that it hid her ruined eyes.
The day’s exertions have been significant. I trust you will forgive my urgent need for rest.
With that she went limp and still.
“We’ll just have to find another huldra,” said Darla, Her voice was cheerful and light, but she forgot to ease her grip on my hand. “Evis will help.”
I rose. Evis’s icebox beckoned.
“Bring me one too,” said Darla. She forced a smile. “We might as well make ourselves at home.”
I found a dozen unlabeled bottles of some honey-colored beer, wiped the sawdust off two, and opened them both before offering one to Darla and then holding up mine for a toast.
“To life aboard the Brown River Queen,” quoth I. “Where the beds are always soft and the beer is always free.”
Darla shrugged and joined me in the toast.
Chapter Ten
My mother was a strong critic of idle hands. And so, despite Evis’s vow to postpone the Queen’s maiden voyage until sometime after the Last Trump, I set about earning my exorbitant pay.
I grabbed crew at random and hustled them into a tiny room behind the purser’s sparse office. There was barely room enough for two straight-backed wooden chairs and a tiny stand for my notebook. I grilled my hapless victims on their employment history, their political leanings, and their overall nefarious countenances.
I raised some hackles and came close to going to bed with a broken nose, but again I found nothing but a couple of closet whisky-fanciers and a steward who’d spent a few nights in the Old Ruth for breaking a couple of windows during the mob riots last spring.
I had to give Evis and his staff their due. They’d taken great pains to hire people who were either fiercely loyal to Avalante, deeply terrified of Avalante, or both. There’d be no slipping a handful of coppers among them to buy a few moments of looking the other way. No, the purchase of even the slightest act of disloyalty was going to cost someone a fortune.
Normally, I’d have been encouraged by this. But the kind of people likely to be handing out the coins in this instance simply wouldn’t care.
I consoled myself with my near certainty that the Queen would not soon be departing for Bel Loit or anywhere else, at least not with the Regent aboard. The man didn’t assume sudden and complete control over Rannit by being an imbecile.
So I walked the decks and tried in vain to pry open a trace of treachery and sat my butt down to some of the finest meals I’ve ever enjoyed. Darla read and started scribbling furiously in a notebook that had a dainty little clasp and a clever little lock. I tried to catch sight of her writings over her shoulder a time or two, but she always heard me coming and slammed the notebook shut before I caught a glimpse.
“That’s my little secret,” was all she would say.