Stitches shrugged, and her crystal ball vanished.
I cannot say. There is either no unsanctioned magic within the shield, or there is magic beyond the ken of my means to detect it. Markhat. These murders. Could they have been committed by purely mundane means?
“Somebody cut a woman’s tongue right out of her head, half a dozen steps from fifty people.” I shrugged. “Go ahead. Say an ordinary man with a good sharp knife managed that. We’re still left with the question why. Why not cut her throat, throw the body into the crowd? You want a panic, that’s a good way to start one.”
“You knows about Elves, don’t ye?” Mama was trying her best not to be insulting. That alone sent shivers down my spine. “Am I right about that old tale, or not?”
You are correct. Elves were known to collect body parts as components of purely Elvish spell dynamics. The one you reference was reputed to allow easy movement among mankind.
“Easy movement. As in invisible,” I said.
I do not know the specifics of the spell. I suppose it is possible.
The ghost of an idea presented itself.
“So we’re seeing it now. The Elf or whatever it is. Seeing it-just not recognizing it.”
Despite my best efforts, that appears to be the case.
Mama leaned forward, peering at me from behind ragged locks of wild grey hair.
“Well, tell it, boy. ‘Fore somebody loses ears and such.”
“Old wives’ tales. You know a lot of them, do you? Mama? Stitches?”
“I knows ‘em all.”
I am familiar with Old Kingdom folklore.
“Then start making a list. Ash-wood and iron against Elves. Salt and milk against ghosts. Butter and corn husks against goblins.”
“It ain’t butter, it’s buttermilk,” said Mama. “What are ye gettin’ at?”
“We’ll need a pot. The biggest pot you can find. I want it right here, out where everybody can see it. On the boil, right now.”
Stitches turned. I didn’t hear what she said, but half a dozen well-muscled waiters gathered quickly around, listened for a moment, and then nodded before hurrying away.
A portable stove and a stew-pot are on the way. I assume it is to be filled with the contents of our lists?
“Exactly.”
“What the hell good will that do, boy? We ain’t likely to find half of what you want, and even if we did, you know damned well most of them old charms is nothin’ but nonsense.”
“Stitches, can you rig up some kind of magical Elf-hunting dingus? Something to stir the pot with?”
If I could detect this creature, finder, I assure you I would already have done so.
“That’s not the point. Listen. If this thing is as old as you think it is, and if it’s been imprisoned or asleep for the last thousand years, it may be as unfamiliar with your new magic and you are with its old.”
“So you just aims to fool it into thinkin’ we knows a way to hex it?”
“I want to make it nervous. I want it to think we’re onto it. I want to give it something to be puzzled about for a change.”
Stitches was silent for a long moment.
I can offer no superior alternative. She rattled off another round of nonsense words, and the chatter and tinkle and laughter of the casino floor returned. Missus Hog. Shall we begin compiling our list?
Mama shook her shaggy head. “Ash and iron,” she began. “But it’s got to be new iron, what ain’t never rusted…”
Finding Evis wasn’t easy. By remaining at the Regent’s side, he’d put himself in the center of a ring of determined bodyguards, and even my winning smile was barely sufficient to charm my way through them.
By the time I did get close enough to whisper in Evis’s ear, I’d been deprived of Toadsticker, my gun, both my knives, my brass knuckles, and even the coins in my pockets. I was beginning to think my shoes might be confiscated as well, given the somewhat pointy nature of the toes.
Evis, when I did reach him, was as pale and as weary-looking as any corpse I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.
I briefed him in whispers, leaving out a detail here and there in case anyone nearby was hiding pointy ears and a pocketful of tongues. He nodded grim assent.
“Keep her safe,” was all he said. I knew who he meant.
Then the Regent’s slinky creature turned her gaze upon us, and I sidled quickly away. I managed to retrieve all my items and headed back to check on Mama and Stitches.
Tables had been cleared to form a space twenty feet across. A silver rolling service cart sat in the middle, its top cut away and a grid of metal rods laid on it to support an enormous steel stew-pot.
On the bottom shelf of the cart, a small fire was already burning, its flames just beginning to lick the pot.
Dutson appeared, trying with little success to hide a scowl at the sight of sparks burning scars in his beloved casino floor. He hauled another serving cart behind him, this one filled with glass jugs of water.
“The water, sir,” he intoned as a trio of waiters filled the stew-pot with the contents of the jugs. “Might I suggest we cover the floor with a cloth of some sort?”
“Good idea,” I said, hoping my tone didn’t convey my utter disinterest in the state of the Queen’s floor coverings. “See to it, won’t you?”
He shuffled off, radiating disdain.
Mama huffed up, her arms filled with jars and brick-a-brac, which she dumped at my feet.
“I had to knee a cook in his privates, but I got us all the common things,” she said, pointing and muttering. “Salt and sugar. Charcoal from an oven. White flour, corn flour, fresh tobacco, black pepper, red pepper…”
“Capital,” I said before she could finish her list. Darla poked at the pile with the toe of her shoe.
“Is that a silver thimble?”
“It is, and the woman whose hat I snatched it from ain’t happy.” She grinned. “But I reckon gettin’ folks riled up was half the point.”
I made frantic shushing motions, as Stitches and her silence spell were nowhere near, and Mama was all but outlining the heart of our deception. Mama chuckled and rummaged in her ever-present burlap bag. “I’ll get started on what I gots, boy.” She hauled out a pair of moth-eaten dried owls. “Gonna hex this but good, I tells ye.”
With that, she plopped down on the floor, used a tiny pot of something black and thick to inscribe a circle around herself and her pile of arcane goodies, and began to mumble and wave her owls over the stack of herbs and trinkets.
Dutson reappeared, a tarp folded carefully in his hands. He saw Mama, saw her circle, and dropped the tarp in disgust before stomping away without a word.
“There goes my beer supply.”
“Here’s Evis,” said Darla, nodding off into the shadows. “He doesn’t look happy.”
He didn’t.
“The Regent winning big?”
“Every hand. But that’s not the problem. I’ve lost contact with the shore patrols.”
“I didn’t know we had shore patrols.”
“They were secret shore patrols. Four hundred men. Both banks. Keeping pace with us, scouting the woods for any sign of ambush. They reported in every half-hour. They missed the last report and aren’t responding to our messages.”
“How are you talking to anyone outside the shield?”
“Longtalker. We’ve improved it. Much smaller, better range.”
I remembered the enormous, spark-spitting contraption I’d once used, far below Avalante, to speak to Evis from a distance.
“Maybe it just stopped working.”
“We’re still in touch with the House,” replied Evis. “No. Something wiped out the patrols. Which means they found an ambush up ahead.”
Darla handed Evis a drink, which he downed in a single gulp. “So we turn around,” she said. “Go back to Rannit.”