Free Hold The Dark: A Markhat story by Frank Tuttle Page B

conversation was nearly over. “But thanks, all the same.”
    He made a little dip with his head. “And thank you.” He rose, stopped, looked up at me like he’d just thought of something. “I have an idea.”
    “Do tell.”
    “I am forbidden to divulge the details of certain delicate matters to you. I am bound, by honor and oath, to obey this stricture.”
    “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to do otherwise.”
    He grinned, put his hand quickly over his lips. “Still. I have several errands to run this evening, finder. I am hardly to be blamed if you follow me and perhaps draw your own conclusions as to the nature of my actions.”
    I rose too. “Forgive me, but trotting along behind you strikes me as a good way to wind up on the dead wagon in the morning. What if one of your friends mistook me for a common thief or a light snack?” I shook my head. “No, thanks.”
    “That is a problem. But happily, I have a coach. My driver is discrete. If you have a dark coat, you could come along, and I assure you no one would be the wiser.”
    “What about your oath?”
    He shrugged. “The House, as I said, values initiative. If I’m asked if I was followed, I can honestly say I was not. And if they ask if I invited you to ride along with me, well, I should have to confess, but I doubt that I’ll be asked that particular question.”
    I lifted an eyebrow.
    “Miss Hoobin has, at best, four days. My efforts to locate her have proved fruitless, as have yours. You lack the time to learn what I have learned. I lack your ability to move about unnoticed, and move about in the daylight. I give you my word you will not be harmed. I give you my word you will be returned here safely well before sunrise.”
    He took off his glasses, looked me eye-to-eye. “I am halfdead, Mr. Markhat. That may well deny me a place among the saints, but does it truly guarantee me a throne beside the devil?”
    I looked him in the eye. No saint ever had such a face, or such a stare.
    “I’ll get my coat. And call me Markhat. Mister is for old folks.”
    Evis smiled a pointy smile behind his hand. “Call me Evis. Shall we go?”
    We went, the devil and I, out into the night.
     
    Curfew, quoth the Regent, is Rannit’s greatest achievement since the War.
    That statement is usually followed by a lot of prattle about peaceful co-existence with our halfdead brethren and statistics twisted to prove that the only groups preyed upon by said brethren are burglars and street gangs. Honest folk, we are assured, folk tired from a day’s honest work, folk at home and in their beds, these folk have nothing to fear from the halfdead.
    I sat alone across from Evis. Beside him, on either side, sat two more halfdead, both taller and wider than he. They too wore gloves, and black, high-collared shirts that nearly covered their skin. They smelled of strong fire-flower cologne and new leather boots. Their hats were worn low, their faces were turned down and their chests never rose, never fell.
    The driver, surprisingly, was human, as was the man seated beside him. Occasionally they’d exchange a muffled laugh or curse as the carriage lurched over a pothole. Hearing their voices was comforting to me, the sole human passenger in a carriage full of halfdead.
    I watched the dark streets roll by through the glass over Evis’s shoulder. Streetlamps guttered and sparked. There was still light in a few windows, and more than once I saw it extinguished as we passed.
    We left Cambrit, followed Stewart to the crossing of the Edge Street sewer canal, then veered off down an alley and turned south.
    Evis peeped over my shoulder, watched the streets roll by through the window at my back. He’d put his glasses away, and his dead eyes shone now and then in the passing light of streetlamps.
    “Do you miss it?” he asked, looking out at the dark. “You cannot appreciate it, under the Curfew.”
    The carriage rolled on. I caught sight of a drunk, who saw the halfdead carriage,