As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)

by Allan Batchelder

  “I’ll see you anon!” Rem called after the fellow. To the soldiers, he said “Lead on!” in his bravest, most resonant voice.

  *****

  “That’s how you’re hopin’ to get me back on my feet?” Vykers asked, disbelief clear in his tone. The Queen’s Shaper held a sort of broad girdle, with two gently glowing cones affixed to the inside, roughly where Vykers’ wounds would be when worn. “And those…those pointy things are, what, little magic stoppers?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “So you’re gonna cork me, like a hogshead o’ liquor?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll never work,” the Reaper scoffed. “And if it does, it’ll still hurt like a bitch!”

  The Shaper looked amused. “I was told you had no fear of pain.”

  “I’ve been in pain for three years, friend. Whatever you heard don’t tell half the truth. But I can’t walk much if I’m doubled over in agony.”

  The other man pursed his lips. “This garment was some time in the making. No expense, no effort was spared to alleviate your pain and contain your wounds.”

  “But you still can’t heal ‘em,” Vykers said, hoping for contradiction.

  “No,” the Shaper replied softly, dropping his eyes.

  Vykers pulled himself up into a sitting position, to the obvious consternation of the attending A’Shea. “Let’s try this fucker out, then.”

  “You have such a way with words, Reaper,” the Shaper said wryly.

  “Don’t I? I’m a regular poet o’ profanity.”

  The Shaper, the A’Shea and Vykers worked together to wrap the girdle around his midriff and carefully place the cones in the proper positions, ever-so-gingerly setting them into the wounds in the Reaper’s gut and back. With a sudden yell of defiance, Vykers yanked the girdle taught and cinched it closed.

  And then fell over backwards onto his bed, breathing like a battle-weary bull.

  “Huh,” he said after several seconds had elapsed. “Doesn’t hurt half so bad as it should.”

  “As I said…” the Shaper began.

  Vykers interrupted, “I think I can stand on my own, now.” Again, he took his time rising to his feet, adjusting his stance, breathing. “I don’t see anything dripping out,” he said of his now-covered wounds.

  “And won’t, I expect. But perhaps you should sit in a chair for a while, work your way up to standing and walking.”

  The Reaper wanted to argue, but he had too much respect for the damned hole that burned through him. If it could be beaten, he would beat it. But it would take time. More time. “Thing is,” Vykers said, “aren’t we in sort of a hurry, here? For all we know, the Queen’s bein’ drawn and quartered as we speak, which ain’t an entirely unpleasant image, now I think on it.”

  The mage shook his head. “She’s in no imminent danger.”

  And just how does he know that? Arune prodded.

  “And just how do you know that?” Vykers asked.

  “Her Majesty and I have had decades to arrange every sort of precaution imaginable. The other Shapers and I have laid spells upon spells. We’d know the second a single drop of her blood was spilled. Indeed, in the event of her death, several of us would be transported to the scene immediately, prepared to dispense justice without hesitation or qualm.”

  “Damn,” the Reaper marveled, “you Shapers sure can talk.”

  The other man’s jaw snapped shut with an audible pop. Apparently, Vykers had offended him.

  “The old battle axe has disappeared or been taken, and you can’t tell me how it happened or where she’s gone, but you are certain she ain’t been harmed. That about it?”

  The Shaper nodded, a most dour expression on his face.

  “So,” Vykers said aloud, more to himself than anyone else, “that leaves what? Ransom? Somebody wants her money but not her throne? That don’t make sense. And if this is about the throne,” he went on, “why not just kill her and get her out of the way?” Vykers reached out for a goblet of wine, which the A’Shea obligingly put into his hand. “Maybe her captors just want to humiliate her. Get in line!” he said to himself. “But why go to all the trouble of kidnapping her when there’s easier ways to embarrass her?” Suddenly, Vykers stared over at the Shaper. “You got answers to any of this?”

  “I didn’t realize you were speaking to me,” the man complained. “And, no, I’ve got no answers yet. Except…”

  Vykers nearly bolted up out of his chair. “Except???”

  “She’s somewhere southeast of here and moving farther away every hour.”

  “Shapers,” the Reaper hissed, as if that explained everything. “So there is a something of a rush to find her, after all.”

  “If her captors continue in that direction, they’ll reach the southern coast in a week or so.”

  That’s bad, Arune whispered.

  Why? Vykers demanded.

  Magic can’t travel over salt water.

  First I’ve heard of it.

  Well, Arune said sheepishly, it’s sort of a secret we like to keep from you non-Shapers.

  I can see why. But wait: I’ve been a-sea before. Every ship I’ve been on’s had Shapers.

  Of course. We can use magic aboard, we just can’t…He’s watching us.

  Vykers looked over and noticed that, yes, in fact he was being scrutinized by the Queen’s Shaper.

  “We’ve got scores of spies all up and down the coast,” the man said without preamble. “If they board a ship, we’ll be following them, even before you get there. We need only ensure you do get there.”

  Grimacing only slightly, Vykers stood. “I’ll get there.”

  *****

  Teshton had three inns and two taverns, the cheapest of which, Long reasoned, was the most likely to attract his former colleagues – especially Yendor. At the same time, being cheap, it was also the last place he’d find any of the nobles he was about to investigate. Long sighed. The nature of his new mission would probably drag him through every seedy dive in the realm. It would bring weeks and weeks of sour ale, stale smoke and victuals of questionable origin or substance. He’d gotten himself into decent shape working the apple farm, living off its bounty and basking in the fresh air. That was all about to be tossed on the muck heap, and Mardine would surely scold him until their daughter had grown and moved away.

  The cheapest place, according to a passing merchant, was a tavern called “Gangrene & Sons.” Long Pete laughed himself into exhaustion upon hearing that name and decided he liked the place already, sight unseen. When, after several minutes of walking, it at last became sight seen, he liked it no less. Gangrene & Sons was a one-story affair, with a roof that sagged slightly on the western side. A small, feeble stream of smoke groped its way upward from the tavern’s chimney. There were shutters in front that might have been opened to the street, but for some reason remained closed. All-in-all, the place looked secretive and dilapidated, not unlike the Shaper D’Kem before the old man had revealed his true identity. Thinking of D’Kem brought a warm smile to Long’s face: the man had been so much better, so much greater than Long had given him credit for. It was one of the defining lessons of the captain’s life.

  It was a beautiful spring afternoon and Long was loathe to step out of the air into a darkened, claustrophobic room, but distasteful tasks never got any easier through stalling, so in he went.

  And was, again, reminded of D’Kem and the lesson he’d learned from the Shaper. Gangrene & Sons was spotless and, behind the obligatory odor of wood smoke, smelled faintly of strawberries. Long glanced about in confusion. There were eight to ten tables, though only three were occupied at the moment. A bar ran the length of the room’s eastern end, and behind it stood an enormous brute of a man, obsessively cleaning his mugs, flagons and other drinking vessels.

  “Help you?” the colossus called out.

  “Uh, yes.” Long croaked. He walked over to the bar, so the barkeep could hear him more easily. “Got any cider?”

&n
bsp; The giant’s doughy face lit up. “Have I got cider?” he repeated, almost laughing. “I’ve got hard and straight. From three diff’rnt types o’ apples and one blend.”

  “That’s quite an inventory for a place like this.” Long rasped.

  “What do yer mean, ‘a place like this?”

  Long had stepped in it again! “No offense, friend. I just meant the…uh…town. Yes, that’s a wide enough selection for the whole town.”

  The dodge worked, and the big man beamed with pride. “That’s the point, ain’t it?”

  “Well,” Long confessed, “I’m a little confused. I asked a passing merchant for the…least expensive…drinking establishment, and he sent me here.” He was worried he’d dug his own grave, but the barkeep’s response again surprised him.

  “I don’t like to serve rich folk, it’s true. Try to scare ‘em away, every chance I get.”

  Long looked at the man as if he’d suddenly turned into a hedgehog. “Really?”

  “Rich men destroyed me Da, and his, before that. I’ll have no truck with ‘em. And if you offer the best you got to the common man, why, he’s much more grateful.” The huge man swept an arm across the room. “This here’s a place for the average fella. A safe haven, if you will.”

  Delight crept up on Long and coursed throughout his body. “Would it be too much trouble,” he asked, “for a small sampler of each of your ciders.”

  The barkeep’s big, goofy smile was infectious. “No trouble a ‘tall,” he said. “In fact, I think I’ll join ya!”

  In no time, the man produced four teacups of hard cider (three single-apple ciders and one blend) and four straight ciders. Long was astonished to discover one came from his own orchard, but he kept that to himself, so as not to endanger the barkeep. His own cider held up well, he thought, though the golden apple cider was magnificent. He wondered if he could find the source and arrange to swap seeds with the farmer responsible. It might be fun to try out a new crop.

  Out of nowhere (as was often the case), the barkeep asked “So, what happened to your voice, then?”

  Long would have loved to tell the truth: the End-of-All-Things did this to me. What a story it was. Yet, the story marked him in a way, like his cider, that endangered his mission and those about him. “Had the croup for nigh onto a year as a tyke. Never got my full voice back.” He hated lying to the man; he liked him already a great deal more than most men he’d met in the past ten years. Thinking this reminded him of his intended reunion, and he stole a quick look around the tavern. Nobody he recognized, thankfully. Long carefully, deliberately placed a Noble onto the counter-top. “I ain’t rich,” he said, dumbing his speech down a bit, “but I do appreciate good service, and I’m mightily impressed so far! Mind if I set by the fire a while?”

  “Not a ‘tall,” the man replied, deftly depositing the Noble into his apron. “Make yourself at home!”

  It was an auspicious start to what Long fully expected to be another nerve-wracking and dangerous adventure. Hells, “adventure” wasn’t even the right word for it; “Ordeal” was better.

  “Look,” he said to his new friend, “I’m expecting to meet a few fellows. I’m hoping it’s here, but it might be elsewhere. If they show, give me the best you’ve got, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “It’d be my pleasure,” the big man answered.

  Kittins was first to appear. Long had nodded off in his chair, and heard a thump nearby that suggested someone throwing himself into a seat. He sat up and saw the gruff soldier staring at him, his eyes peering out through a mangled face. He’d gotten that damage in the same fight that cost Long his voice.

  “Mighta known you’d be first,” Long lied. In truth, he’d been expecting Yendor since he walked through the door.

  “I like to scout a place before anybody else arrives,” Kittins revealed. No surprise, there.

  “What’ll it be?” the barkeep asked, appearing out of nowhere.

  Kittins was impressed. “You’re a big fella,” he said.

  “And you’re a brawler. I can tell by the look of ya.”

  “And?”

  “We’ll have none o’ that, here,” the barkeep warned him. “Now, what’d you like?”

  “Tankard of ale, any kind o’ meat and potatoes.”

  “Stew work for ya? It’s full o’ good beef, I’ll warrant.”

  “Sure. Stew sounds good,” Kittins said.

  “Be right back,” the barkeep said.

  “I rather like him,” Long croaked.

  Kittins thought about saying something shitty, mean. Decided to go the easy route. “Do ya, now? Weird kinda name for a place, though, ain’t it? Gangrene & Sons?”

  Long hadn’t expected the man could read. His thoughts must have been clear in his expression, because Kittins awkwardly admitted, “I been taking lessons, these past couple o’ years. Always wanted to read about the great battles, and now I can.”

  Long nodded. Made perfect sense to him.

  Spirk arrived before Kittins’ meal, looking, as usual, more than a little lost. “Uh…Cap’n?” he asked Long. “Oh, hi Sergeant,” he said to Kittins. “Didn’t see you at first.”

  “I’m a captain now, too,” Kittins answered gruffly.

  “So…” Spirk ventured, “who should I ask for permission to sit down?”

  Kittins’ left hand shot out, and he pulled Spirk down onto the nearest chair. “Just sit,” he commanded.

  The barkeep brought Kittins’ ale and stew and asked Spirk “And for you?”

  “Well…” Spirk began, “Whadda ya got?”

  The barkeep took a deep breath and launched into a lengthy and impressive recitation of options, when Kittins cut him off.

  “Just bring him the same’s me.”

  “The same,” the barkeep said. “Sounds good.” And off he went.

  Kittins looked askance at Spirk. “You look diff’rnt somehow.”

  “I do?” Spirk asked, concerned.

  “Older, thinner…” Kittins fumbled for the words.

  “Wiser,” Long offered, in a crackling whisper.

  “You can talk!” Spirk said, amazed.

  “After a fashion,” Long agreed, “though it ain’t easy or fun.”

  “Makes it easier for me, though,” Kittins said belligerently.

  Rem and Yendor came through the front door together, both already three sheets to the wind. Surprise, surprise!

  “General Long Penis!” Yendor called out at the top of his voice, alarming everyone else in the room.

  When they reached the table, Kittins pulled them down into seats even harder and faster than he had Spirk. Good, thought Long, let him be the enforcer. It’s not a job I relish, anyway.

  “You all hear how loud I’m talking?” Long asked in his brittle voice, checking to make sure everyone was paying attention. “That’s as loud as any o’ you need to be for this conversation.”

  Except for Kittins, the group nodded.

  The barkeep approached with Spirk’s meal, and Kittins said “I guess it’ll be the same all around.”

  The owner looked to Long for confirmation, and Long countermanded his co-captain. “Nah,” he breathed, “have a little fun with it. I’ll pay for the lot, whatever you bring.”

  “Thought you said you wasn’t rich!” the barkeep joked.

  “I ain’t. But there’s no money better spent than on good food and drink.”

  This was greeted with “hear, hear”s and “aye”s all around, which clearly delighted the barkeep. He seemed lighter of step as he headed off towards his kitchen.

  “Now,” Long breathed, “We were all given one piece of the same document – a puzzle, like. It’s time to put those pieces on the table and see what we’ve got.”

  *****

  Three years, and Tadpole still dogged her every step. “When you gonna teach me some magic?”

  Aoife set down the water pail and sighed. “You,” she said, touching the tip of his nose with her right index f
inger, “don’t need magic. You’re far too tricky as it is.” Tadpole frowned. “And besides,” Aoife said, “As I’ve already explained countless times, it doesn’t work that way. We either have the talent for it, or we don’t. Even if I taught you the words and gestures, nothing would come of it.”

  Tadpole, as expected, was having none of it. “So, teach me anyways. For fun, like.”