The Five Faces (The Markhat Files) Page 11

  “Oh.” Evis looked at the page as if for the first time. “I was mainly interested in names and dates.”

  “Does this Ecols speak with an accent?”

  “I don’t know,” said Evis. “I’ll ask.”

  “Your missing canine?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “But if nothing else I’ll find out where he buys his headgear. First bit of luck I’ve had today.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” said Evis. He opened a drawer, withdrew a binder, shoved the heap of flyers to the side.

  “Our people found these a few hours ago. Somebody dumped them at our door. Take a look.”

  The binder was sealed with a band of black silk. I untied it, opened the binder, pulled out the papers inside.

  Stitches lifted her hand. A soft, golden light floated below her palm, illuminating the pages enough so that I could see the images clearly.

  EVIS M. PRESTLEY, read the name. Evis was drawn below it, his halfdead features exaggerated, his body cut in half at heart level, his lower jaw torn away.

  The date was six days hence. The time, appropriately enough, was two minutes after midnight.

  “They really didn’t capture the youthful insouciance in your eyes,” I said.

  “Everyone’s a critic. Keep going. It gets worse.”

  I turned to the next page.

  There was my name. My birth name, first, last and middle. The name only known by Darla, as Mom and Dad and any others who knew it were long dead.

  I was crumpled on the ground, my graceful neck bent at an angle sure to cause discomfort. An appalling volume of a liquid I assumed to be blood flowed from my open mouth. If there was any doubt as to my vital status, the artist had crossed out my eyes with little Xs, just as Buttercup had done not so many hours ago.

  “I’m sorry to report that I outlive you by a full three days,” said Evis. “How very rude of me. Still, I hope you spend your twilight moments wisely.”

  “There’s another page,” I said. “If it’s Darla, I don’t want to see it.”

  “It depicts Watch Captain Holder, with whom I believe you are acquainted,” said Stitches.

  I shoved the pages back in the binder and tied the damned thing shut without looking.

  “So we’ve got three days to put this creature in the dirt.”

  “That’s the look of it,” said Evis. He took the binder and put it away. “Stitches. Any word on the missing names from our stack?”

  “Several disappearances. A number of partial remains. Some appear to have been collected by the dead wagons, or were burned by rivals, who then fell in the same manner.”

  “No survivors then.”

  “None.”

  “Damn.”

  “Indeed.”

  “No survivors. Fine. What about discrepancies between the drawings and the murders? Has our bugaboo missed any details yet?”

  “Not that we can discern.”

  “The next murder is in two hours,” said Evis.

  “Who’s the lucky victim?”

  “Carlon Gestep. Until a few days ago, he handled Rannit’s thriving forgery industry.”

  “He one of your nervous houseguests?”

  “He is not. We believe he is hiding somewhere in south Rannit, with a number of mercenaries.”

  “Maybe they’ll get lucky.”

  “Doubtful,” said Stitches. “Nevertheless, I shall attempt to locate Mr. Gestep when the assault begins, and observe this attack. Discreetly, of course.”

  “Watch yourself. Report as soon as you can.”

  Stitches nodded and was gone. Nearby candle flames flickered and then grew still.

  “Now on to our larger problem,” said Evis.

  “Our sudden lack of beer?”

  “What do we tell the ladies? And how do we get them safely out of Rannit until all this is over?”

  “We just make our wishes known in a firm, commanding tones.”

  “Yes, because that always works.” The weary vampire rubbed his face. “Seriously. I don’t want Gertriss anywhere near this. I’m sure you feel the same about Darla.”

  He fetched me another beer while I ruminated. He filled his own glass with thick, red blood.

  “We do what gentlemen of breeding and conscience always do, in matters of the heart,” I said. “We look our loved ones right in their trust-filled eyes and we lie. This time, by omission.” I sampled my new beer, and it was bitter, which suited me just fine. “We give this thing two days. If we haven’t put a stop to the man behind the killings, we have a dozen of your fiercest halfdead warriors don thick suits of armor and load Gertriss and Darla kicking and screaming onto the Queen. Then we nail their cabin door shut with them inside and you order the boat to keep steaming south until the Brown empties into the Sea.”

  Evis swirled his glass.

  “She’ll never forgive me.”

  “Nor Darla. But she’ll live. If that’s the best we can do, it’s the best we can do.”

  “One hell of a weak battle cry, Markhat.”

  “I’m one hell of a tired soldier.”

  We drained our glasses. I gave Evis the rundown on our little trip outside the wall, and our twilight vigil outside the Pale. He just grunted. I stood.

  “We’re not dead yet. I need to go see a man about a dog. Oh. One more thing. Does Holder know he’s been chosen to join our ranks?”

  “I’ve got people checking now. If he doesn’t know, we’ll make sure he finds out.”

  I reached the door but paused with my hand on the latch.

  “Why Holder, I wonder? Any thoughts?”

  “Maybe he was actually getting close. Hard to believe the Watch managed it. But maybe he’s as good as he thinks he is.”

  “A sobering thought.”

  Gertriss knocked at Evis’s door. I knew it was her, and it was. She was smiling and carrying a tray and she smelled of fresh soap and the expensive perfume she pretended not to wear.

  “Good evening,” I said, doffing my hat. “I was just leaving.”

  I barely heard the scrapes and thumps of Evis clearing his desk of the flyers. When I stepped aside to let Gertriss pass, Evis’s desk was clear and he was smiling his tight-lipped, vampire smile, not at me.

  Gertriss is, among other things, a Hog, possessed of the infamous Hog second sight.

  I left before I gave anything away, and I silently wished Evis luck in keeping any secrets from Mama’s keen-eyed niece.

  Even being known as a close friend of Mr. Prestley’s doesn’t mean I can wander Avalante’s subterranean halls at will without being challenged. It took me the better part of an hour to talk my way down to the bunker Evis mentioned, and it took a hastily scrawled letter from Evis himself to get me inside.

  But inside I went.

  Pandemonium greeted me. Fists waved in my face. Mouths shouted demands or pleaded for mercy. I was threatened, offered bribes, cursed, and begged all at once and nearly deafened in the process.

  One of Avalante’s ever-present, halfdead foot soldiers pushed the mob back with nothing but a shove and a glare.

  “Ecols Rorshot,” I said over the much-diminished din. “A word. Right now.”

  “What about us?” shouted a red-faced oldster whose handlebar moustache needed a fresh application of wax.

  “I have money, I tell you!” shouted another.

  “I won’t be held prisoner here!” added a third.

  A small man sidled around the mob, eyeing me with open suspicion.

  “I am he,” he said. I didn’t hear the words over the renewed shouting, but I saw him pronounce them.

  He was a short man. Short and fat and mostly bald. His eyes looked soft, but they never stopped moving, and his pudgy little hands never strayed far from his pockets.

  He was sweating. Yes, it was hot in that close-packed bunker, but I knew he’d sweat everywhere else, all the time. He dug around in his right pocket and came out with a silk hanky and dabbed at his round red face before smiling and step
ping closer.

  “I am he,” he said again, louder this time. “Ecols Rorshot, at your service. And who might you be, laddie?”

  His accent was pronounced. Not quite Prince, certainly not Rannite.

  “Where’s your hat?” I asked.

  “Well, laddie, a rather large gentleman who calls himself Knockaround is sleeping on it,” he said. “I must admit I am disinclined to disturb his slumber. Why do ye ask?”

  A new pair of halfdead appeared at my sides. The mob withdrew once again, leaving Ecols standing alone.

  He found his hanky and mopped sweat again.

  “Do you want out of here?” I asked.

  “Aye, I do indeed,” he said. “’Tis not the safe haven I hoped it would be. But I ken I’ll not be leaving without paying your price, good sir. Might I ask what price that might be?”

  “What did you do with the little girl’s dog?”

  He was good. Had he been rested and fed and in his own element, he might have pulled it off.

  But he was hot and weary and fearful, and I caught him by surprise, and his eyes stopped scanning the room and the pupils went big and black and his face went a sudden shade pinker.

  “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t lie to me. If you want out of here, you start telling the truth and you keep telling the truth or I’ll make the drawing come true early.”

  He puffed up and turned to the halfdead at my right. “This man is making threats toward me, under your roof,” he said. “Is Avalante going to stand there and allow him to continue?”

  The halfdead handed me a long, curved dagger.

  “You make a mess, you clean it up,” he said. His voice was as dry as a long-shut tomb. The mob busied itself finding nooks and crannies to back into.

  Rorshot shrugged and grinned and sighed. “Well, laddie, that answers that, I suppose. I do seem to recall a street urchin and her cur, a few days hence. Might we seek more private chambers and speak at length of it there?”

  I handed the halfdead his dagger and led Rorshot out of the bunker, never taking my eyes off his mobile little hands.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The halfdead who’d handed me the dagger found us a room.

  The room was maybe ten by ten. There was a small, plain table and two hard, bare chairs. Walls and table and floor gleamed white. The air smelled of bleach.

  There’s only one fluid the halfdead clean away so fastidiously.

  Ecols sat without being told. I took the other chair. When the halfdead closed the door, he added a welcome bit of theatre by audibly working the deadbolt.

  Ecols heard. He pulled out his hanky and mopped sweat.

  “They tell me you run most of the gambling along the Brown.” I didn’t phrase it as a question.

  He stuffed his white silk hanky away.

  “Games of chance are my passion,” he said. I swear his piglike little eyes twinkled when he said ‘games of chance.’ “What about you, Mr. Markhat? Do you consider yourself a gambling man?”

  “You know my name.”

  “Oh, indeed I do,” he said. His smile reappeared and I didn’t like it. “I ken more about ye than ye might suspect, I do.”

  “What were you doing that day in the Park?”

  “Same as everyone else,” he said. “Waiting for those fool birds to roost. Do you know how many crowns were wagered on the whims of a few lackwit blackbirds, Mr. Markhat? Do you have any idea at all?”

  “I don’t give two damns about crowns or blackbirds. You stole a blind girl’s dog.” I leaned close. “What kind of man steals from a blind child?”

  “You were at Little Illa, during the War. Do you remember the last day of the siege, Markhat? Remember that first volley of Troll arrows, arcing down out of the sky, the mass of them so thick they actually dimmed the sun as they crossed the face of it?”

  “If you’re trying to pretend you were there, don’t. Answer my question. Or they’ll need to bleach the walls again real soon now.”

  “Eighty-six soldiers fell when that first volley landed. Troll arrows, as long as you are tall, tipped with steel.” He leaned so close I could smell his hair oil. “Right before the first one fell, you prayed. You said a prayer to the Angel Malan. Not for yourself, but for your dog. Petey, wasn’t that his name?”

  I hit him. He didn’t try to dodge and I didn’t hold back. I should have broken his jaw and sent his flying, but my fist met only air, and he never lost his smile.

  “Five volleys, loosed the Trolls. When the last arrow landed, only fourteen of you still lived. And Petey, of course. Only to die of a snakebite two months later. Where was the Angel Malan then, I believe you asked.”

  I stood and threw the table aside. My revolver was in my hand, but Rorshot was gone.

  Someone tapped me on my right shoulder.

  “I’ve upset you.”

  I whirled and put the barrel of the gun between his eyes and I pulled the trigger.

  The hammer fell, but the gun refused to fire.

  He reached up and pushed it gently away.

  “Please sit,” he said. “I mean you no harm. Indeed, were it not for me, eighty-seven would have fallen to that first volley of Troll arrows, and the valiant Petey would have starved, guarding your corpse.”

  “What are you?”

  “I am Ecols Rorshot,” he said. He pulled out his silk hanky, but this time it was black silk. “I was born fifty miles north of Prince to parents fleeing a place called Ereland. In that respect, I am a man, just as you.”

  “The Sarge is dead. The rest are dead. You couldn’t know all that about Little Illa. Is this some doing of Stitches?”

  “You don’t believe in Angels, do you?”

  “You’re no damned Angel,” I said. My traitor revolver clicked again. “And you’re not Ecols Rorshot either.”

  “Part of me is.” His hanky changed to red. “The rest—it becomes rather metaphysical, I’m afraid. For the sake of ready communication, please accept that I am a god of chance.”

  “A god.” I emulated one of Mama’s derisive snorts. “Pardon me, Your Divine Grace, but you look more like a pig farmer.”

  “A regrettable necessity,” he said. “I am unable to manifest physically without assistance, as yet. The nature of reality changes with time, you see—”

  “So I’ve heard. In terms of season, we are now in an arcane spring, with the intensity of magic increasing toward summer, when all sorts of nightmares will be able to walk the world, unfettered.”

  He clapped his hands in delight. “Bravo!” he said. “Dear boy, I knew you were clever, but I had no idea you were privy to the secrets of Creation itself.”

  “If I were privy to the secrets of Creation, I’d kill your ass where you stand. But I know about the arcane seasons.” I put my gun down on the table and forced myself to sit. “So you’re the god of chance. Nice to meet you. Hope you die screaming real soon.”

  “Not the god of chance. A god.” He sat. His smile diminished. “I take it you have little interest in theological cosmology.”

  “None. Stuff you and the Angels. Why did you steal a little girl’s dog, and what the hell are you doing here?”

  He took the chair across from me and sat. “Ecols Rorshot stole the dog because one of his associates bet him twenty-five crowns he could not do it,” he said. “I stole the dog so you and I would meet, right here, right now. Did you honestly think the appearance of my drawing in that stack was mere coincidence?”

  “Where is Cornbread now?”

  “Who?” He frowned. “Oh. The dog. Why, he’s right here, look for yourself.”

  He looked to his right. And damned if there wasn’t a fuzzy little dog, panting and looking as puzzled as I felt.

  “And here.”

  Ecols now held the leash in his left hand. A red-furred brute with sad, yellow-brown eyes regarded me calmly, his head well above the top of the table.

  “Or there.”

  A dog who might have been Petey appeared at my side and licked
my hand before vanishing.

  “You bastard,” I said.

  “I’m making a point,” said Ecols. “The dog my Ecols body stole—is the dog alive? Is it dead? Is it a gentle lap dog, or a fearsome street mongrel?”

  “It’s just a wire-haired rat terrier,” I said. “As you damned well know.”

  Ecols shook his head. “Think metaphysically, Markhat. Cornbread is alive. Cornbread is dead. He’s both. He’s neither. He’s a she, and vice versa. That’s the beauty of the world, you see. The possibilities are endless.”

  “That doesn’t mean a damned thing to a blind kid named Saffy,” I said. “Or to me. Where’s the dog?”

  Ecols, who still didn’t look the least bit like the god of anything save perhaps obesity or chronic perspiration, shook his head.

  “Forgive me. You are overwrought.” He dug in his pockets and pulled out a single gold crown. “Take this.”

  “Shove it up your ass.”

  “My, my. Look in your hand.”

  I felt a sudden cold weight in my hand. It was the gold crown.

  “If you flip it, which side will land face up?” asked Ecols.

  “Crowns or swords, how should I know?”

  “Just so. Please. Flip the coin.”

  I flipped it. It landed crowns up, showing the face of the Regent.

  “If you were to flip that coin one hundred times, how many crowns would you expect to see, and how many swords?”

  “Fifty crowns, fifty swords,” I said. “Give or take.”

  Ecols beamed. “Correct. Nevertheless. Indulge me. Flip it.”

  I did.

  The coin came up—faces?

  The five crude faces that appeared on the waybills ringed the face of the crown.

  I flipped it again. The faces landed up. And again, and again.

  “That is the problem, in a nutshell,” said Ecols. “If I am a god of chance, the faces represent a god of death.”

  “Any Angels in the mix?” I asked.

  “Never met one,” said Ecols. “This death god, though. Can you see what he has done?”

  I flipped the coin again. Ecols snatched it out of the air before it landed.