The Broken Bell

painting decks and bulkheads and her other assorted nautical bits with thick white paint. The painting crew exchanged shouts and curses with an equally frantic crew of mechanics with urgent business wherever the painters were working. Through it all lumbered ogres with armloads of split wood, which they hauled into the depths of the steamboat.

Neither painters nor mechanics raised their voices at the ogres.

I decided to keep my landlubber boots firmly on the docks. I did walk the length of the craft, paying special attention to the odd contrivance at the rear. The tarp Evis had mentioned was nowhere in sight. I could see how the paddlewheel might propel the boat forward. What I couldn’t discern was how such a heavy assembly was going to turn at all.

Men shouted. Smoke puffed from the smokestacks. The puffing became a billowing, and from deep within the vessel, a deep thump-thump-thump began to sound.

With a screech and a groan, the paddlewheel turned. The first revolution was slow, so slow I was sure Evis’s mighty boat was destined to remain moored at that dock forever.

But the next turn was faster. The paddles bit into the water with great wet slaps. Spray flew.

The steamboat began to pull against her moorings.

The next turn, and the next, were faster still. The spray of water became a furious downpour. The thumping of the engines became a roar.

The dock began to tilt and groan.

A mighty blast issued from the smokestack, a whistle made loud as thunder. Mechanics and painters alike cheered and waved their tools.

Then the turning of the paddlewheel slowed, the dock settled level and the troubled waters began to calm.

“I’ll be damned.”

An ogre turned and looked at me.

That was the first time I’ve seen an ogre wide-eyed.

“It’s called a steamboat,” I said to him. “Burns wood to make steam. Nothing to it.”

The ogre rushed away.

I stayed a few more moments. Long enough to watch two men paint her name across the bow. Evis hadn’t mentioned a name.

The Regency. Nice touch of political flattery. Suddenly the angry face on the smokestack made perfect sense.

I clambered back in my carriage and headed for my side of the Brown, while a small army of painters and mechanics and oddly subdued ogres made the Regency ready for war.

Much to my relief, the only stranger idling by my door was one of Mama’s street kids, a hard-eyed ten-year- old named Flowers.

He rose and stretched while I bade the driver to wait.

“Got something for you, mister.” He proffered a grubby envelope, along with his empty palm. “Mama said you’d pay two coppers.”

“Mama said nothing of the sort. She’s already paid you or you wouldn’t be doing this.”

“Awww. C’mon, mister. One copper?”

I fished in my pocket. “Done. Now hand it over.”

Copper and envelope changed places. The envelope bore Mama’s familiar scrawl, and I wondered how the devil she’d managed to get a letter back to Rannit so quickly.

I’d have asked Flowers, but he was away, heels and elbows pumping.

I stuck the letter in my jacket pocket and unlocked my door. I stepped aside as I opened it, just in case clever persons inside sent crossbow bolts whizzing toward the sudden sunlight.

They did not. Three-leg yawned atop my desk. The layer of flour I’d left just inside the door was undisturbed.

I closed my door quickly behind me, shook some food out in Three-leg’s pan and then settled into my chair to read.

Boy, began Mama’s letter. I reckon you’re all done being mad. I hope so. What I done is what I had to do, and ain’t nobody can do it but me, so I left. Tell your vampire friend Evis that fancy house of his ain’t locked half as tight as they thinks.

I’m back home. I’ve set a fire in my fireplace and my cook-stove. The Plegg House is lit and lived in, and I tell you, boy, that shook folks up a might, and then some. There was some that thought the Hog name was done hereabouts. There ain’t so many of them now.

I ain’t been here long, boy, but I’ve learnt a few things. First off, that Sprang boy what the ogre threw is going to live. He ain’t right in the head and he’s got a limp, but I reckon he wasn’t right to begin with so that ain’t much of a loss. There was a couple of other dunces that lit out of here swearin’ they was gonna get some vengeance on you and my niece. They ain’t been heard from again. Not that anybody is particular worried. They wasn’t held in much regard, save for being drunks and pig thieves. I reckon it’s a mite easier to hex the weak- minded into charging off to Rannit on some fool’s errand.

Next, this here hex-caster I’ve been hearin’ about-oh yes boy, I barely had them fires lit ’til I had people come scratchin’ around-he ain’t no local. I ain’t got a name yet, and I ain’t got no idea where he lives. But that don’t matter, cause I ain’t going to see him. No, I reckon he’ll be coming around to see me directly. And that there, boy, is going to be his un-doing. I aims to end this, and end this permanent.

Boy, them not being a local puts a new light on this mess. Now, there’s all kinds of magic, whether you believes in it or not. And this don’t smell nor look like the kind of magic we favors hereabouts. It does raise a stink like that kind of wand-waving Army types used during the War. I reckon we might be dealing with one of them, a small-timer, probably got hisself kicked out of Rannit or Prince or somewheres and came to Pot Lockney to earn a little money by taking on curse-works for the country folks.

If’n they was a wand-waver in the Army, they might still be using them same kind of spells and what-not. Watch out for them things. I reckon you know what to look out for.

Now, I aims to send letters once a day. If Mr. Pitcher’s pigeons fly straight and true to Granny Knot, you’ll be a getting them soon after. Don’t you be charging out here if I miss a day or two, Mr. Pitcher ain’t got but three of these extra-smart pigeons and I ain’t the only one sending letters to Rannit. I told him I takes priority but he’s a young man and he ain’t learned proper respect for the Hog name just yet. I reckon he will soon enough as I may have let a tiny little hex slip yesterday when he got all uppity about telling me his birds was first come, first served. See how he likes spending the night in his outhouse, we will!

I will write again on the morrow. Keep that niece of mine and that other one out of trouble.

She’d signed it simply ‘Mrs. Hog.’

I put the letter in a drawer. Three-leg licked his stump. Traffic rushed by outside, no more and no less hurried than usual.

Pratt, I decided. I’d go find Pratt first. Getting Lethway talking was the surest way forward, and it might be the only chance Carris Lethway had of getting home alive. I wanted to check on Tamar, too, but I didn’t want to put unnecessary strain on my newfound relationship with her father. If he’d had a chance to think about what he’d handed me yesterday, I didn’t want to know about it.

I rose and patted Three-leg’s ugly head, and I got a swipe of his claws across the back of my hand for my trouble.

“Good morning to you too,” I said as I left. He just glared and kept licking.

I reflected, as I rode, that I was getting far too familiar with Avalante’s largess with carriages. But I pushed such thoughts aside, and concentrated on how to lay my plan out to Pratt.

All I needed was a quarter of an hour in a place unsuitable for murder. Somewhere public. Somewhere that a few raised voices would go unnoticed. Somewhere that would throw Lethway off balance, someplace that would