Burn Me Deadly

ELEVEN

I should’ve seen it coming. Anyone else would’ve.

Hank’s eldest son, Bruce, who now looked suddenly much older than his fifteen years, delivered the beast to me at the tavern an hour after I spoke to his mom. Somewhere he’d acquired a beat-up old saddle, as mine had also burned up in the stable. The creature regarded me with the same animosity I felt toward her.

“She’s a little contrary,” Bruce said. “But since you’ve borrowed her before, you already know that.” He held out a folded piece of vellum. “Here’s her papers.”

“Thanks,” I said with all the considerable cynicism I could muster. I had no one to blame but myself for not being specific. “Tell me, didn’t you have any other horses? Maybe a three-legged one with a missing eye or something?”

He looked at me with the same vaguely perplexed expression my sarcasm always elicited from his late father. “No, this is the only one left. Mom traded the rest for a farm outside of town. She says we’re never coming back to Neceda again.”

“Well, tell her thank you. And that I’ll be in touch.”

He started to turn away, then stopped and faced me again. He stood to his full height. “My daddy didn’t burn down the stable.”

“I know.”

“And once I get Mom settled, I’ll be finding out who did.”

He said it with a real attempt to sound like a grown man. I said, “Before you do, come see me.”

“Why?”

I had my sword out and at his throat before he’d finished exhaling the word. My free hand grabbed the back of his hair and held him firm against the blade. Nothing he could do, even kicking me in the balls, could stop me from slitting his throat, and he knew it. His eyes were wide with a child’s terror. In the same reasonable tone I said, “Because whoever killed your dad can do this, too. And your mom doesn’t deserve to lose anyone else.”

He nodded quickly. I released him and he jumped back out of what he assumed was blade’s reach. I put my sword away and said, “As the oldest son, you’ve got a lot on you. Let that occupy you for right now.”

He nodded again.

I offered my hand. He tried his best to give me a solid, man-to-man handshake, and it did hurt a little because my knuckles were still sore. Then he walked away as rapidly as he could without appearing to flee.

He nearly ran smack into Angelina, heading wearily toward the tavern. She caught him by the shoulders, smiled ruefully and mussed his hair. This seemed to completely realign his teenage priorities: he continued slowly now, surreptitiously following her with his eyes until he turned the corner.

When she reached me Angelina said without looking back, “Hank’s boy was checking out my ass, wasn’t he?”

I nodded. “You’ll be the standard all his girlfriends have to live up to.”

She chuckled. “I’ve got tattoos older than him.” Then she looked at the horse. “New ride?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s her name?”

“I have no idea.” I opened the horse’s ownership papers. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“What?”

“Her name’s ‘Pansy.’ ”

Angelina smiled. “Pansy. Eddie and Pansy.” She made kissing noises.

“Stop it.”

“She doesn’t look as friendly as Lola.”

“Neither do you. Hey, would you do me a favor?” I handed her a wax-sealed note on which I’d detailed as much of my plans as I knew. It said I was going to find Gordon Marantz in Walpaca, the town commonly thought to be his home base, and hoped to be back in three days at the most. “Give this to Liz. I may be gone for a while.”

“Trying to find out what happened to Hank Pinster?”

“Where you from, Angel?” I shot back. It was my standard reply when she asked questions she knew I wouldn’t answer.

“Okay, okay. No questions, no lies. Of course I’ll give it to her.” She tucked it into her belt and looked up at me. “And you be careful. You still owe me rent and a pretty big bar tab.”

“I’m always careful,” I promised. Then I tossed Pansy’s reins over the hitching post.

“Hey, whoa, you’re not leaving that nag here,” Angelina said. “She’ll scare off the respectable horses.”

“Relax; I just have a couple of errands to run. She’ll be gone before lunch.”

“She better be, or my lunch special will be your ass.”

ANY connection with Gordon Marantz was cause for alarm, but the link between Marantz’s so-called “dragon people” and those weird folk with the red scarves nagged at me as well. Nothing happened in Neceda without a lot of people knowing about it, but that information was often unreliable, filtered through suspicion and self-interest. I needed a solid source for local gossip, and knew just the man.

Sharky Shavers stood on one of his flatboats moored on the Gusay. His shipping business operated out of a small building on Main Street, and the back door led straight down to the water. Like a lot of people who worked in town, he, his wife and four kids lived in the same building as his business. I went down the public walk to the docks and spotted him as he gazed over the side of the boat into the water. He did not look up, engrossed in whatever he observed.

Suddenly a head popped up at his feet. I thought at first it was his oldest son, Kenny, but the face was feminine, if not exactly attractive. Apparently his daughter, Minnow, was now old enough to join in the family business, and in Sharky’s world, everyone pitched in with the hard stuff.

“Looks like a branch snagged up there, dragging on the river bottom,” Minnow said as she hauled herself onto the boat. Sharky did not offer to help. She flopped on her belly like her namesake, then jumped to her feet. She was about fourteen, and the skimpy, waterlogged shift she wore would be scandalous on her before winter.

“Did you get it out?” Sharky asked.

“Not ‘til we discuss my deal.”

“You are not going off to be one of those weird-ass moon worshippers. That’s final.”

“What ‘going off’? It’s right outside town!” Minnow shot back. Their inflections, body language and obstinateness were identical.

“And they do bang-up work on banged-up heads,” I said by way of announcing myself.

“Hey, Eddie,” Sharky said. “Go put some clothes on,” he snapped at his daughter. “And send Terrell down to get that branch out.”

Minnow ran her hand coyly along the shift’s hem. “Then you have noticed I’m not a baby anymore.”

“I’ve noticed you’re about to get my foot up your ass for smarting off. Get!” He smacked the back of her head, not hard but firmly, and she scampered past me with a big grin. He sighed and climbed onto the dock. “Three boys, and put together they’re not as much trouble as that girl.”

“Why not let her go? She might not like it; then you can say you told her so.”

“Oh, she’ll like it. That’s what worries me.” He wiped his hands on a rag, then shook mine. “What brings you down here?”

I flipped a gold coin in the air so it caught the sunlight. Sharky’s eyes narrowed. “I wondered,” I said casually, “what you knew about the new owners of the Lizard’s Kiss.”

Sharky caught the coin on its next flip. “Bunch of weirdos from deep in the Black River Hills. They all look the same because they’ve been inbreeding for generations.”

“What’s with the scarves?”

“Religious symbol. Dragon worshippers.”

My eyebrows went up, but only slightly. Had to appear a little surprised. “Dragons?”

“Yeah. These guys believe dragons were real, and that they’ll come back one day and burn up everyone who ain’t part of their church.”

“Why did they buy a whorehouse?” Usually these strange little cults enforced strict, ascetic behavior that certainly didn’t encourage promiscuity.

“Don’t know, but Joan Diter had to skedaddle in the middle of the night. I saw her load onto a boat and head downstream with barely more than she could carry. And she was no wilting flower, that woman.”

The pattern was forming. Marantz certainly had the muscle to run off anyone he wanted, and his thugs had the same red scarves as these backwoods lacktooths and wore dragon emblems. I couldn’t imagine Marantz had suddenly found religion, though. Why bring these guys to town, buy a whorehouse and then close it? Why send his men into the hills to look for something by coating rocks with lamp oil? And why torture Laura Lesperitt to death? “Thanks,” I said, and patted Sharky’s arm.

As I climbed the hill from the riverbank, Minnow rushed to intercept me. She had on a dry dress, but her hair was still wet. “Mr. LaCrosse! Can I talk to you? You know Mother Bennings, don’t you?”

“She patched me up, but we’re not best friends.”

She looked up at me, eager and breathless. “Would you put in a word for me? I really want to learn from her.”

“Why? It’s not an easy life. There are places where moon priestesses are arrested on sight and turned into prostitutes.”

“Really?” She blinked in surprise. “Around here?”

“No. But they do it in Menasha. And in Brule their tongues are cut out if they speak in public.” That was a slight exaggeration, since all women were forbidden to speak in Brule, but in my experience moon priestesses were harder than most to shut up.

Minnow turned as pale as her dress. “Wow. You’re not lying to me just to help my dad, are you? Because he’s afraid if I join-”

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Minnow, I’m telling you things I’ve seen with my own eyes. Your dad probably doesn’t know about them, and if he did, he’d keep it to himself just to spare you. He loves you.”

I could see her mind working behind her big dark eyes. “Wow,” she said again. “Thanks, Mr. LaCrosse.” She turned and went back inside much more slowly, lost in thought.

I sighed. One more dream destroyed. Way to go.

THE barber, his hands still smelling of blood from a tooth extraction performed that morning, cut my hair shorter than it had been since I’d graduated to long pants. He was careful around the scab on the back of my head, but it still made my eyes water a couple of times. He also shaved my beard from my chin, leaving my mustache and side-whiskers. He trimmed them down to a fine, spidery line.

One reason I kept my hair long and my beard shaggy was so, in a pinch like this, I could quickly and drastically alter my appearance. I learned the trick a while back, during a particularly awful job on the island of Grand Bruan. When he held up the polished silver plate for me to check myself in, I saw someone I could barely identify; I doubted anyone who’d casually seen me around Neceda would recognize me elsewhere, especially with my new horse. I paid the barber extra, an unspoken agreement for his silence. It would hold, I knew, until someone offered him more.

I turned up Ditch Street on my way out of town and stopped in front of the old Lizard’s Kiss building.

It was two stories, slightly larger than Mrs. Talbot’s rooming house. The bottom floor was broader than the top, allowing room for a narrow walkway around the entire upper half. During festivals, the girls would hang over the rails to entice new customers. In the back was a walled-in garden, hidden from the street and the neighboring buildings. Upstairs were four rooms, while downstairs held four more, plus the large sitting room where guests could meet the ladies. The decor, on the outside at least, was drab and nondescript. I’d never personally seen the inside, and only knew as much as I did from piecing together stories told at Angelina’s.

From the street it looked abandoned: the doors were closed, and all the windows boarded up. The comfortable chairs that once lined the street-level porch had been removed. Still, the dirt had been trampled recently by a lot of feet, and footprints led up the steps to the door.

I added mine to them. I put my ear to the wood and listened. I heard faint hammering sounds and indistinct voices.

Then I felt the porch shift under new weight. Without acknowledging it, I slid my hand toward my sword hilt. I was ready when the voice said, “It’s closed.”

I turned. One of the red-scarfed men, his clothes streaked with dirt, stood behind me. He had hands the size of skillets that looked like he could twist off a mule’s head. His eyes were small and dark. The top of his head came up to my shoulder.

“Sounds like they’re renovating,” I said genially. “When will it open back up? There used to be a curly-headed redhead here who could swallow-”

“It’s closed for good,” he said in his guttural backwoods accent. “There’s other whorehouses in town.”

“Yeah, but this is the Lizard’s Kiss. It’s a legend.”

“It’s a closed legend.”

I sighed with all the weariness of a disappointed traveler. “Aren’t they all? Okay, thanks.”

He stepped aside as I went back to my horse, but he kept watching me until I disappeared around the corner. Sharky had them pegged, all right. But why were they here? And what did they have to do with Marantz?

MY route to Walpaca took me past the hospital, and Minnow’s questions reminded me that Hank had mentioned Mother Bennings. I detoured up the path to the building, where several of the young apprentices gathered outside the main door. As I got closer I heard some of them sobbing. I dismounted, threw the reins around the post and approached. I realized all of them were sobbing. “What’s going on?” I asked.

A girl with straight black hair and splotchy cheeks turned to me. “Someone killed Mother Bennings!” she wailed.

My stomach clenched. It had been doing that a lot lately. “What happened?” I asked. But the girl resumed blubbering on her friend’s shoulder. None of the others looked like they were in any shape to answer questions, either, so I pushed past them into the building.

I followed the line of crying girls into one of the big consulting rooms. Here the adult staff, all women with gray hair and serious expressions, stood around a table on which a body lay under a sheet. A few had wet cheeks and red eyes, but none were hysterical. I was about to say something when Argoset appeared from a side room, his hand on a matronly healer’s shoulder.

He was in uniform again, every hair in place and all his buttons shiny. The woman sniffled and nodded along with whatever he was saying. He stopped dead when he saw me, and it took him a moment to place me; guess the new haircut and shave worked. “Mr. LaCrosse. I’m surprised to see you up and around after last night. And freshly shorn at that.”

“I’m spry for my age.”

“Indeed. Marion’s still recuperating; I’ll have to tease him about that.” He excused himself from the matron and pulled me aside. “What brings you here?”

“Follow-up visit with Mother Bennings.” It wasn’t technically a lie, and it sounded reasonable.

“I see. Well, as you’ve no doubt heard, Mother Bennings is no longer available.” He gestured at the body on the table.

I lifted the sheet. Argoset said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I didn’t flinch. I’d seen more gory death than he’d had wet dreams, although this one was certainly disturbing. The gentle-spirited priestess had been slit from navel to chin in a single clean slice, cutting through ribs and muscle. A lot of her insides were now draped outside. I looked at her face only long enough to assure myself of her identity. “What happened?” I said.

“We’re not sure. Some of your town’s leading citizens stumbled over her body just after dawn this morning. Seems they’d been celebrating the demise of the livery stable and found her in an alley.”

My mouth went dry, but I kept my face neutral. Liz, Gary and I had passed a body in the alley ourselves last night; had it been kindly, strong-willed Mother Bennings? At least, judging from the wound, I wouldn’t be tormented by the thought that we could’ve helped her. “What did Gary say about it?”

“Like Marion, Magistrate Bunson is suffering the effects of the smoke, so I decided to conduct the preliminary investigation myself. We all work for the same king, after all. So far, I’d have to say it looks like somebody with medical knowledge did it.” He gestured around us. “No shortage of suspects for that. Except that it would also take considerable physical strength.”

He spoke too softly for the other women to hear us. I nodded, thinking of the way Hank Pinster had also been killed by someone stronger than normal. “Well. Guess I’ll need to get a new doctor.”

“Yes. Oh, and just to be thorough, since you did know the doctor

… where did you go after the fire?”

“To Angelina’s tavern, then home.”

“And your wife will corroborate that?”

“Yes. But if you call her my wife to her face, she might neuter you.”

“Do you mind if I see your sword?”

I drew it slowly and presented it to him, hilt in my right hand with the blade across my left palm. He looked at it closely, checking for traces of blood. There were none. “I see you don’t carry a dagger.”

I did, but it was hidden in my boot and he didn’t need to know that. “I try not to let anyone get that close.”

He nodded again. “I’m sorry. I like to eliminate as many dangling threads as possible. Makes it easier to see the pattern of the blanket.”

“Nice metaphor,” I said as I sheathed the weapon.

He shrugged modestly. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of distraught women to question.”

I nodded, turned and left. The morning had certainly started off on a grim, bloody note, and I hadn’t even found Gordon Marantz yet.