Treachery of Kings

by Neal Barrett Jr

  “I was talking to myself, Bucerius. I would have spoken louder if my words were meant for you.”

  Finn was surprised he'd let his attention wander so long. The war balloons were closer now—much too close for his liking, and too many of them to boot. Was there any reason they had to huddle together like a school of bloated fish? There was plenty of room to move about, a whole bloody sky.

  Some, he noted, had vented their balloons, letting their craft sink rapidly down. Others tossed over bags of sand to rise higher still. The skies were near smothered with clumsy craft, rising up and sinking down. Through sheer dumb luck, most seemed to pass each other with room to spare.

  “Fate is truly kind,” Finn said, “or we should see a dozen dire disasters before our very eyes—

  “Kites and Mites,” he suddenly shouted, squeezing the wicker rail, “look out, you damn fool!”

  No one heard him above the constant shriek of air. Bucerius saw it too, and cursed beneath his breath, jerking a line that sent his vessel swooping dizzily away.

  It happened in a wink, in the blink of an eye. A great, dun-colored sausage, patched, pasted, fiddled and darned, rose straight up into four enormous spheres, linked together as one. It struck the wicker baskets suspended from the vessels, struck them cruelly hard, and sent grenadiers, archers, fusiliers with purple pantaloons, crimson-clad dragoons, shrieking down in a deadly colorful array. Some went straight to the ground, some bounced once, some bounced twice on other balloons, before they went down. Several poor fellows plummeted through another craft and disappeared.

  As one cart collides with another on the ground, as each slams another, and another after that, so it is with vessels of the air. Finn looked on in abject horror as one balloon tore itself apart and spun dizzily to the ground, a basketful of doomed soldiers trailed by a string of tattered rags.

  A tragedy greater still occurred then, one that stunned Finn above the rest. A large balloon exploded, its fabric set ablaze. Finn covered his eyes from the blast as a gaseous ball of fire blossomed nearby.

  Before it was done, he counted nine of the monsters down. There was no way to tell how many men had perished as well.

  “Have you—have you ever seen this happen before,” Finn said, staring at Bucerius. “Whales and Nails, it's not always like this, is it?”

  “Isn't bad. I be seein’ worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “Trouble is, there be plenty of bold balloon pilots, but there isn't no old balloon pilots. If a captain don't die his first trip, he don't be ever signin’ on again.”

  “You seem to make it, all right.”

  “I be a business person. I'm not some kinda fool what's fightin’ in a war.”

  Bucerius looked at Finn with a mix of scorn and pride. “War be for human persons. Killin’ be what they like to do.”

  “There are many brave Newlies who have joined our forces to fight with valor in the war.” “Uh-huh. They be stupid, too.”

  And that, it appeared, was that.

  AS IF ON SOME SILENT SIGNAL, THE CLUSTER OF merchant balloons rose higher still, higher than they'd risen before. Finn peered over the side and saw the reason why. There, far below, lay the dread, desolate province once known as Melonius. The only dry land in the midst of the Swamp of Bleak Demise, it was now the battleground where warriors from Prince Aghen Aghenfleck and the King of Heldessia, met to slaughter one another as they had for seven hundred thirty-nine years.

  Finn was glad they had risen so high. The balloons of Fyxedia and those of her foe, which had just arrived from the west, were disgorging their troops on the bare and blackened ground—those that had survived the journey there. The gaily decked officers and somber-clad men were much too far away to appear more than blotches to Finn's eye, and he was most grateful for that.

  Beyond, the swamp took hold again, and, past that, the onset of the night.

  “I see the sun is nearly gone,” Finn said. “We can hardly have more than an hour more of light. Where will we stay for the night?”

  “What?” The Bullie scratched the little nubs where horns had appeared among his kind in the past.

  “Where would you like to stay, different from where you bein’ now?”

  “Why, down there somewhere, of course. Surely you wouldn't attempt to sail this device in the—in the dark?”

  Finn felt a sudden chill, for he could see the answer in the Bullie's glassy brown eyes.

  “No, truly, that makes little sense at all. We can't very well remain aloft unless we can see… “

  “An’ what'd you like to do? Set ‘er down there among that poor lot? By damn, if you'd stop thinkin’ ‘bout your Mycer lass, you'd see what be a'happenin’ outside your fuzzy head… “

  FOURTEEN

  THE MOMENT THE SUN VANISHED UNDER A purple haze, two frightening things occurred. First, the dark flowed in so quickly, Finn felt some heavenly scribe must have spilled his ink across the skies. And, with the coming of night, the breeze that had driven them steadily from morning's light suddenly disappeared.

  Bucerius’ balloon began to sink like a stone. Finn drew in a desperate breath and held on tight, waiting for the dreadful impact with the ground.

  Why hadn't the Bullie mentioned they'd never had a chance at all? That would have been the proper thing to do.

  Instead, the fellow grabbed Finn's shoulders, bellowed out instructions that nearly left him deaf in one ear.

  In an instant, he was tossing out sandbags as quickly as he could, watching the ground rise rapidly in the dark. Behind him, Bucerius was yanking at his infernal array of lines, shrouds, pulleys and vents, actions which seemed to have no effect at all.

  Then, of a sudden, all was well again. They weren't moving fast, and they surely weren't sailing very high, but they were still in the air and not crushed upon the ground.

  “Would you mind,” Finn asked, feeling as deflated as a capsized balloon, “telling me what that was all about? I thought we were doomed.”

  “That isn't no word in the tongue of my folk. That's a human-person word, be what it is.”

  Finn knew better than to argue the point. And, in time, Bucerius explained that surely Finn recalled that the Easterlies blew in the morning and the Westerlies in the night. It was night, as anyone could see, and now they would have to sail low, to catch what wind there might be, wind known, of course, to veteran pilots like himself.

  Finn accepted the Bullie's answer, and wondered, not for the first time, if there might not be some better way to navigate the air than hanging below a bag of gas, hoping it would go where you wanted to be. He vowed, when he could, to give the matter more thought. There might be some way to craft a lizard for such a task. He would certainly take it up with Julia Jessica Slagg.

  He quickly swept away those thoughts, determined not to bring them up again.

  “And when will we reach Heldessia?” Finn wanted to know. “Sometime soon, I presume.”

  “If the wind be willing. If it not, it be later than that.”

  “Later than what?”

  “Later than when we'd be if it wasn't. You wants to run this lovely device, let me be gettin’ some sleep?” “No, I wouldn't care to do that.”

  “Wouldn't care for you to try. I got some good years left to be.”

  So do I, Finn thought, and if I come home safe, I swear I'll not risk the time I've got on something as foolish as this….

  He searched the sky for other balloons of the merchant fleet, but if they were there, it was too dark to see. The ground swept by perilously close below, and Finn could smell the foul stench of the swamp, the fetid odor of stagnant water and rotting vegetation, the scent of some loathsome, unknown creature of the night.

  Either that, or the stupefying, deadly emanations from Bucerius, who had eaten great quantities of turnips, whistle beans and mackerel cheese. Finn thought of the jelly sandwich and fatcake he'd left behind, the supper Letitia had packed. Even his favorite foods had no appeal now.

  “
Sweet Letitia, how I wish I was with you now. Though it's clear you're not as worried, not as anxious or disturbed as I feel you ought to be, I would overlook that if only you were near… “

  “What's that? By damn, what you be a'mutterin’ now?”

  “Not a thing, Bucerius. I was talking to myself. As you so kindly mentioned before, it's a thing that human persons do.”

  “It be one of the things. Not all of ‘em, for sure. You wantin’ some of this cheese?”

  “No,” Finn said, holding his breath as the Bullie loosed a ripper again, “but it's kind of you to ask.”

  Up, GET UP, DAMN YOUR HIDE, ON YOUR FEET, NOW!”

  Finn came awake at once, suddenly aware he'd been dozing, and wondered how he'd managed that.

  “What is it? Nothing of great matter, I hope.”

  “Just hold on to those lines. Don't be lettin’ ‘em go.”

  “Something's amiss, I can tell. Whatever it is, I want to know.”

  “We be landin’ soon, is what it is. Them lights down there? That's Heldessia. Just south there's the royal grounds.”

  “Say, that's fine.” Finn peered over for a better look.

  “Isn't fine a'tall.”

  “It's not?”

  “You listenin’, human person? Not bein’ fine, there's Bowsers everywhere. Place be swarming down there. They already snaggered a balloon, or I'd never spotted ‘em at all.”

  “What? Why would they—”

  Finn's words were lost as a volley of musket fire rang out in the night. A lead ball thunked into the wicker basket, close to Finn's head. Another whined overhead and snapped a line.

  “What do they want? What's going on here!”

  “I shoulda remembered, damn me,” the Bullie said. “It's Thursday again. Tuesdays and Thursdays, they be try an’ kill the King…”

  FIFTEEN

  FINN HAD A GREAT MANY QUESTIONS, QUEStions he felt called for answers at once. Panic, chills, fear of urination, gastric irritation, swept all thought from his head.

  Shouts, howls, bellows and barks reached them from below. Discord, clamor, and harsh resonation filled the night. The flare of muskets, the smell of powder, the din of leaden shot stung his eyes, split his ears and burned his nose.

  Then, with a terrifying, sound, a sound more fearsome than the rest, the fat sphere above ripped asunder, from the bottom to the top, burst its vaporous innards with a great unearthly fart.

  Bucerius roared in anger as the basket gave a sickening lurch, tipped on one side and nearly tossed the pair to the ground.

  Finn hung on for dear life. From the corner of his eye, something big, something dark, something more solid than the night rose up at him in a blur. The basket jerked to a stop, snapping wicker, shredding cords, slamming the Bullie into Finn, squeezing him nearly flat.

  As he struggled for a breath, Finn saw a chimney rush by, saw the shattered basket fill with brick and soot, felt the clatter and the rattle as they slid down the steep-sided roof.

  For another awful moment, they were airborne again. Then, wicker, brick, lines, an avalanche of slate, came to a wrenching halt on the ground. A shroud of fabric settled gently over the Bullie and Finn.

  Finn rubbed his stinging eyes, spat a mouthful of soot. Wondered how he could possibly be alive.

  “It is no way short of a miracle,” he said to himself. “And even then, I have my doubts”

  “Don't be a'gabbin’, keep still,” Bucerius muttered, lifting him easily out of the mess. “You not be entirely livin’ yet, lest we hauling out of here.”

  “Thank you, friend. I'm terribly grateful for your help.”

  “Take a care, watch it where you step.”

  “What? Pots and Pans, what am I stepping on?”

  “I fear we be smushin’ a fair lot of chickens. More like a herd. Somethin’ bigger than a flock. Doubt anyone be thanking us for that.”

  As if in answer, a florid face, round as a moon, appeared in a window overhead. The fellow shouted and flailed his arms about, cursing in a gruff, unknown tongue, a language that seemed to greatly rely upon spit.

  Before the man's wife could join him, wide-eyed in a tasseled nightcap, Finn and Bucerius were out of the yard and into the dark, Bucerius stepping ahead, Finn doing his best to keep up, clutching the carefully bundled clock against his chest.

  EVEN AS THE FAIR REACHED AN ALLEY SOME DIStance from the scene of their imperfect descent, it was clear there were deadly pursuers still about, determined to track them down.

  Barks and yelps resounded from the street just ahead; Finn and Bucerius crouched in the dark and watched them pass by.

  They were, indeed, Bowsers, as Bucerius had noted before their craft struck the ground. They were short, tall, bony, stout and lean, as Bowsers tended to be. Some had oversize noses, some had puglike features, perfectly flat. Most had tufted ears, and all had sad and droopy eyes.

  Finn, though certainly no bigot where Newlies were concerned, didn't care for Bowsers at all. He found them irritating at best. Some were quite friendly by themselves, but the moment they came together in a group, in a horde, in a pack, they seemed to become mean of spirit and intense.

  He had crossed their path before in a misadventure across the Misty Sea, and didn't care to meet them again.

  All of these fellows, he noted, wore varicolored pantaloons, natty striped jackets, red bow ties and straw boaters tipped at a rakish angle atop their heads. Wherever Bowsers seemed to settle, one nation or the next, they all preferred this ridiculous attire. And, if Bucerius was right, and they were after the Heldessian King, Finn thought their clothes seemed improper for assassination wear.

  “Why do they seek to do in the King?” Finn asked quietly, when the noisome bunch had passed. “And why, in all reason, on Tuesday and Thursday night? That seems peculiar to me.”

  “They be doin’ it ‘cause someone paid ‘em to,” Bucerius explained. “Bowsers don't have lots of goals of their own. They be inclined to strong drink, filling their bellies an’ gettin’ lots of sleep. Someone'll give ‘em all that, why, they'll hire their ugly selves out to whoever comes along.”

  “And who do you imagine is behind these louts now?”

  Bucerius looked astonished at Finn's remark.

  “Now how'd I know such a thing? Don't no one care for kings, I thought you be knowin’ that.”

  “I suppose so,” Finn said. “That sort of thing goes on, wherever one happens to be.”

  Bucerius didn't answer. He listened in silence for a moment, then led Finn down the darkened street. Far ahead, Finn could see a few pale, flickering lights above the high battlements of the palace of King Llowenkeef-Grymm.

  Before they had gone too far, Bucerius discovered the shattered remains of a balloon in a small public square. The square was silent as a tomb. Shutters in every house were closed tight. No one, it seemed, dared to risk the streets with the Bowsers about.

  Finn waited while the Bullie walked through the wreckage. His clenched fists, the rage barely suppressed upon his stocky features, told Finn what the giant had found.

  “Sysconditi. He dealt in gems, which mostly be fakes. Never cared for the fellow, but he be a merchant, same as me.”

  Bucerius stared past the crowded block of structures to his right, where a fire glowed against the sky.

  “There be another one down over there. It'll take some doing to get to it from here. Not that anyone'll be alive. These louts'll pay dear for this night's work. They know we be traders, an’ not ships of the King. We got no part in the royals’ fight.”

  “Could some be bandits, and not assassins as you say? Intent on loot from the goods merchants bring?”

  “Could, I reckon. Bowsers, they got to eat regular, eat till they throwin’ up they guts. They need to, I guess they'd be turnin’ to this.”

  “I don't know why the King's troops haven't shown up before now,” Finn said. “Or at least the city guards. Why, lawlessness seems to be unchecked in this land.”

  B
ucerius showed Finn his second curious grin of the night.

  “You be new here, human person. There be a lot you don't know ‘bout Heldessia. Things you maybe wish you didn't know ‘fore you get home… “

  Finn was near certain it was on the tip of the Bullie's tongue to add if he got home, but he'd kindly held the words back. …

  BEST WE BE CROSSIN’ HERE. WE GOING ANY FAR-ther, they'll likely spot us for sure.”

  Finn could see his companion was correct. They were closer to the center of the city, now, near a deserted market square, the close-packed houses and shops that hugged the walls of the palace itself. Bucerius wanted to reach the spot where the merchant balloon had burned, but knew they had to take the long way around.

  “I be crossing first. Wait till I gets there, you hear? Count a couple times. No Bowsers seem about, you be coming too.”

  “Good luck, then.”

  Bucerius showed him a scowl. “We be talking ‘bout that before. Human persons not even hearin’ what anybody says. Luck's got nothin’ to do with me running over there. I be getting there or not.”

  “Fine. Just in case—”

  The Bullie was gone. For a giant, for a creature that easily made three of Finn, he seemed to move remarkably well, swiftly and silently across the cobbled street, vanishing into the dark.

  Finn waited. Looked, listened, and counted as well. Taking a breath, he crouched low, staying in shadow as best he could, running quickly toward the spot where the Bullie waited in the narrow alleyway.

  You can toss Fortune aside if you will, my fine enormous friend, but I wouldn't mind the Fates looking down and lending me a hand. I wouldn't mind if someone tossed me an amulet now, or cast a simple spell—

  The light was as bright as a small and angry sun, the sound a crack of thunder after that. Finn felt the ball part his hair, heard it sing, heard it whine like a hornet as it struck the wall over his head and showered him with dusty bits of stone.

  Luck, chance, instinct or what, made him duck, veer to the right, as the second blinding flare came quickly on the heels of the first.