caster.
I folded it all and stuffed it in my jacket pocket and spent a few minutes poking around to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. I hadn’t, so I locked the door behind me, left the key in the lock and tipped my hat to the lady in the next room who peeped out at me through her door.
“You know him?” I asked.
She slammed her door shut and locked it.
I tossed the dead man’s wand into the dying fire and watched it for a moment. It burned just fine. Whatever power it might have held was as dead as its last owner.
I shrugged and saddled up and headed home. The sky turned pink. I met a dead wagon, and I yelled to the driver he had one in front of the Bargewright.
He just shrugged and spat.
Another day dawning, in Rannit.
Darla was sitting on my stoop. A basket sat beside her, and so did Three-leg Cat.
Darla smiled. She didn’t mention Curfew or the breaking thereof. She did rise and hug me wordlessly and let me smell her fresh-washed hair.
“Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Not at all. Three-leg kept me company. I know you’ve been worried about him.”
“Worried? Me? I knew the fleabag would show up when he got hungry.”
Darla laughed and let me go. She stayed close, though, and kept hold of my hands.
“He said the same thing about you.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“There’s blood on your jacket.”
It had been dark. I hadn’t noticed.
“It isn’t mine.”
“That is perhaps not as comforting as you think it is.” She gave me a quick kiss and grabbed the basket. I went to my door, didn’t bother with the key and opened it.
“I’ll be damned.”
Grist had stacked the bricks neatly in a corner.
Darla surveyed the bricks and the remains of my brick-dropping apparatus.
“Darling, what happened here?”
“Had a gentleman come calling,” I said. “He meant to surprise me. I surprised him first. He cleaned before he left, though. I wasn’t expecting that.”
Darla held up her hand for silence and then set about opening the basket and dispensing the contents atop my desk.
“Did your visitor have anything to do with Tamar’s missing groom?”
She’d brought a jar of strawberry jam. I have a considerable weakness for strawberry jam.
“He was part of the crew after Gertriss. By the way, Mama has flown the coop. Gone to Pot Lockney to confront the hex-caster.” I grabbed a biscuit. “Still warm.”
“Coffee too.” She poured.
I ate and drank, speaking between swallows. I told her about Pratt, about the attempt to snag Tamar. I told her a man died, but I didn’t specify who killed him, and she didn’t ask.
“You should either stay at Avalante or at my place,” said Darla while I prepared another biscuit with jam. “You can’t drop bricks on everyone who comes to see you.”
“True. I’d soon run out of bricks. I don’t think there will be any more hexed callers for a while, though. The blood on my jacket? That was the last of them, I think. Halfdead got to him before I did.”
Darla shivered. I put my biscuit down and took her hand.
“Enough about that. You asked about Tamar. I do have a thought or two in her regard.”
She eyed me over a slice of toast. “Pray tell.”
“Let’s say the same bunch that grabbed Carris was also after Tamar.”
“Seems likely, doesn’t it?”
“It does, oh light of my life. Which leads me to believe that the Lethways and the Fields have something more in common than just a pair of kids in love.”
“What?”
“I have no idea. But look. Tamar said someone came to see her father a few weeks ago. Shouting ensued. Aside from me I don’t think Mr. Fields shouts at many people. Have you met him?”
“A few times. He seemed very…baker-ish.”
“Exactly. Now, Pratt tells me he’s not sure what the people who grabbed Carris want. What if it’s not money at all?”
“What else could it be?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Yet. Aside from their kids, the Lethways and the Fields don’t have much in common. Lethway runs a mining outfit. Fields pounds dough into donuts. Mrs. Lethway drinks to excess. Mrs. Fields prefers imported coffee. They don’t move in the same social circles. They don’t live in the same neighborhood. They don’t even travel the same streets.”
Darla swallowed. “So where do you start?”
“As far back as I can. They both served. Both in the Sixth, but not together.”
“You think they’re lying.”
“Somebody always is.”
She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. “So you’ll go to the Barracks and look through old payroll records?”
I grinned. “You’ve been hanging around me too long.”
“I think I’ll come with you. I have the day off. Martha’s been wanting Mary to try handling the front. Will they let a woman in the Barracks, or will I need a false moustache and a hat?”
I thought of old Burris, the Barracks caretaker.
“Not only will they let you in, dear, I’ll probably be forced to resort to arms just to get you out.” I drained my cup. “Are you sure, hon? It’s dusty, and the rats are so big they’ve taken to wearing pants and shoes.”
She laughed. “Then I’ll see their outfits are fitted properly. Will you want to bathe before we go?”
She didn’t mention the blood specifically.
“Only if you wait in a cab,” I said. “Might not be safe here.”
“You just said the last hexed man was gone.”
“I said I think so. Better you wait in a cab. Oh, and thank you for breakfast.”
She smiled. “I’m always going to worry, you know.”
“I know. I wish that wasn’t so.”
“You are who you are.”
Three-leg leaped onto my desk, sniffed dismissively at my breakfast, and emitted the kind of odor only the prolonged ingestion of diseased sewer rats can generate.
We scrambled for my room behind the office. I grabbed clothes and shaving kit and we darted out, leaving Three-leg perched atop my desk, casually surveying the remains of our meal.
He meowed in triumph as I shut the door.
Bathed and shaved, with Darla at my side, I bade the cabbie head toward the Barracks.
I hoped we’d find answers. Or at least rule out a couple of questions. Maybe we’d find absolutely nothing but rat-chewed payroll ledgers, but trying is part of this business, and it’s not a part you can treat lightly.
Darla quizzed me on the way, mainly about how the payroll ledgers were entered, balanced and maintained. I laid it out as best as I could. Judging by her lifted eyebrows and snickering, my layman’s description of how a military payroll was disbursed and recorded was lacking to the ear of a highly skilled former accountant.
The Barracks is just that-barracks. Forty-seven long, low-roofed troop lodges, spread over five city blocks.
