Free The Five Faces (The Markhat Files) by Frank Tuttle Page B

reading, or you’ll be the worse for it.
    Gertriss told me all about that there drawing you found on that dead man. She told that all them fancy wand-wavers down to Avalante couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Shows what they know, boy, cause old Mama done heard whispers about the five faces, oh yes I have. Weeks ago, the rumors started. Some crazy man from up Prince way draws them faces and writes your name, and you is as good as dead, and no mistake. That’s what they say. I reckon it might be true.
    Them what knows of it won’t speak the crazy man’s name. But I reckon I’ll hear it spoke anyway, come sundown. I’ll even tell them fancy-pants halfdead up to Avalante, if’n it’s convenient. I reckon they is the lesser of neighboring evils, as they say.
    Don’t you go asking outright for this man’s name, boy. He’s got some kind of foreign mojo, can hear things, can see things. They say he can kill with just a look. I don’t put much stock in that but foreigners can have some outlandish hexes so you heed me, you hear?
    And don’t think I didn’t see you out walking last night, boy. Oh yes, I seen you pass, head near up to the clouds, all high and mighty-like. I seen you, and I seen who you was with, and boy you got to be thrice times three the biggest fool what ever lived if ye trust a word that creature says.
    I’ll send Buttercup to fetch you directly. Them Watchmen wants you bad. I reckon the weather will be nice and sunny today. I wears a size nine boot, and I prefers the leather ones from Bale’s General Store on Cauthon.
    Mama.
     
    I tore up the note and hid the scraps in case the Watch got inquisitive later. Then I sat back and waited for the sound of banshee feet on the roof and tried not to imagine Mama cackling smugly into her cauldron of stewed bats.
    I didn’t wait long. Buttercup appeared without a sound, wearing a Watchman’s blue hat and a grin far beyond her apparent years.
    I hung the round, blue Watch cap on my hat-rack, took her hand, and braced myself for the banshee hop-step.
     
     
    Buttercup only followed me a couple of blocks before waving and vanishing. I stuck to alleys and back streets, ducking in and out of doorways and stables, and slowly made my way back to the Docks.
    My feet were blistered by the time I smelled the first hint of the tanneries. I made a mental note to start walking more and napping less. Time was I could have traipsed around town all day without breaking a sweat, but I was puffing like an Ogre when I spotted the first shallow hull of a barge wallowing down the river toward Bel Loit.
    My plan for the morning was simple. I intended to poke around the Docks and see if I could scare up someone nervous enough to start naming names. If House Lethe wasn’t running the weed trade anymore, whoever was would be taking control.
    I didn’t figure they’d be using subtlety and gentle restraint with weed dealers.
    I also planned to find out who paid Chuckles to run the dog fights and ask them about men with wide-brimmed hats and outlandish accents. I was hoping the confusion created by the weed-trade takeover might have loosened a few tongues.
    Finding weeders was no problem. The gutters were filled with any number of them. Most wobbled or batted at the air before their faces or screamed incoherently at things only they could see.
    But I needed an ambulatory specimen, one with coppers to spend and a need to satisfy, so I turned my aching feet toward the wharfs and idled in the shade for a bit.
    A barge loaded with last year’s cotton bales rode low in the shallows while an army of sweating haulers transferred her cargo from deck to waiting wagons. I loitered until I spied a skinny, pockmarked laborer snatch a handful of coins from a blustering cargo master. Then I fell into step behind Skinny as he scurried off toward what I hoped was his first purchase of weed for the day.
    Skinny made a beeline for an alley by a fishmonger’s stinking, open-air stall. I watched