Read Online The Broken Bell by Frank Tuttle - Free Book Online Page B

woman—a somewhat plain, somewhat aged, somewhat weary woman, with tired green eyes and messy grey hair and a face that had long ago forgotten how to smile.
    It seems we talked, at great length, about Rannit and the Regent and battles and wars. I don’t recall anything that was said, or asked, or answered, save that it seemed a great loss of life was both looming and inevitable.
    When I woke, in that middle of the night’s deep dark, I was not rested. Something stirred in the shadows of my room, and for an instant I thought I spied Three-leg, stretching before prowling out to terrorize his streets.
    But it was Buttercup in my room, crouched by my bed, her tiny face wrinkled in worry.
    Before I could speak, she handed me a ragged sock-doll, hugged my neck and vanished.
    Damned if I didn’t sleep well after that, a banshee’s tattered doll suspiciously close to my pillow.
     
    Morning came, bringing with it sunlight and singing birds and Three-leg’s insistence that I rise at once. I pushed him off the bed twice before he roused me by raking claws across my bare back.
    While Three-leg dined, I gathered clean clothes and wrapped them in a bundle and stepped out into the street after a quick peek through my barely-opened door. I stopped by Mama’s briefly on my way to the bathhouse. The Hoogas were in place, upright and immovable as granite statues. I don’t speak enough ogre to do more than say hello, but my old friend Hooga can nod for yes and shake for no, and thus I was able to establish that Mama had received no visitors during the night.
    I started to knock, but decided on a bath first. I bade the Hoogas good morning, and when I emerged from the hot water a half-hour later I was shaved and soaped and not quite smiling.
    Rannit was stirring to life around me. Old Mr. Bull was on his stoop, sweeping away whatever imaginary soil collected during the night. The newcomers to the neighborhood, the Arwheat brothers, were taking the iron shutters off their windows and trading shouts in their harsh Southlands tongue. They smiled and waved as I passed, and went back to screaming at each other the instant I returned their greeting.
    Mama met me at her door and thrust a steaming mug of coffee at me before I even spoke.
    “Good morning to you too.”
    “Here’s something for you, boys.” Mama reached inside and came out with two black hunks of ogre hash. The Hoogas took them, sniffed them, and ate them without ever taking their big ogre eyes off the street.
    “Come on in, boy. Ain’t nobody up yet but me an’ you.”
    I dipped eyes with Hooga and followed Mama indoors.
    Mama keeps her windows covered with burlap curtains. The only light comes from candles. The candles are handmade by Mama herself, and while I’m sure each has a specific arcane purpose they all smell like sun-baked manure.
    I breathe through my mouth when I visit Mama, most days.
    Her card and potion shop was dark and fragrant, but not quiet. Two sets of snores sounded from the back, and neither was dainty.
    I sank onto Mama’s rickety client’s chair and sipped her coffee.
    “So, no Sprangs came calling last night.”
    “Nobody came calling.” Mama spoke softly. “Not that I figured they would.”
    “I don’t like this any more than you, Mama. I’m paying the Hoogas, remember?”
    “Wasting your coin, you are.”
    I shrugged. Maybe I was. Wouldn’t be the first time.
    “We can’t keep her in that room forever, boy. Nor me.”
    “I know.” Mama’s coffee wasn’t half bad. Or maybe the stench of her blue-flamed candles was making it hard to taste the chicory she prefers.
    “So, what you reckon on doing about it?”
    “I reckon on talking to the Sprangs again,” I said. “In fact, I’ve given some thought to bailing them out myself.”
    “Boy!” Mama forgot to be quiet. The snoring continued. She glared and forced herself back into her chair and shook her head. “Why would you do a damn fool thing such as that?”
    “First, because