Jashandar's Wake - Book Two: Unclean Places

by L. S. Kyles

  Chapter 10

  Reets let his question sink into the titan’s huge and furry ears, his blue and brown eyes fixed on her liquid orbs. Her silent treatment had worked for a time, had convinced him that she was merely lost in thought instead of surveying the horizon, but not anymore. Her bluff was called and it was time to ‘fess up.

  Only she wasn’t fessing. She wasn’t even looking at him.

  “I knows yeh c’n hear me,” Reets said, feeling the ire rise in his cheeks. Being ignored, especially by her, did that to him. He shoved the pipe in his mouth and took a series of steady puffs. “Fess it up now, Mums. Wha’cha lookin at?”

  Mums turned her head so that she could stare at the prairie from the side of her huge cow eyes. She held that position for a moment, then turned back the opposite direction and peered out at the shadow-riddled pasture from other side of her head.

  After a moment or two of this, she said, “What’s that, Reetsle?”

  Reets’ body tensed. “I said, what—” he caught himself, before his temper ran wild, and clamped his teeth on the pipe. He made fists with his hands and sat there—rigid as iron—until the stiffness passed. When it had, he removed his pipe and said, “What’s out there, Mums?”

  Without moving her shaggy boulder-like head, Mums grabbed the club from beside her and set it between her legs. She began running a finger along the sides.

  Reets watched this with a frown. Judging by the delicate manner in which she handled the instrument, grabbing it by the head instead of the shaft and making sure not to drag the base along the ground, he might have suspect it was a very thick cane.

  Only, it didn’t look like a cane, even a thick one. By the same token, it didn’t look much like a club either.

  It was made of wood, Reets saw, and it was heavy on one end and tapered to gripping-width on the other end, but that was about all the club-like similarities he found. There were no spikes driven through the head, no leather bindings around the grip, no splinters or knots or desultory branches sprouting from the sides.

  Reets searched the surface of the club as he had many times before and saw it was actually sanded and smooth and graven with an endless circuit of squiggling lines. In a way, the squiggles reminded him of the archaic symbols he’d seen on shaman runes as a boy. What was more, as Mums placed a finger to the club and began gliding a tip along the designs, her meditative trance reminded him of the shaman while he prayed.

  Mums said, “Are you referring to the pasture, Reetsle?”

  Reets blinked and shook his head, the present slamming back into place. He lifted his eyes from the cudgel to the titan and said, “I’m talkin bout the thing in the pasture—The thing you been starin at since yeh got here.”

  Mums’ finger reached the bottom of the design and began retracing its way to the top, moving as patiently and soothingly as before.

  “Reetsle,” she said calmly, “as disappointing as it may be for you to accept, Jashandar is reverting to Drugana. Like it or not. And the Mela’s blight, the mission we have been charged with ameliorating, is more than likely due to those changes and not to any pernicious beasts lurking in the shadows.”

  Reets rolled his blue and brown eyes. Here we go again, he thought. Out loud, he said, “So you’re still sayin them cows an’ such was kilt by the land?”

  Mums drew a long and pitiful breath, then released it in a long and pitiful sigh and said, “No, Reetsle. I am not.”

  “Ha!” he said, standing tall. “Somethin could be out there then!”

  “Yes, Reetsle,” Mums said, “but that is not our mission.”

  Reets groaned and turned to the south, staring like a boy who learns the family pet will never be coming home. His favorite heir, Jaysh, was down there even now in the Southern Sway, down there with General Branmore, a man who Reets knew well who’d fought alongside Reets in the last two military engagements.

  Those men, however, were not the cause of Reets’ longing. His longing was due to blessed mission those men had received, the blessed mission that brought those two dogs toe-to-toe with a real-life monster, the blessed mission that had been stolen from Reets even as he begged to receive it.

  He’d done everything he could to get that mission; He’d slapped his hands on the roundtable, he’d screamed at the other counselors, he’d ignored them when they’d screamed back. They’d gone on and on about how that spook—or kryst, as Serit called it—was the only chance they had against the mystery killer, and how Jaysh was the only one who could lead the kryst into the Sway, and how Serit was the only one who could interpret the kryst’s behavior.

  Tha’s fine, Reets had bellowed. The more the merrier!

  But this had not worked either. The council had begun explaining that his going on the Sway Mission would leave the other missions shorthanded and that this might put lives in danger. Reets had scoffed at this, too.

  Shou’nt be so weak then, he’d told them. Wou’nt be no danger if’n yeh could handle yer own.

  At that point, the council had raised its collective hands, either in surrender to the halfling’s pigheadedness or in supplication for divine intervention, and threatened to rescind his diplomatic status, an act that would terminate his obligation to the kingdom and send him packing for Erinthalmus. Reets grudgingly accepted his original mission.

  “Bunch of dirty cheats,” he snarled.

  Mums shifted the position of her head. “Cheats or not,” she said, “you agreed to the Mela Mission, Reetsle, and in so doing you agreed to disregard the other missions.”

  “Spit if I did!” Reets snapped. “I ‘greed to stay out’a the south, but I din’t say nothin bout turnin tale to run if’n Jaysh and that spook scare the thing up here.” He paused conspiratorially and leaned towards the titan, checking the focus of her watery eyes. “That what happened, Mums? Did they scare the thing up here?”

  Mums drew another breath. “Reetsle,” she said, speaking slowly and distinctly, “I see nothing in the prairie.”

  “Yeh swears it?” he asked. “Yeh swear on your silly fates?”

  Mums traced her cudgel for a while, as if considering the matter, then said, “I do.”

  Reets, who had been leaning towards her with anticipation, drew back as though struck. The titan was a lot of things, many of which Reets did not like, but a liar was not one of them. If she said she didn’t see anything in the prairie, then there was nothing in the prairie to see.

  He turned to the Sway, searched it one more time, and saw nothing. His shoulders dropped and he muttered a curse to Rendel.

  “If’n that ain’t a kick in the head,” he said, snatching up his pack and axe. “Just a big ole kick,” he said again, making for the tents.

  He turned to find his way, caught sight of Captain Janusery beyond the fire, and watched an image form in his mind. He saw the fancyman watching him as he marched for his cot, saw him wait until Reets was completely out of sight, and then watched him slip a pouch of cubes from the interior of one boot.

  He stopped in his tracks and turned back to the titan. “Hey, Mums?”

  Following a great pause, Mums said, “Yes, Reetsle?”

  “We leavin at first light?”

  “Yes, Reetsle.”

  He stared at her for a time, then said, “If’n Fancy ever stops runnin his mouth, you’ll tell him the same, won’t yeh?”

  “I will tell him, Reetsle.”

  “An’ you’ll keep an eye on im?” Reets asked, his voice taking an edge. “I’m sure he’s got cubes on im.”

  “I will watch him, Reetsle.”

  Reets studied her, wondering if she’d really watch the captain or if this was just another of those tell-Reets-what-he-wants-to-hear-so-he’ll-go-away moments. There’d been quite a few of those moments over the ages and, to be honest, this sure felt like one.

  There was just something about the way she was sitting over there tracing that club, something about the way she was staring into the prairie as though
nothing really mattered.

  Oh, well, he thought, shaking his head and making for the tents. He passed by the watch fire and heard Janusery’s voice flittering through the flames. Old Fancy was going on about were-uglings from the Bottoms and how he’d slid down one of the mud burrows inside.

  Reets shook his head and spat at the coals, meeting Janusery’s eye through the flames as he did so. He offered Fancy a nod—it was the polite thing to do, after all—but it was curt enough to jar the helmet from his head.

  “Turnin’ in fer the night,” he said, not so much to be friendly as to make a subtle hint that turning in for the night would be preferable to staying up and playing cubes.

  Janusery lowered his eyes and continued to tell his tale.

  Reets stopped, his suspicious stare becoming a malicious glare. Still, the fancyman never raised his womanly chin. Reets marched to the dancing tongues of fire and directed his glare through the flames.

  “Hey,” he barked.

  As one man, all five privates raised their eyes to the halfling—one even standing and snapping off a salute—but not the fancyman. He never even looked up.

  Reets said, “Hey, Janu’ery,” and this time the captain lifted his eyes, the expression on his face hard enough to nail down stakes. “I said I was turnin in fer the night.”

  Janusery’s expression didn’t change. “Sleep well, war dog.”

  “Oh, I plan to,” Reets said. “I plan to. We gota get up bright’n early tomorruh.” He waited for a response, but when Fancy only continued to stare, he said, “How bout you, Janu’ery? You plannin to sleep well?”

  With a stare as cold as his nod, Captain Janusery said, “YYYYYep.”

  “Oh?” Reets said, sounding incredulous. “An’ when’s that now?”

  “I don’t know,” Janusery said. “Soon, I guess… after my story.”

  “Story, huh.” Reets gave a deep, calculating nod, his entire mood seeming to teeter on a fulcrum of indecision. “Sure yeh ain’t waitin round to play cubes?”

  Still staring, Janusery said, “Can’t play cubes, war dog. You know that.”

  “Uh-huh,” Reets said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “Well if’n yeh get any wild ideas, just you know that Mums is over there a-watchin.”

  Janusery glanced at the titan, then back to Reets, then grinned.

  Reets shot a look over his shoulder and saw Mums as he’d left her. One fat finger on the club, one fat body staring east, one fat head still in the clouds. He turned back around and cleared his throat.

  “Yeh know what, Janu’ery,” he said, “why don’t yeh jus go ahead an’ give me them cubes?”

  Janusery came to his feet, pretended to consider the question, and then shrugged. “Because I don’t have to?”

  “Yeh wanna see bout that?” Reets asked, rounding the fire and watching as Janusery did the same, his face tense, his eyes narrowed.

  In that instant, Reets thought for sure he was going to get what he’d been waiting for. Fancy was going to make his move, he was going to draw that little pig-sticker of his, and Reets was going to be wholly justified in hacking the puke into pieces. He could almost feel his axe handle trembling in his hands, could almost feel the warmth of Fancy’s blood spraying across his face, could almost hear the sound of chipped bone as—

  Janusery stopped moving around the fire and stood up straight. He crossed his arms and raised his chin…still grinning at him.

  Somewhat appalled, Reets dropped his pack and hefted Old Friendly in both hands. He might have left it alone had fancyman only crossed his arms and defied him, but that grin—that ever-lovin, smart-mouthed grin—that had rubbed the halfling the wrong way.

  Taking a stride closer, Reets considered his options. He couldn’t hack on a man for grinning at him—not if he hoped to get away with it—but there were other ways to bring a man down, especially a man like Fancy (if the term man applied).

  Stepping boot-to-boot with the captain, sneering up at him grandly, he said, “Yeh like to talk, doan’ yeh, Janu’ery?”

  Still grinning smugly, Jansuery said, “Doesn’t everyone?”

  Reets wrinkled his nose and gave a little shake of the head. “Naw,” he said. “Naw, mos’ folk’d be too scared to talk bout themselves. Too scared e’ryone’d learn what they done an’ where they been. Scared spitless, really.”

  The fancyman’s grin became a smirk.

  Reets said, “Mos’ folk’d be scared they’d tell too much and e’ryone’d fin’ out about them ancestors of theirs.”

  The smirk became a thin, flat line.

  Reets said, “Cause if’n e’ryone foun’ out about them ancestors, then e’ryone’d be talkin bout what they’d done. Bout them Janu’erys down south an’ how they owned all that land in the northern Shun an’ how them kings’a old must’a been payin em favors to hold the land.”

  He paused for a response, but when none came, he said, “The way I fig’er it, the kings’a old been payin yer kin lots’a favors. All kinds’a favors.” He looked Fancy up and down. “An’ all cause them Janu’erys of old was one’a the first fam’lies in after Arn settled the land. One’a the first to stake a claim.”

  The captain uncrossed his arms, one hand falling beside the hilt of his blade.

  Reets noted the move, then nodded to the five privates seated on the ground. “Yeh want me to tell these boys bout the land, Janu’ery? Huh? Yeh want me to tell them what become’a old Elnor?” But even as he asked, he knew Janusery couldn’t answer. He knew speech would be impossible for a man with his jaw clenched like that.

  Without taking his eyes from the captain, Reets twisted his head towards the petrified privates and said, “Yeh see, boys, them Janu’erys of old run into a bit of trouble down there in the sticks. They was smart an’ all, good with planin and talkin,” he glanced at Fancy, “like our boy Janu’sery here,” he glanced back to the men, “but when it come to gettin the job done, well…they weren’t much fer work,” he glanced again at Fancy, “jus like our boy here.”

  One of the privates, Reets noticed, kept glancing at the good captain with wide and fretful eyes, glancing the way one does at a lit fuse.

  Pretending not to notice, Reets said, “So there they was, them Janu’erys of old, jus’ a-sittin round on their backsides an’ tellin folk what to do, watchin trees come down an’ houses go up, watchin real men wander into the fields an’ tend the livestock an’ bring in crops. Perty good life fer em, I’d reckon, sittin round on their backsides, barkin orders like that.”

  He took out his pipe and pointed it at one of the men. “But then it all went sour on em,” he said, pronouncing sour as sar and pointing his pipe at the next man. “They come awake one mornin—all bright-eyed an’ bushy-tailed an’ ready to start sittin on their backsides an’ barkin orders—an’ bless my axe if’n they din’t find themselves knee deep in a whole pu—”

  “Reetsle dear,” came a voice from behind him.

  Keeping his eyes on the privates, Reets cocked his head over his shoulder and said, “Kind’a busy, Mums.”

  “I see that, Reetsle,” Mums acknowledged, her voice drawing nearer, “but I really do need to speak with the men.”

  Reets watched the privates’ eyes swivel to something that was moving in behind him and that stood about three halflings over his head.

  “It’s gona have to wait,” he told her. “I’m sort’a in the mid—”

  “It’s very important, Reetsle.”

  Reets was still wrestling with the shock of being interrupted for the second time when a large and hairy hand lit on his shoulder. He jerked his head towards the offending fingers, his eyes bulging.

  “Woman,” he warned. “Woman, yeh best get that there hannnaaaaaaaargh—!”

  The titan’s banana-thick fingers cinched down on his shoulder blades and filled his upper body with a heavy, black pain. He was aware of his pipe falling from his mouth, his axe dropping from his fingers, and the world falling away into t
he relentless pressure at his arm. When the pressure relented and the world came back, he could hear the titan speaking, addressing the five privates who stared up at her in rapt horror.

  “…then gather one day’s rations,” she was telling them, “saddle your horses, and ride for Castle Arn. And for the sake of the fates, do not stop for any reason.” She released the halfling and didn’t seem to notice as he went stumbling for his axe. “And when you reach the castle, tell the lieutenant on duty not to send replacements. And send that same message to the remaining troops at Westpost. Is that understood?”

  Reets snatched up Old Friendly and turned on the titanic hag, intent on burying the blade deep in her thigh, but as he raised the weapon over his head and gritted his crooked teeth, a handful of words seeped through his thick skull and took root in his brain.

  He lowered the weapon and stared after the five soldiers as they disappeared towards the tents and supplies.

  “Mums?” he heard himself say.

  “Iman Dear,” the titan was saying, laying a hand to the captain’s shoulder, “you’ll want to gather your things as well.”

  Iman didn’t even nod, just took off at a run for the sleeping tents.

  “Mums?” Reets said again, watching the captain striding away.

  “Your pack, Reetsle,” the titan said, pointing to the discarded satchel as she lumbered passed him.

  Numbly, Reets reached for his pack and pipe. “What’s goin on, Mums?”

  “Not now, Reetsle,” she said, and thundered away from him, cudgel in one hand, mug in the other.

  Reets gawked at her, his thoughts conflicted. There was a part of him that was still thinking about the hand that had grabbed him and about what he’d like to do to that hand, the same part of him that wanted to curse the shaggy know-it-all and go about his way. He didn’t have to listen to that bloated cow, especially if the bloated cow wouldn’t tell him what was going on.

  At the same time, there was another part of him that had noticed the way Mums was looking over her shoulder every third or fourth step, the way she was checking on the shadows as though they were full of nightmares.

  He grabbed his things and hobbled after.