The A’Shea paused, looked about, took stock of her surroundings. The desolate and devastated town she’d stumbled into three years earlier had given rise to a forest – small, but spreading every spring. Buildings sprouted moss, ferns, toadstools and more. Onto the bones of the town’s old inn, Shreds and Patches, a new skin of green, lush life had taken root. Streets had been taken over by nameless grasses. Enormous trees filled the spaces between former homes and businesses. It was, Aoife thought, wonderful and strange – and wondrous strange. And like the town, the children who’d survived its destruction at the hands of Aoife’s brother had also grown abundantly and wild.
“I hate it when you do that,” Tadpole said.
“What?”
“Go away in your head, get all thinky.”
Thinky. Aoife smiled despite her best efforts against it. “Don’t you ever go away in your head, as you put it? Don’t you ever think about things outside of this very moment?”
“Might be,” Tadpole allowed, “but when you go away in your head, takin’ your body with you ain’t far behind.”
Aoife put on her most serious expression. “Tadpole,” she said, “you know how much I care about you and the others. But I do have a larger calling, at times, that requires me to leave once-in-a…”
They both heard the sound of horse hooves clattering on what remained of the road into town.
“Damn it all!” Tadpole hissed.
“Language!” Aoife scolded him.
“To hells with language. This is just what I said. You wait and see if it ain’t!”
Sure enough, around the corner of the nearest house-cum-thicket rode a single A’Shea on a chestnut-colored horse. Tadpole kicked angrily at a nearby molehill and stomped off, muttering and cursing to himself. When the other A’Shea drew near enough, Aoife recognized her as one of those who tended to Tarmun Vykers, in the Queen’s castle. For a moment, her breath caught in her throat and she felt a thrill of panic: Vykers must be dead. Why did the thought bother her so? She wouldn’t allow herself to ponder the question, opting instead to meditate until her visitor was close enough to speak. Sixty heartbeats later, the woman arrived.
“Good e’en to you, Sister,” the newcomer said, dipping her chin in respect.
Aoife straightened, dusted her robes off. “And to you,” she replied. “You come with news?”
“I do,” the other agreed. “And it’s for your ears, alone. The Queen has not been seen in days and no one can locate her.”
How unpredictable was life, that Aoife should feel relief at this potentially devastating news, when she’d feared the worst for the Reaper.
“And,” the other A’Shea continued, “Tarmun Vykers is back on his feet and preparing to leave the Queen’s castle in search of her.”
Shapers and A’Shea alike are trained to anticipate and handle the unexpected. These tidings, however, left Aoife gasping for air. The Queen missing and Vykers roused from his sickbed to find her? The situation must be truly dire. “But,” Aoife protested, “he’s not up to that sort of challenge. The man can barely roll over without losing consciousness. Walking or riding a horse could easily kill him!”
“The Queen’s Shaper has devised some sort of truss that seems to have helped in this,” the other woman said. “I’ve not been able to examine it, myself, so I can’t speak to its nature or effectiveness, but I have seen Vykers limping through the hallways. He is walking again.”
Which was impossible, of course. But then, everything about the man was impossible. Why should this be any different? “I need to be…I need to go to him,” Aoife said. “I need to make sure he doesn’t suffer a setback.”
“We thought you might feel that way,” the other A’Shea responded. “I would be honored with your company on the return trip to Lunessfor.”
“Thank you. I need but a few moments to gather my necessaries, and I’ll join you.”
Though Aoife searched and searched, she could not find Tadpole in order to say goodbye and assure him of her eventual return. Sometimes, she reflected, it is better to let folks alone with their anger. Toomt’-La was no easier to find, but only because, as the years had gone by, his natural camouflage had gotten more and more extreme. Now, he was virtually indistinguishable from foliage, unless he wished to seen and noticed by humans.
When he spoke, his voice was like the creaking of trees and the rustling of leaves. “And so,” he said, before she could even open her mouth, “another trial beckons. Go, go, tend to your Reaper. Again, so much depends upon his every action.”
Aoife wanted to question him further, but Toomt’-La drifted into silence and, she assumed, sleep, a sleep such as humans have never known.
*****
“What’s your name, anyway, Burn?” Vykers finally asked the Queen’s Shaper.
“Cindor,” the man said.
“Cindor?” Said Vykers. “That some kind of Burner joke?”
“Not ‘Cinder; Cindor.”
The Reaper stared at the fellow blankly.
“It’s spelled differently,” Cindor explained.
“The fuck difference does that make?” Vykers asked, irritably.
“The difference,” Cindor explained, struggling to contain his annoyance, “is that one is the name for a person, and the other is the name for a thing.”
“Yeah, well, I think I’ll just call you ‘Cindor.” They’d been walking down a side corridor towards the outdoors – promised sunshine and relatively fresh air. Vykers took a moment to lean on the wall and gather his strength for the next hundred steps. “But I’da thought a big Shaper like you’d have a whole string o’ fancy names,” he managed.
“You’d have been mistaken. I have been Cindor since I can remember.”
Vykers switched topics. “Tell me something, Master Cindor…”
“No ‘Master;’ just Cindor.”
“Right,” Vykers responded. “I was wondering how and when you first met Her Majesty.”
“That is too long a tale to share at the moment,” Cindor answered smugly.
The Reaper pushed himself up and off the wall, resumed walking. “Alrighty, then: have you ever worked with Pellas?”
The question seemed to let some air out of Cindor, and the Shaper’s haughty demeanor changed completely. “He was a friend,” Cindor said so softly Vykers could barely hear him. “His death was a loss we may not endure.”
Vykers lost all desire to goad the man. After a respectful silence, he changed topics again. “So, what’s our plan?”
“You’re leaving tomorrow, first light. I’ve created a special saddle for your horse that will enhance and support the enchantments on your girdle. You won’t have the mobility you’re accustomed to, but you’ll be able to ride considerably longer than would otherwise be possible.”
“I’m not going alone…” Vykers said, in a tone that sat somewhere between question and statement.
“Of course not. You’ll be joined by an old friend, and I understand there’s a certain A’Shea who absolutely insists on joining you.”
Aoife, Arune thought, irritably.
Aoife? Vykers thought back.
Don’t pretend you’re not pleased.
Clearly you ain’t, Vykers retorted.
You’re damned right. Her presence will just…weaken you.
I think she means to strengthen me.
Physically, perhaps, Arune snorted. Emotionally?
I am not some woman, to weep over the fall of a flower petal!
Arune kicked him in the jewels. Or, that’s what it felt like, anyway. Vykers doubled over in pain.
Cindor looked sincerely alarmed. “Has your wound worsened?”
“Nah, nah,” Vykers groaned. “Just having a lovers’ spat with my resident spook.”
“Ah,” Cindor nodded, “Arune. I thought she was on your side.”
“Only because she’s on my inside. There’s times I think she’d happily kill me if she had a body of her own.”
That’s a lie
! Arune protested.
Vykers chuckled, which made him wince. Is it? To Cindor, he said “Just the three of us, then? Me, the A’Shea, and this mysterious old friend?”
“We thought a larger party would draw undue attention.”
“I’m the Reaper. ‘Undue Attention” is my middle name.”
*****
Each fragment of the document, each puzzle piece, was blank, but no one was aware of this, or would admit the blankness of his own piece to his companions. When all the pieces were fitted together, however, an elaborate and lengthy message faded into view.
“Magic,” Kittins spat, contemptuously.
“Magic!” Spirk agreed, with much greater enthusiasm.
“Keep it down, lad,” Long warned the younger man. “Captain?” he asked, looking at Kittins, “you wanna do the honors?”
If this was a test, Kittins was up for it. First, though, he looked around the tavern’s main room, to make sure no one was listening or looking their way. Then, he began to speak in a quiet rumble. “Greetings. As you all now know, Her Majesty has gone missing – kidnapped, we believe. Finding her, rescuing her (if possible) or punishing her killers (in the worst case), are tasks we have assigned elsewhere.” Kittins looked up. Everyone stared at the letter in his hands with rapt attention. “Your job is to infiltrate Lunessfor’s Eight Great Families, to determine what, if anything, they had to do with our Queen’s disappearance. We suggest beginning at The Fretful Porpentine, in Lunessfor. And, look you, any rumors or gossip could prove most useful. Be vigilant, be wary, be careful. Danger lurks in unexpected places; allies may appear in the most unlikely forms.”
“What’s that mean?” Spirk interrupted. “Like…furniture? Or barnyard animals?”
Yendor wisely clamped a sweaty hand over Spirk’s mouth.
Kittins continued. “This tavern, Gangrene & Sons, is the only place you can safely discuss what you’ve learned. Mark it. Remember it. The barkeep will have something for you as you leave.” The instant Kittins finished reading the letter, it crumbled to dust in his hands and blew away on a breeze that had no business being there.
For a long moment, no one spoke – largely because Yendor still had his hand over Spirk’s mouth. Finally, it was Yendor himself who broke the silence.
“A job that starts in a bar? If that don’t prove Mahnus exists, I don’t know what will.”
“Huh,” Kittins said to Yendor. “I never understood why you were invited along, but now I get it. You offer a certain…what’s the word?...verisimilitude.”
Everyone gaped at him.
“A what?” Long asked.
“Verisimilitude. It means he looks and acts right…for a wastrel.”
“Well, my big, beefy friend,” Long responded, “You have far too much time on your hands if you can pull words like that outta your ass.”
Kittins thought about belting him, but flashed a prodigious, toothy grin, instead. “Do I scare ya, little man?”
“Let’s say you won the pissing match, shall we?” Rem interjected. “We’ve more important things to do than squabble amongst ourselves.”
“Right,” Long agreed. “I don’t see much point in puttin’ this off. Let’s collect whatever the barkeep has for us and be off. The sooner begun, the sooner done, as the missus likes to say.”
At the bar, the barkeep actually winked – winked! – at Long and his companions before tossing a purse in Rem’s direction.
“Money?” Rem asked.
The huge man winked again.
“’S not often you leave a tavern with money,” Yendor observed. “Another proof of Mahnus’ existence!”
*****
The sky was still dark when Cindor led Vykers down yet another corridor and out into a little-used courtyard, in the middle of which waited four horses and a couple of cloaked figures the Reaper did not immediately recognize. The smell of bread baking wafted down from…somewhere, a comforting, welcome aroma in direct juxtaposition to the seriousness of the coming journey. Drawing nearer the two strangers, Vykers suddenly recognized the taller of the two.
“Three!” he said, jubilantly. The chimera smiled as well, or it did whatever passed for a smile on its exceptionally weird face. “Guess they figured you survived workin’ with me last time, so you’d probably survive another go, huh?”
Three chuffed and chuckled. Or at least that’s what it sounded like.
Vykers looked over at the other figure, a short, older man in patchwork motley. “Alheria’s tits! What are you supposed to be?”
“I am Hoosh Bindy, the Queen’s Fool.”
Vykers cast a disapproving eye in Cindor’s direction. Turning back to Hoosh, he said, “Well, if this is your idea o’ funny, you must be a fuckin’ failure in your job. This here’s a life-and-death kinda situation. We don’t have time for concerned hangers-on. Everyone on this trip pulls his own weight and then some.” The Reaper paused, scowling at the Fool. “What’ve you got to offer?”
“That remains to be seen,” the man said, pulling a crudely made cap down over his wispy white hair.
“Like hell,” Vykers retorted. “I ain’t takin’ this one,” he shouted at Cindor (and felt his wound throb in the process). “I won’t have time to bury his corpse.”
“No one alive knows Her Majesty better,” the Shaper replied calmly.
“Like I said, unless he’s got more to offer than the occasional jape or two – o’ which I’ve heard exactly none – he may not be alive much longer. We can expect fighting, ambushes, all manner o’ bullshit.”
Vykers, Arune interrupted. He’s got some talent.
What kind o’ talent? Morris dancing? He gonna play his pipes and tabor ‘til the enemy throws himself at our feet, beggin’ for mercy?
He’s got a talent for magic. What it is, how it manifests itself, I don’t yet know.
Vykers stepped into the little man’s face. “What’ve you got to say for yourself?”
“Tis true, I am milady’s fool, though it seems you covet my coxcomb.”
Vykers growled, “I hate riddles.”
“I’ve a dry wit, you lack wit!” Hoosh said, capering around in a circle. “I’m a dry fool for…”
Vykers grabbed him by the front of his jerkin and violently heaved him headfirst into a nearby rain barrel. “Now, you’re a wet fool and suddenly I can’t help laughing!”
“That’s enough, Vykers!” Cindor called over. “Like him or not, he’s the Queen’s closest friend and he goes.”
The Reaper stepped away, and Hoosh extracted himself from the barrel, sputtering, gagging and gasping for breath. “I like a good joke,” he coughed, “and so, I’ll warrant, did your folks.”
Let him have his moment, Arune told Vykers. You’re twice his size and ten times as dangerous.
But ten?
You know what I mean.
“Fine.” Vykers said. “I’ll take the clown. It’ll amuse me to see how he fares in the wild.”
“Tarmun,” a voice called from the doorway.
Vykers felt Arune’s irritation surge in the back of his mind. What in Mahnus’ name was her problem? “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said as the A’Shea walked towards him.
Didn’t expect it, but hoped desperately, Arune grumbled.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Aoife complained. “But I suppose there’s no helping it, under the circumstances.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“You will if I have anything to say about it,” Aoife said. “Is your wound giving you much trouble? Are you feeling weak?”
Vykers laughed with studied insouciance. “I’m the Reaper, remember?”
“Yes,” Aoife frowned with equally studied disapproval, “I remember.”
“Time is short,” Cindor cut in. “The sun is rising. This is your party, these are your horses. Go.”
“Just like that, eh?”
“Take the southern gate and continue south. I’ll be in touch with your Shaper constantly,” Ci
ndor said. “Go.”
Without another moment’s delay, Three, Hoosh and Aoife mounted their horses, then turned to watch Vykers, waiting to see if he could make the climb or whether he’d need help. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up into the unusual saddle Cindor had designed for him. It was high in front, higher in back and awkward as hell to sit in. But somehow its magics stabilized the Reaper and made him feel more at ease.
“Let’s go, then,” he urged his companions. “Mustn’t keep trouble waiting…”
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 4