The Mister Trophy (3 page)

Liam’s dry eyes narrowed. “Haverlock will no longer be a threat to you, Finder,” he said. “Or to anyone else.”

“Time for a change in top-level management?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And we all live happily ever after.”

Liam hesitated, mulling that one over. “Yes. We live.”

I stood. “I’ll ask my Troll. We’ll see. When will you be back?”

“Later,” it said, turning and grasping the doorknob.

“Watch your step out there,” I said. “Gets rough in the neighborhood, after Curfew.”

It turned in the doorway and grinned.

“Especially tonight,” it said.

The door shut.

I hit the chair seat and fought back the first case of the shakes I’d had since the War.

Mister Smith’s heavy treads sounded at my door. “Come on in,” I yelled. “We’re always open.”

The Troll squeezed inside.

“I heard all,” said Mister Smith. He loomed over my desk, a mountain of fangs and fur, but he blinked and breathed and looked downright friendly compared to the Liam-thing. “You were brave in the presence of death,” said the Troll. “Your spirit is strong.”

“My spirit is scared,” I replied. “My spirit hopes and prays you can just take your cousin’s head and let bygones be bygones.”

“He said he would apologize, did he not?”

“He said so.”

“And does he speak for the clan Haverlock?”

I hesitated. “He speaks for those among clan Haverlock who think their master insane. He speaks for those who would remove the eldest Haverlock as leader, and put another in his place. Will that do?”

Mister Smith crouched down and got comfortable while his translator gargled and barked. He grumbled back at it a few times—asking, I suppose, for clarifications of weird human concepts like removing and replacing clan leaders.

“If we receive the head of our cousin and an apology from clan Haverlock,” he said at last, “We will be satisfied.”

“Who must give you the apology?” I asked.

“Clan Haverlock,” said his translator. “He who speaks for the clan,” it added, before I could ask again.

“That won’t be the same guy that actually stole the head,” I said. “I want to make sure you understand that.”

Mister Smith blinked and burped. “Naturally not,” spoke the translator. “It will no longer be possible for him to do so.”

I took in a deep breath. “I knew this was going too well,” I muttered. “Too easy.”

The translator started sloshing that out. “What I meant,” I said, “was that I’ve missed something here. Tell me—why don’t you expect old man Haverlock to apologize?”

Mister Smith chuckled. “Because,” he said, “part of the apology is the balance of insults. Haverlock kept the bones of my cousin these twenty summers. We will keep his bones for the same span. Honor will be restored, both to our clan and his. Is this not the way of all thinking beings?”

“So I have to give you old man Haverlock’s bones.”

“We’ll go and fetch them, if necessary.”

I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. “I bet you would.” I said. “But they’ll be waiting and even the three of you wouldn’t make it off the Hill tonight.”

“We might.”

“You’d die,” I said. “And that would be my fault and who would balance my honor?”

Mister Smith’s brow furrowed. “You have no clan?”

“Nope,” I said. “Clanless Markhat, that’s what they call me. No one to wash my socks.” I stood and stretched.

Something heavy hit the wall outside. Plaster cracked by my doorframe. There was a muffled thud, a squeal like a stepped-on puppy, and a wet tearing sound.

A Troll voice came from the street. Mister Smith growled back.

“One of what you call the half-dead approached,” said Mister Smith. “Not the one called Liam of the House Haverlock. This new half-dead withdrew a weapon and approached your door.”

“What was the ruckus?” I croaked.

“Mister Jones,” said Mister Smith. “He is sorry. He meant to leave the half-dead creature able to answer to you for the insult to your house, but he fears he squashed it. Shall we see?”

Something thin and dark was beginning to seep in under the door.

“Bring me its clothes,” I said. “Toss the rest in a garbage box, if you please.”

Mister Smith rumbled. There was a shuffling outside, and more liquid tearing noises. Mister Jones was having trouble deciding where clothes ended and half-dead began.

If it was one of the Haverlocks, I probably wouldn’t live to see Liam’s coup begin. If it belonged to another House, that meant word had spread and someone had decided a Troll vendetta might do to Haverlock what a dozen Families couldn’t. And what better way to touch things off than by bopping off that meddlesome Markhat?

Mister Jones shoved a wad of clothes through the door. They were wet, and it wasn’t raining.

I stuck my Army knife in the bundle, plopped it down on my desk, and spread things out with the blade.

Black pants, black shirt, black coat, black cloak. And one black shoe, foot still comfortably ensconced.

The shirt-buttons bore tiny dragon heads.

“He was of House Lathe,” I said. “Not one of Haverlock’s boys.”

I bundled things back up. “These can go with the rest,” I said. “And thank Mister Jones for me.”

Mister Smith made rumbles. Mister Jones bowed—I’d never seen a Troll do that before. Then he took the bundle and faded away.

“Will there be more?” asked Mister Smith.

“Could be,” I said. “But we’ve got to wait here for Liam.”

“We will be vigilant,” said Mister Smith. “Fear not.”

I settled back and grabbed my useless whetstone.

We waited, my Trolls and I. Mister Smith crouched in the corner and used my desk as an armrest. Mister Jones leaned against the wall outside my door and cleaned his foot-long claws. We kept Mister Chin hidden inside Mama Hog’s, and from the gurgling and choking I guessed that he and Mama Hog were gabbing away like spinster aunts. I’d told Mama Hog to stay with a friend until this mess was over. She’d pretended not to hear.

Mister Jones growled a couple times between dusk and the tenth hour, but nothing and no one came closer than the corner. I got sleepy despite the steady whirlwind wheeze of Mister Smith’s breathing and the knowledge that dozens of night people might be licking pale lips and heading my way.

The Watch sounded the eleventh hour. The bell wasn’t yet still when Mister Chin rumbled something long and nasty and Mister Smith unfolded and stood.

“One comes,” said Mister Smith. “Mister Jones thinks it is he who came before.”

“Let him in,” I said, standing and slipping my Marine knife in a pocket. “Squash him if he makes rude comments.” I added that in a loud, clear voice I was sure our visitor heard.

The door opened. It was Liam. He stepped inside, and his face in my lamplight looked pink around the edges.

“Have a nice supper?” I asked.

He grinned. His mouth was red and wet.

“I suppose we have a deal,” he said quietly. “Or is this an ambush?”

“We have a deal,” I said. “And us Trolls don’t do ambushes. Besmirches our honor.”

Liam nodded. He hadn’t looked at Mister Smith directly, and he wisely refrained from an eye-to-eye now. “You may retrieve your parcel tomorrow. At a time and a place that will be communicated to you later, via messenger.”

I frowned. “Why not tell me now?”

He frowned back. His frown was meaner than mine. “We both have interests to protect. Tomorrow. By messenger. Or else.”

Mister Smith growled. I shrugged. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Might I make a suggestion?” said Liam.

“Make away.”

“Bring your associates and come with me,” he said. “I can take you to a place of safety, for the night.”

Mister Smith made boot-in-mud noises his translator didn’t bother to translate.

“Much as I love slumber parties,” I said, “I think we’ll pass on this one. Thanks anyway.”

Liam shook his head. “You’ve been seen. You’ve been heard. The wrong people want to make trouble by killing you or attacking the Walking Stones just so Haverlock will have its own private Troll war.”

“Do tell.”

Liam cursed. “Three Trolls can’t hold off a dozen Families,” he said. “No offense intended.”

“None taken,” said Mister Smith, in Kingdom. “But until our insult has been balanced, we may not accept the hospitality of your House.”

“They are coming,” said Liam, wet lips a tight line across his pale face. “They are coming.”

“And we stand ready,” grumbled Mister Smith. “Ready to fight. Ready to die.” He puffed up and out, claws slipping out of sheaths, eyes narrowing, muscles tightening and bulking.

I bit back stammering noises. Liam shrugged. “If you live, you will be told tomorrow when and where to meet.”

“See to your own life,” said Mister Smith. “We shall see to ours.”

Liam gave me a long look out of those dead eyes. I tried to look confident and tough and wound up sneezing.

He left, noiseless as a shadow. The door shut and Mister Smith deflated and I mopped sweat off my brow.

Mister Smith grumbled something short and loud. Misters Jones and Chin growled back.

“We go,” he said to me.

“Go where?” I asked.

“Underneath. Below. To the tunnels that wind beneath your streets.”

“Not the sewers.” Please, not the sewers.

“The sewers,” he said, barking again at his friends. “Quickly.”

My speech about how Liam was right and how we couldn’t hold off a Night People offensive in my shabby ten-by-ten office and how we had to hide was hastily rewriting itself to exclude Rannit’s sewer system as the hiding place. “What about ‘we fight, we die?’” I asked. “What happened to bravery and heroism?”

Mister Smith rolled his eyes. “Load of crap,” he said. “Time to fight, we fight. Time to run, we run. Now is time to run. With haste.”

And so we went, with haste. The Trolls glided, noiseless as clouds. I trotted, feet thumping, pockets jingling until I tossed a handful of jerks out in the gutter. We charged all the way down Cambrit and turned the corner at Artifice and then darted into the foul-smelling alley by Barlett’s Butcher Shop.

Halfway down the moonlit alley, Mister Chin halted, stooped, rose and vanished. Mister Jones trotted to the same spot and dropped out of sight as well. Mister Smith put a sausage-sized finger in my back and gave me a friendly nudge. “We prepared several egresses some days ago,” he said. “You have but to step into the hole and drop. The Misters will catch you safe.”

I did not then pause to reflect on the wisdom of stepping into an abyss on the hope I would be caught at the bottom by Trolls. Something in Mister Smith’s tone brooked no argument. Troll ears are better than mine; maybe he heard the telltale flapping of exquisitely tailored cloaks.

I stepped off into the dark, and fell.

And fell. About the time I decided the Misters had missed, four bony Troll paws caught me and gave way enough to break my fall and not my back. My breath went out of me and I was tossed over a furry shoulder and we were charging through the dark before I could do more than gasp and wiggle.

“Put me down,” I said at last. “I can run now.”

Mister Chin obliged, slowing down to a trot and plunking me down like a child. He kept hold of my hand. “Follow,” he said, his translator’s voice higher in tone than Mister Smith’s. “Keep hold.”

And we were off. I held on and bounced off walls and tripped on gods-know-what and got soaked to my waist, but I kept the Misters in sight. Along the way I tried to memorize turnings and windings but finally had to just give it up—if I got out before daylight it would be with the Trolls or not at all.

So I gave up plotting our course and decided to ruminate on other matters instead. First and foremost, my talking Trolls.

Translator spells—or spells of any kind, shape, intent or fashion—had always been anathema to Trolls. Perversions, they called magics. Betrayals of the land-spirits, or something. Trolls used no magic during the War, and it cost them dear all along, right up until they lost.

Our wand-wavers never quite came to grips with that. They were always expecting some last-minute barrage of deadly Troll magics, a barrage that never came because of some ancient philosophical taboo no Troll ever broke.

Until now. Here were three Walking Stones with translators. I was beginning to suspect they weren’t human-made translators, mainly because they worked too well. And though I’m no expert on Troll optometry I was beginning to suspect the Misters had some night vision spells going, too—we were charging headlong and Troll-quick through sewers blacker and darker than the Regent’s shriveled heart and the Misters never missed a step.

Trolls with magic. Magic—and the half-dead—gave us the slightest of edges in the War. A dozen Troll sorcerers could have easily tipped the scales the other way.

I picked up the pace. Half the time my feet were off the ground anyway. It’s hard to keep up with a Troll in a hurry.