careful though they were, they were only human.
And that particular human just made a grave mistake.
His eyes had given him away. He’d looked up, more than he’d looked right or left. Which confirmed what I suspected—the watchers were stationed high above. He’d known they couldn’t see him return his beer to the humble street from whence it came.
He’d told me something else too. There was nobody on the street. Which meant only one thing.
I was watching the wrong damned side of the wall.
It made perfect sense. Even things out of nightmares need men to do their bidding, and men need food and water and supplies. Moving all of that in and out of the old tower would be impossible in secret, even if you managed to empty the block—the wagons would still be seen coming or going. Tongues would wag.
Unless you smashed a hole in the decrepit, old wall and provisioned your forces from the outside. Then no one would know, or care if they did.
Rannites, myself included, are funny that way. The Watch doesn’t give a damn what transpires beyond those old walls. Neither do the neighbors. We’re vaguely aware there are trees and fields and isolated farming communities out there, but we seldom give them a second thought.
I sat grinning for another half hour. Then I bade the shade of Petey farewell and eased my way out, careful not make any more noise than the ghosts I seldom believe in.
By the time I was far enough away to be sure I was just another figure on the street, night was falling. I hoofed it six blocks before hailing a cab and got to the hotel right as the supper plates were being cleared from the dining room. I managed to snag a pair, get them warmed up on the kitchen stove, and make my way upstairs without being assaulted by the Watch.
I was balancing plates and beers when I heard voices from inside my room. A moment of hasty juggling saw the plates put silently on the floor, swapped for revolvers.
I crept closer.
Mama Hog’s laughter rang out clear and plain. Darla said something, and Mama laughed again, and when she paused for breath I gave the door our secret knock.
“Well, it’s about damn time,” said Mama as Darla’s soft footsteps came toward the door. “Boy, has I got things to tell.”
Chapter Ten
With Darla and I seated on the tiny couch, and Mama holding court from the hotel room’s single, overstuffed armchair, we sat in silence while Mama waved her dried owls and muttered nonsense words under her breath.
Darla watched with interest that was either real or convincingly feigned. I’d seen Mama’s shaking bird act so many times I figured I could do it myself, if I had any desire to fill my lap with desiccated feathers.
But since experience taught me that commenting on Mama’s avian ritual would only prolong it, I sat quietly and limited my commentary to the occasional eye roll, which Darla pretended not to see.
Mama spat out a final string of babbling and stuffed her dead owl back in her shapeless, burlap sack.
“That there is thirsty work,” she opined. I fetched a trio of warm beers—the hotel hadn’t yet invested in newfangled luxuries such as iceboxes—and passed them around.
Mama took a long draught and smacked her lips.
“I knows a name,” she said, keeping her voice pitched just above a whisper. “But I won’t speak it. Nor will you, boy, or you, dear. I wrote it down, so’s you can read it, but don’t you say it out loud, you hear?”
“We hear,” said Darla. She took my left hand and squeezed it. She wasn’t smiling, and her hand was cold.
Mama’s had a lot of practice being dramatic. So when she handed me a folded scrap of paper, I opened it and held it up to the lamp. She’d written two words, in big block letters, like this:
K I C U V R O T I V
“Kicuv Rotiv?” I said aloud.
Mama snatched the paper from my hand.
“I knowed you would do some damn fool thing like that! I told you, boy, this here man has got foreign mojo. He hears his name spoke,
And that particular human just made a grave mistake.
His eyes had given him away. He’d looked up, more than he’d looked right or left. Which confirmed what I suspected—the watchers were stationed high above. He’d known they couldn’t see him return his beer to the humble street from whence it came.
He’d told me something else too. There was nobody on the street. Which meant only one thing.
I was watching the wrong damned side of the wall.
It made perfect sense. Even things out of nightmares need men to do their bidding, and men need food and water and supplies. Moving all of that in and out of the old tower would be impossible in secret, even if you managed to empty the block—the wagons would still be seen coming or going. Tongues would wag.
Unless you smashed a hole in the decrepit, old wall and provisioned your forces from the outside. Then no one would know, or care if they did.
Rannites, myself included, are funny that way. The Watch doesn’t give a damn what transpires beyond those old walls. Neither do the neighbors. We’re vaguely aware there are trees and fields and isolated farming communities out there, but we seldom give them a second thought.
I sat grinning for another half hour. Then I bade the shade of Petey farewell and eased my way out, careful not make any more noise than the ghosts I seldom believe in.
By the time I was far enough away to be sure I was just another figure on the street, night was falling. I hoofed it six blocks before hailing a cab and got to the hotel right as the supper plates were being cleared from the dining room. I managed to snag a pair, get them warmed up on the kitchen stove, and make my way upstairs without being assaulted by the Watch.
I was balancing plates and beers when I heard voices from inside my room. A moment of hasty juggling saw the plates put silently on the floor, swapped for revolvers.
I crept closer.
Mama Hog’s laughter rang out clear and plain. Darla said something, and Mama laughed again, and when she paused for breath I gave the door our secret knock.
“Well, it’s about damn time,” said Mama as Darla’s soft footsteps came toward the door. “Boy, has I got things to tell.”
Chapter Ten
With Darla and I seated on the tiny couch, and Mama holding court from the hotel room’s single, overstuffed armchair, we sat in silence while Mama waved her dried owls and muttered nonsense words under her breath.
Darla watched with interest that was either real or convincingly feigned. I’d seen Mama’s shaking bird act so many times I figured I could do it myself, if I had any desire to fill my lap with desiccated feathers.
But since experience taught me that commenting on Mama’s avian ritual would only prolong it, I sat quietly and limited my commentary to the occasional eye roll, which Darla pretended not to see.
Mama spat out a final string of babbling and stuffed her dead owl back in her shapeless, burlap sack.
“That there is thirsty work,” she opined. I fetched a trio of warm beers—the hotel hadn’t yet invested in newfangled luxuries such as iceboxes—and passed them around.
Mama took a long draught and smacked her lips.
“I knows a name,” she said, keeping her voice pitched just above a whisper. “But I won’t speak it. Nor will you, boy, or you, dear. I wrote it down, so’s you can read it, but don’t you say it out loud, you hear?”
“We hear,” said Darla. She took my left hand and squeezed it. She wasn’t smiling, and her hand was cold.
Mama’s had a lot of practice being dramatic. So when she handed me a folded scrap of paper, I opened it and held it up to the lamp. She’d written two words, in big block letters, like this:
K I C U V R O T I V
“Kicuv Rotiv?” I said aloud.
Mama snatched the paper from my hand.
“I knowed you would do some damn fool thing like that! I told you, boy, this here man has got foreign mojo. He hears his name spoke,
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