The Five Faces (The Markhat Files) by Tuttle Frank

Author:Tuttle, Frank [Tuttle, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Publisher: Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
Published: 2014-06-16T16:00:00+00:00

Even being known as a close friend of Mr. Prestley’s doesn’t mean I can wander Avalante’s subterranean halls at will without being challenged. It took me the better part of an hour to talk my way down to the bunker Evis mentioned, and it took a hastily scrawled letter from Evis himself to get me inside.

But inside I went.

Pandemonium greeted me. Fists waved in my face. Mouths shouted demands or pleaded for mercy. I was threatened, offered bribes, cursed, and begged all at once and nearly deafened in the process.

One of Avalante’s ever-present, halfdead foot soldiers pushed the mob back with nothing but a shove and a glare.

“Ecols Rorshot,” I said over the much-diminished din. “A word. Right now.”

“What about us?” shouted a red-faced oldster whose handlebar moustache needed a fresh application of wax.

“I have money, I tell you!” shouted another.

“I won’t be held prisoner here!” added a third.

A small man sidled around the mob, eyeing me with open suspicion.

“I am he,” he said. I didn’t hear the words over the renewed shouting, but I saw him pronounce them.

He was a short man. Short and fat and mostly bald. His eyes looked soft, but they never stopped moving, and his pudgy little hands never strayed far from his pockets.

He was sweating. Yes, it was hot in that close-packed bunker, but I knew he’d sweat everywhere else, all the time. He dug around in his right pocket and came out with a silk hanky and dabbed at his round red face before smiling and stepping closer.

“I am he,” he said again, louder this time. “Ecols Rorshot, at your service. And who might you be, laddie?”

His accent was pronounced. Not quite Prince, certainly not Rannite.

“Where’s your hat?” I asked.

“Well, laddie, a rather large gentleman who calls himself Knockaround is sleeping on it,” he said. “I must admit I am disinclined to disturb his slumber. Why do ye ask?”

A new pair of halfdead appeared at my sides. The mob withdrew once again, leaving Ecols standing alone.

He found his hanky and mopped sweat again.

“Do you want out of here?” I asked.

“Aye, I do indeed,” he said. “’Tis not the safe haven I hoped it would be. But I ken I’ll not be leaving without paying your price, good sir. Might I ask what price that might be?”

“What did you do with the little girl’s dog?”

He was good. Had he been rested and fed and in his own element, he might have pulled it off.

But he was hot and weary and fearful, and I caught him by surprise, and his eyes stopped scanning the room and the pupils went big and black and his face went a sudden shade pinker.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t lie to me. If you want out of here, you start telling the truth and you keep telling the truth or I’ll make the drawing come true early.”

He puffed up and turned to the halfdead at my right. “This man is making threats toward me, under your roof,” he said. “Is Avalante going to stand there and allow him to continue?”

The halfdead handed me a long, curved dagger.

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