Текст книги "Dead Man's rain"

Автор книги: Frank Tuttle

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“I am not frightened,” she snapped.

“Why would someone want to make you think your husband needs vengeance before he can rest?” I said. The widow’s eyes went narrow and cold. A pair of blue veins popped out on her powdered forehead.

“I do not know,” she said, snapping out each word as though she could make it hurt me.

I met her eyes, held it. She blinked first, and looked away.

I sighed. “All right,” I said. “You’ve got trouble, never mind what kind. The best kind of trouble never comes cheap. So tell me this, Lady Merlat. Are you having money problems?”

She met my eyes, glared.

“House Merlat is hardly reduced to paupery,” she said.

I shrugged. “Fine,” I said. “Wonderful. Are you causing anyone money problems?”

She swallowed, closed her eyes briefly, spoke.

“My husband invested well,” she said. “Aside from our banked assets, we receive a quarterly sum from various investing firms.” She swallowed again. “The funds are generated by careful, discrete investing. We engage in nothing rapacious. I tell you, goodman, money is not the issue here.”

“What about your will, Lady?” I asked. “How do the kids figure into that?”

Pay dirt. I saw it on her face. Her face went red, her knuckles white, before she dropped her hands into her lap.

“You said I’d get answers,” I reminded her. “I need this one, too.”

“The children will be provided for,” she whispered, after sending a furtive glance around the room. I noticed she let her gaze linger at the bottom of both doors, just to see if feet might be lurking quietly beyond. “They will not have full access to the Merlat fortune. But they will not starve.”

I considered my words. “Do they know this?”

“They do not,” she whispered. “I will present the official revision at court next week.”

“Next week.”

“Surely you do not think-”

“I don’t think anything yet,” I said, cutting her off when her voice threatened to rise above a whisper. “But I need to know these things, Lady. It may be relevant, it may not. But I still need to know.” I paused. Jefrey’s footfalls passed by the door, continued down the hall and were swallowed up by the dark empty House.

“You’re sure the kids don’t know?” I asked again. She flushed further, glared.

“I am not a fool,” she said. “Nor am I so blind that I cannot see what they have become. They will be able keep up a pretense of wealth after I am gone-but they shall have no access to the bulk of my husband’s fortune, nor the house, nor the investments. I will not see them loot what it took us a lifetime to amass.”

“And Jefrey?” I asked. “What does he get?”

The widow swallowed. “Half a million crowns,” she said. “A year.”

I whistled.

“He is impertinent, rude and uncultured,” said the Lady. “But he has remained. Through it all. I cannot say that for anyone else.”

I nodded. I tried to picture Jefrey in the role of scheming frightener of old women and failed. Thufe would smell it in his heart and bite his head off.

What I could see, though, was that secrets rarely stay secret. The widow might not tell-but someone drew up the new will, someone else witnessed it and someone else filed the appeal for revision with the Court in an act that would need to be witnessed by another half-dozen Court functionaries. A dozen people probably knew. It would only take one of them to talk.

How that would bring about a charade involving revenants, I couldn’t say. But I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, either. That much money, a gambler, a weed-addict-I didn’t need Mama’s cards to see something nasty was inevitable.

“You are wrong,” said Lady Merlat, reading my face. “Money has nothing to do with this. My husband did not come back from the dead to engage in a petty squabble over the terms of a will.”

“I’d hardly call it a petty squabble, Lady,” I said. “And you’ve got to consider my point of view-that your husband isn’t out there at all. But someone is, and we need to figure out who.”

“I saw Ebed,” she said. “I tell you it was him!”

“Then tell me why he came,” I said. “What brought him back? What is this vengeance he needs, and why has it brought him back to you?”

She stood, and the look in her eyes matched that of her husband in the portrait. “I don’t know!” Her voice rang off the tiles. “He died of a fever. What vengeance shall he take? Upon whom shall he visit it?” Her eyes flashed, but she bit her lip and I could tell she was glad she wasn’t facing her late husband’s portrait.

“I don’t know, Lady,” I said. “Not yet.”

The widow sat. “Find a way,” she said, her jaw clenched tight. “Mistress Hog said you could put him to rest. She said you would find a way.”

I stood, backed away from the table. “You really ought to eat something, Lady Merlat,” I said. “And get some sleep, too. I’ll be watching tonight.”

She shook her head. “Put him to rest,” she said. Her eyes were wet, and she clenched her jaw tighter to keep it from quivering. “Please.”

I backed out of there, Ebed Merlat glaring down at me every step of the way.

Jefrey and I took up residence in the Gold Room, so called because the wall and door trim was covered with a small fortune in gold leaf that had begun to peel at all the corners. We shoved furniture around until we wound up with a pair of chairs against the wall opposite the room’s three windows.

Jefrey sat. “Well,” he said. “I reckon you’ll see something tonight.”

I sat. “Why do you say that?”

“They’re all here,” he said. He lowered his voice. “The kids. I reckon it’s one-or all-of them the old Master has come back to get.”

I frowned. “I thought you didn’t believe,” I said.

“I never said that,” he said. “I never did. I just never said I believed in front of Lady Merlat.”

“So what have you seen, Jefrey?” I asked.

Jefrey shrugged. “Not a damn thing,” he said. “Not even when Harl and the widow and that fool butler Ichabod was pointin’ and wavin’. I can’t see it, Markhat.” Jefrey shook his head, and his voice fell to a whisper. “But that don’t mean he ain’t there.”

I stared out across the lawn. Even with dusk lingering, I could barely make out the shapes of the trees and the statues through the window-glass. Three-bolt glass, I think it was called, meaning it was so thick you’d need to shoot it three times with a crossbow before it shattered. Old Bones could be out there dancing with the angels, I thought, but unless he was carrying a pair of torches, I’d never see him.

“Why do you think it’s the kids he’s after?” I said.

“They’re always here when he comes,” said Jefrey. “Always, at least one of ’em.”

I turned in my chair, recalled the notes of dates I’d made. According to the widow, the revenant had walked several times when the kids were away.

“Hold on,” I said. “That’s not what I heard.”

“Don’t care what you heard,” said Jefrey. “They were here, every time. You think the widow always knows what that bunch is up to? You think they don’t come here to hide or stash weed or defile the Master’s house whenever they take a whim?” Jefrey snorted. “They come and go as they please,” he said. “But the dogs know. Oh yes, they do.” Jefrey snickered. “Dogs was trained not to raise ruckus at the kids, early on,” he said. “Bet I could train ’em to forget that. Love to see them bastards try to sweet-talk Thufe.”

I rose, started pacing. If someone walked the grounds only when the Merlat heirs were around, there was bound to be a reason.

“Tell me about Master Merlat’s last days,” I said.

“Ask the Lady,” said Jefrey.

“I’d rather hear it from you,” I said. “The Lady seems disinclined to discuss it.”

Jefrey shrugged. “I reckon she does,” he said. “He caught fever.”

“I heard.”

“Something out of them swamps down south,” said Jefrey. “Turned his insides into sores. Open sores in his mouth. In his nose. Ruined his eyes. His ears, too, I reckon. Got all down his throat. He’d try to talk and cough up puss and blood.”

I’d heard of it. Wet fever, it was called. Rare, and not contagious, but so nasty a fear of it lingers to this day. I wasn’t surprised the widow hadn’t named it.

“Wet fever.”

Jefrey nodded. “Worst thing I ever seen,” he said. “Tried to help out. The smell-god, the smell.” He shook his head. “She never left him, though. Never did.” His gaze went up to the ceiling. “Sickroom is right above us. Door’s locked now. I think she buried the key with him.”

An odd custom, the death-room key burial. But not an uncommon one, though I hadn’t figured the Merlats as Reformists. I nodded. “And the kids?”

Jefrey snorted. “Didn’t show ’til the funeral,” he said. “Othur fell out during the service. Abad asked his mother for a loan. The girl had a screaming fight with her man of the week.” He would’ve spat, but he eyed the polished oak floor, had to swallow instead. “Bastards.”

“You say she never left him.”

“Not once,” he said, and his wrinkled face softened. “She loved him, Markhat. You mark that. I don’t know nothing about vengeance or haints or what-not, but she loved that man and he loved her and if he’s come back looking for trouble it ain’t with the Lady.”

I knew when not to speak.

Instead, I watched the light fail. Jefrey rose, lit more lamps, then sat with his shiny black walking stick across his bony knees.

“So what’s the plan?” he said after a time. “You just gonna walk outside and grab him when he shows?”

I shrugged. That was my plan, all right-wait until Lord Merlat’s shade appeared, then take it by the collar and shake it and see who fell out of the shroud. It had seemed a good plan in the cheery light of day.

Jefrey whistled. “Well, I reckon anybody that cleared Troll tunnels during the War ain’t afraid of spooks in a yard,” he said.

I put on my best war-weary veteran face, nodded and watched the darkness gather.

Chapter Four

By the time the sun turned the windows to haze and sparkles, Jefrey and I were drinking the Lady’s too-strong coffee and nibbling at biscuits Thufe couldn’t have bitten in half.

“We didn’t see nothing, Lady,” said Jefrey, bleary-eyed. “I hope you slept.”

“I did,” she said, though she didn’t look it, and her hands had been shaking when she poured us coffee. She turned her eyes upon me. “Have you any new impressions, goodman Markhat?”

“Only on my backside,” I muttered. None of the Lady’s chairs should ever really be sat on for any length of time.

Jefrey snickered. I sipped, put down my cup. “Sorry,” I said. “I do have a few ideas, though. None you’re going to like. And none we ought to discuss unless we’re alone.”

She sighed, pulled a chair around to face us, sat. “Jefrey,” she said. “I’m filing a new will. The children will get an allowance, but be barred from the bulk of the estate. You will receive half a million crowns every year for as long as you live. If you want the money so badly that you’d kill me to get it, ask for it now and you’ll have it tomorrow.”

Jefrey went pale, dropped his biscuit.

The widow gave me the eye. “Now talk to me.”

“Fine.” I took in a breath. “I think someone is making a play against your will, Lady,” I said. “You can’t file a revision, and make it stick, if someone contests it on the basis of your impaired mental state,” I said. “It’s called the Nutty Uncle defense, and the Court has historically favored the heirs.”

The widow took in a breath and set her jaw.

“Someone who looks like Lord Merlat has been paying you visits,” I said. “You’ve been to the Watch. You’ve been to the Church. You’ve taken counsel from a Narrows soothsayer. You’ve even hired me.”

“What of it?”

“It looks bad,” I said. “Say someone drags in everyone you’ve talked to, Church and Watch and all. Say they all shake their heads and shrug and say yes, you asked them about revenants, and no, they hadn’t seen any.” I let it sink in. “Picture Mama Hog downtown, Lady. Picture her in a witness box. How many judges are going to take your side?”

Her hands went tight on the arms of her chair. She hadn’t thought of that. It had never once occurred to her that her children would do anything more than slink quietly away after having the family fortune snatched away from them.

I sighed. “So maybe what you saw wasn’t your husband,” I said.

“Then why did the dogs let him go?” she said. “How did he escape the footmen, that first night? Why do Jefrey’s beasts hide and whimper when he walks, now? Why?”

“I don’t know all that, yet,” I said, as gently as I could. “I’m just pointing out an alternative to what you must admit is a far-fetched supposition. The dead don’t walk, Lady. I’m sorry, but they don’t.”

She rose. Rose and stalked out of the room, leaving Jefrey and I alone.

“Half a million crowns. Half a million,” said Jefrey. “Hell, if they knowed that, they’d have killed me already.” He rose. “Damn, they’ll kill me as soon as they hear.”

I rose, too. Jefrey looked scared, and with reason, since the widow’s generosity had indeed made him a target.

“Hold on,” I said. “Could be they don’t know yet.”

“Could be they do.” He gripped his stick tight. “What is she thinking?”

“She’s thinking you’ve stood by her,” I said. “She’s thinking you deserve what amounts to a title and a House. So calm down and let’s figure out a way around this.”

Jefrey fell back into his chair. “You think it’s them too,” he said. “You think it’s the kids.”

“I’m not sure who, or why, or how,” I said. “But it’s the only thing that makes sense, so far. Unless you believe that Lord Merlat really does rise up and return, seeking vengeance on those who slew him.” I paused a moment, let that sink in. “And as far as I know, wet fever slew Lord Merlat, not the Lady, not his kids, not you. That is right, isn’t it? Wet fever?”

Jefrey nodded, still distracted. “Fever,” he said. He looked up at me, and his eyes were hard and angry. “What are we going to do?” he said.

I yawned. Even the widow’s coffee wasn’t going to keep me up much longer. “Keep our doors locked and our wits about us,” I said. “And from now on, if Elizabet bakes you a cake, I’d handle it with tongs and bury it quick.”

“You got that right,” said Jefrey. He stooped and picked up his dropped biscuit and put it on his tray. “May sleep with the dogs, too.”

How many times had I done just that, during the War? I shook off the memory. “Good night,” I said. Jefrey rose with an old man’s groan, gathered up trays and cups, and we shuffled away, Jefrey toward the kitchen, I toward my bed.

Thunder rolled, faint and far away. I stepped out of the hall and onto the marble-floored ballroom. The daylight that streamed through the high stained glass was weak and lead-colored.

I mounted the stairs, scowled. Just what I needed. A torrential rainstorm, perfect for chasing spooks on the lawn.

I charged up to bed and locked my door behind me.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

I rolled over, fought bed sheets and blinked at the weak sunlight sneaking past the curtains. It couldn’t be much past noon.

“Master Markhat is not to be disturbed,” I yelled when the blows on my door subsided. “Leave a bag of money at the door and go away.”

Jefrey guffawed. “Beggin’ yer Lordship’s pardon,” he said, “but get your lazy ass out of your borrowed bed and come on down here. It’s after four. You’ve got a letter from your soothsayer friend.” He hit the door again, just for spite. “There’s coffee waiting.”

I groaned, threw off sheets, squinted at the windows. After four?

I dressed, dragged a comb through my hair, splashed water in my face.

Jefrey was waiting in the hall, a cloth-wrapped biscuit and ham in his hand. “Here,” he said in a whisper. “I baked these. You can chew ’em without a grind-stone and a chisel.”

I took it and gulped it down as we walked. “You said I had a letter,” I said between bites.

“You got one and the Lady got one,” said Jefrey. “I feel all left out.”

I guffawed. “Don’t,” I said. “It’ll just be more dire warnings about spooks and haints and things that go bump.” I swallowed. Give the man credit-he could bake a biscuit. “Load of back-country nonsense.”

“I reckon,” said Jefrey. “But whatever was in the Lady’s shook her up.”

I frowned. Stay out of this, Mama, I thought. You stick to card reading and let me wrestle the jilted heirs.

“The kids still here?”

“They’re here,” replied Jefrey. “Stayed up in their rooms all day. But they was all in Elizabet’s rooms when I took ’em up lunch. They’re up to something.” Jefrey slowed at an intersection of dark, silent halls and glared at the shadows. “Better be on the look-out for ’em, you had.”

“I plan on it,” I replied. We reached the stairs and clambered on down. Lightning made brief whirls of color on the ballroom floor as we descended, and rain began to beat against the window-glass and fall in a muted roar upon the far-away slate roofs.

The widow was waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. A silver tray sat on a table beside her. The room smelled of too-strong coffee.

“Good afternoon, goodman,” she said to me. “Will you have coffee with us?”

“I will, thank you,” I said. A pair of envelopes was also on the tray, behind the trio of white china cups. One envelope had been opened. One had not.

“Jefrey told you we have letters from Mrs. Hog.”

I nodded. Jefrey poured. The widow picked up my envelope and handed it to me.

“Here is yours. Shall we retire to the front room?”

I shrugged, took the letter and the cup Jefrey stuck in my hand. The widow’s coffee was too hot and too strong, and she was saving money by eschewing cream or sugar, but I drank it anyway as we walked.

We wound up in the Gold Room again. Rain washed down over the windows, and a rising wind whipped occasional gusts of spray against them. The Lady lit a tall, skinny oil-lamp and bade us to sit.

I plopped down in the same chair I’d passed the night upon, put down my coffee, and ripped open Mama’s letter.

“Boy,” it read. I doubted the widow’s had been so informal. Mama’s spidery hand went on. “He’s coming. Coming back tonight. This won’t be like the other times. He was more shadow than substance, before. But not tonight. Tonight he’ll be as solid as a rock.”

I lifted an eyebrow, felt the widow’s gaze upon me and made my face relax. Jefrey guzzled coffee, his eyes closed, his thin frame spread limp over his chair.

I turned back to Mama’s letter. “This storm is his doing. Look outside at it, and you’ll know something of his rage. Take a good look, boy. If you’ve got any fool notions about running outside and grabbing him, you look at that sky and you think again.”

“I was hoping you’d have time to find the truth and bring it to light,” Mama wrote. “I was hoping you could lay Ebed Merlat to rest before he came like this. But there ain’t time. Not anymore. He’s coming, and you can’t stop it. So you stay with the widow. Stay and do what needs doing. Stay and do what she can’t, or won’t, do. You’ll know when the time comes.”

I turned the page. I was expecting more words, all done up in Mama’s best Wise Old Crone style. Instead, there was nothing on the paper but an intricate doodle, crooked and wandering in the middle of the page.

My eyes blurred, and a sudden sharp ache pounded in my temple, and I felt an instant of dizziness, as if the widow’s overstuffed sitting chair suddenly rose up and spun me twice about.

The doodle on the page writhed and blurred.

I tore my eyes away, covered the second page with the first and bit back a curse word, but it was too late. I felt cat-paws down my spine and knew the feeling, from my days in the Army. I’d been hexed, only this time it wasn’t for night-sight or bug-away, cast by a grumpy field sorcerer on our wide and shuffling ranks.

No, this time it was by Mama and her third-rate hex sign. I blinked and lowered the letter, felt the widow’s piercing gaze upon me and tried to soften my scowl but had no luck.

Mama, I thought, this time you’ve stepped over the line.

“What is it?” asked the widow. “Bad news?”

I shook my head. My vision was clearing, and the pounding in my head subsided, but I could still feel Mama’s hex tip-toeing across the skin on my neck.

“Mrs. Hog has her usual advice to me,” I said. I folded the letter. “And, as usual, I find that our opinions differ.”

The widow smiled, as though I’d just said something funny, or something Mama predicted I’d say in her letter to the widow.

Thunder rolled and I jumped, because in the blast I thought I heard a voice, almost heard a word.

Mama’s hex tweaked my nose, made it itch. I frowned and shoved the letter back in its envelope. Jefrey opened his eyes and turned them toward me.

“Bad storm a comin’,” he said idly. “Dead man’s rain.”

I glared at him, realized he hadn’t spoken a second time. Mama’s hex whirled and preened.

I thanked the widow for the coffee, claimed a need for a wash and made for the stairs, resisting the urge to stomp and mutter.

Thunder rolled, each peal more like a shout than the one before it. Shadows flew, scampering beside me down the dark halls, beckoning and inviting at each turn, crooking their fingers at each closed and quiet door. As I walked, I passed through places both warm and cold, heard snatches of music, jumped at a loud and broken sob.

“Thank you Mama,” I said aloud, upon entering the empty ballroom. “Just what I needed. A headful of things that aren’t there.”

I blinked, and the floor was full of dancers, all twirling and dipping in time to music drowned out by the thunder.

I charged up the stairs to splash water in my eyes and think of ways to repay Mama her thoughtful generosity.

I bathed in a cast-iron bathtub, changed clothes and paced around my room, hoping Mama’s hex would wear off before I had to go back downstairs, or that I could at least figure out what she’d done to me. Had no luck on either front. I could still see shadows leap at the edge of my vision after bathing, but I couldn’t see any obvious structure in the nature of the hex. Pinching the bridge of my nose didn’t help, either, which gave rise to the disturbing notion that Mama knew something about hex-signs that the Army sorcery corps didn’t.

I plopped down on my bed and opened my duffel. Thunder grumbled and coughed. I frowned, wondering if Mama’s hex was extending to my hearing as well, because I could almost make out voices in the thunder and the smash of rain.

I found my bag within the bag, opened it, pulled out the things I’d hoped I wouldn’t need. I had a lead-weighted knocking stick-easy to conceal under a jacket, yet quietly effective on hostile noggins; just the thing for strolls through my neighborhood just before Curfew. That, my Army knife, a pair of brass knuckles and a single unused Army-issue flash-spell wafer that might or might not light up when I broke it in half.

I sighed and shoved things in pockets. Mama’s hex showed me a glimpse of flames when I touched the flash-spell, and when I put my knife in its ankle-sheath I smelled the warm wet stench of a Troll tunnel again.

I jerked my hand away, rose, straightened my shirt. The rain smashed against my window, driven by a burst of wind that howled and blew and beat like a coastal gale. Lightning sent skeletal shadows snaking across the floor, and the hex made them linger.

I made for the door. I passed a window, and thought about what Mama had said-that this storm was Ebed Merlat’s, that to see his rage and fury, one need only look to the sky.

Mama’s hex showed me anguished faces in the windswept clouds. I walked away and shut the door fast behind me.

The storm grew worse. The daylight all but failed. Jefrey, the Widow Merlat, and I gathered in the Gold Room and watched the rain and the lightning and listened to a loud, old, silver goblin-clock tick off the moments.

There wasn’t much talk. Each of us seemed content to stare out at the storm, which had become as mesmerizing as any blazing campfire. I tried a few early prods and digs about the will and the children, but got nothing but glares and nods from the widow and grunts and sighs from Jefrey, so I let it drop.

The kids remained in their rooms, aside from Elizabet’s single foray downstairs for coffee and cold cuts from the kitchen. She even dressed for the occasion-high-slit skirt and cross-tied peasant blouse she hadn’t had time to finish lacing all the way-and hinted that she might need help with the tray. Jefrey ignored her, and Mama’s hex showed me skull and hollow eyes through the too-white skin of her face, so I affected a sudden interest in the window and she stalked off, glaring at my back.

The dogs raised doggy Hell once, just before dark. Jefrey groaned, rose and bade me sit.

“It’s only that fool grocer Vernon,” he said. “Right on time. Anybody with any sense would wait till tomorrow.” He sighed and rose. “Now I’ll have to unload it in this mess.”

I went with him, flash-paper concealed in my left hand. But it was only a wagon, a driver and a week’s worth of cabbages and carrots. I stood in the door while Jefrey and the driver hauled in crates, but no one and nothing entered the yard or the House but us and assorted green leafies.

The leaden sky grew darker. Jefrey and I made the rounds, checked every window, checked every door. I noted that of late, housecleaning at the Merlat estate meant gathering up piles of dirty laundry or dirty dishes and shoving them in stacks behind locked doors. I pretended not to notice and Jefrey pretended he didn’t care. And if either of us noticed that we were unconsciously preparing for trouble neither of us mentioned it.

The storm raged on, and Mama’s hex had me jumping at shadows. Jefrey had ghosts of his own, I suppose. I saw him turn quickly away from a mirror once, face ash pale, eyes wild.

“Nasty storm,” he said, shaking off whatever he’d seen. “Reckon it’ll blow itself out right soon.”

I didn’t think so, but I just nodded and lit a fresh candle.