As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)
Page 6
“Lads,” Rem told them, “lads, it’s on a trial-basis only. We’ll sign for, say, one year. At the end of a twelve-month, if it please not every last man jack of you, we’ll off into the world again, freemen each and every one.” There was no way to explain the power Rem had over his company mates. It wasn’t through words alone, or simple charisma. But somehow, when he took it upon himself to motivate and inspire his troupe, he invariably did so with marvelous aplomb. And they were powerless to resist.
“Which of the Eight were you thinking?” one of the other players asked.
“I’m told Hawsey sets a fine table and possesses an even better wine cellar,” Rem replied, mischievously. “And,” he admitted, “they’ve already approached us with an offer of patronage, so we don’t risk rejection.”
A second actor, the troupe’s ‘old man,’ cut in. “Just the one year, though, right? You won’t ink us to a longer term without our say-so…”
“Of course not!” Rem assured the man. “We’re a company!”
*****
Vykers, In Pursuit
Something should be said of Vykers’ pain. It is true that as a warrior he’d experienced far fewer injuries than could reasonably be expected for someone in his profession – particularly someone who’d lived through as many battles as he had – but Vykers had known pain nonetheless. Indeed, he had suffered both emotional and physical agonies that would leave most men groveling for death, beginning with the loss of his only beloved and continuing through the once-upon-a-time removal of his hands and feet, right up to the malevolent, never-healing hole through his abdomen. The Reaper thought on the fiend who had given it to him, now less than worm-shit. He thought, too, of the mysterious, invisible weapon the fiend had used. For whom was it originally designed? What had been its original purpose? Vykers’ wound throbbed, bringing him back to the present.
He was bitter, almost always angry. He’d saved the world, so they said. And what had been his reward? He never knew a moment’s reprieve from the pain that bedeviled him, even in his sleep. Oh, he regularly dreamt of being pain-free, but even his unconscious mind could not convince him it was so. Sleeping or awake, his pain was with him. The Shaper’s girdle helped to some degree, as did Aoife’s constant ministrations. Yet, Vykers would gladly have conquered the world in exchange for a day, an hour, a mere five minutes’ time without pain. The grand scope of earlier ambitions had been reduced to that: anything, everything for a moment’s peace.
“You’re hurting again,” the A’Shea said behind his back. It was disconcerting how she could tell without speaking with him, looking him in the eye.
“Again?” Vykers asked. “Still. Always.”
Aoife spurred her pony alongside the Reaper’s. “Yes, yes. But it’s worse at the moment.” She fished around in the pockets of her robe and brought forth a handful of hard, waxy yellow berries. “Chew on these,” she said. “They’ll help a bit.”
For the briefest of moments, Vykers thought of slapping her hand away, sending her offering flying off into the scrub at road’s edge. But he didn’t understand the impulse, or the countering impulse to cooperate. “You know what’d really help, Sister?” he groused. “Not havin’ a ghastly fuckin’ hole through my gut.”
Aoife bowed her head, scolded or embarrassed. Vykers couldn’t tell. Her right hand fiddled with her pony’s mane while her left continued to hold the berries.
“Oh, for Mahnus’ sake…” Vykers blurted out, “give ‘em here. I’ll give ‘em a try. This point, I’ll try anything.” When the A’Shea looked up and made eye contact, the Reaper felt surprisingly self-conscious. Her eyes were so big, so blue.
Speaking of Mahnus, Arune cut in, as she always did when Vykers began really thinking about Aoife, what in his name are you getting yourself into with this A’Shea? You know they’ve got no use for men, and least of all men like you. Don’t give her another moment’s thought.
But that was like saying “Don’t think of a jack rabbit.” Soon as you hear that, it’s all you can think about. Still, Vykers had to agree he’d been thinking of the A’Shea entirely too much of late. He was afraid his constant pain was dulling his wits and reflexes. Thinking on women could only exacerbate the problem. Hastily, he grabbed the proffered berries, tossed them into his mouth and urged his horse forward without so much as a nod of thanks. He needed to get out in front of his companions, get a little fresh air, some breathing room. Mostly, he just needed to be left alone.
Well done! Arune said.
Alone? Fat chance. He’d never be alone with the damned Shaper stuck in his head.
Not two minutes later, Number Three rode up on Vykers’ right. “Do you smell that?” the chimera inquired, squinting into the late afternoon breeze.
Vykers’ nose was full of the berries’ floral aroma. “No. What’m I s’posed to be smelling?”
“Something…familiar. I just can’t put a name to it at the moment.”
The Reaper hardly heard him: the berries were actually working. “Dip me in tallow and set me ablaze,” he breathed to himself.
“Master?” Number 3 asked.
Vykers snapped out of it. “Huh? Oh, sorry, my friend. Got a little distracted for a moment, there. What were you sayin’ about some odor?”
“There’s a scent on the wind I’ve smelled before, but I can’t remember where. In truth, I’ve been smelling it on and off for a couple of days now.”
“Some kinda threat?”
“Might be. I am uncertain.”
“Well,” Vykers said, “we’ll be ready for it, just the same.”
Just then, the Fool started singing,
“Olario meedle,
O, pransical kay,
I’ll foop with your deedle
And diddle all day…”
Vykers leaned into Number 3 and whispered, “Can you do me a favor, Three? Can you shut that clown up for a while?”
The chimera offered a furtive grin and pulled up, allowing Vykers’ horse to resume the lead and Aoife and Hoosh’s ponies to catch up. The Reaper never looked back, but it got quiet in a hurry. Must’ve been subtle, too, because even the A’Shea didn’t object.
The little party continued south into the evening, and the Reaper experienced no more interruptions until it was time to make camp.
*****
It was a dark night; the sky was overcast, offering not a hint of moon or stars. The firelight seemed boxed in by the clouds, confined to the circle of travelers huddled around its warmth. Vykers felt disinclined to speak, as if every word was a secret that must needs be kept. Thus, as close as they were to one another ‘round the campfire, the companions may as well have been thousands of miles apart, isolated and alone. The Reaper sat bundled in blankets between the A’Shea and the chimera, staring into the fire’s embers in order to avoid looking at the Fool, who sat directly opposite. Pensively, he picked at his teeth with a small sliver of bone left over from the evening’s meal, worrying a piece of gristle caught between his molars.
“Master,” Number Three whispered quietly in his direction. “We are being watched.”
Vykers’ eyes flickered over to Aoife, across to Hoosh, and then back to the chimera. “A moment,” he murmured. Burner? He probed. You hear that?
Mmmm, she replied, almost sleepily. It’s a boy.
Thanks, Vykers responded, absentmindedly.
Well, Arune thought to herself, from Vykers, any thanks is great thanks.
Vykers leaned towards Number Three. “It’s a boy.”
“Yes,” Three said. He’d already worked that much out on his own. “Shall I go and…retrieve him?”
The Reaper’s nod was almost imperceptible, so lost was he in other thoughts. The chimera disappeared in the space between heartbeats, and the darkness seemed to creep into the spot he’d occupied and settle down in his place, an unwelcome usurper. Suddenly, there was a startled yelp beyond the firelight, and Aoife reached over in alarm and put a hand on Vykers’ left arm, whereupon Arune zapped
her with a spark of static electricity. The A’Shea pulled her hand back, uncertain what had just occurred. She hadn’t been aware of electricity in the air and yet, with Tarmun Vykers, who could say? A new face loomed into view at the light’s extremity. Behind it, Number Three’s odd visage faded into view. Vykers leaned forward.
“Whadda you got there?” he asked the chimera.
It was Aoife who answered, though. “Tadpole!” she blurted out, alarm unmistakable in her voice.
“Mighty big tadpole, you ask me,” Vykers said.
Number Three chuffed and pushed the boy forward into the fire circle. He was ragged and filthy, with perhaps ten summers behind him and a defiant look in his eye. Not afraid: defiant. Aoife was on her feet and by his side in seconds. Nervously, she shot a glance Vykers’ way.
“I’ll…I’ll see him back to the capital,” she said hastily, as if fearing the Reaper’s wrath and trying to preempt it.
Languidly, Vykers rose to his feet, felt a stitch in his side, did his best to hide it. “No,” he said, “you won’t.”
The A’Shea wrapped her arms around the boy, shielding him from the warrior. “I will. You’ll not lay a finger on him, Tarmun Vykers.”
Oh, now the boy looked afraid.
The Reaper sauntered over to Aoife and her charge until he was within kissing distance. He squinted down at the boy. The A’Shea braced herself for the worst. “What’s your name?” he demanded.
“T-Tadpole,” the boy stammered.
Vykers grinned. “Not anymore,” he said. “From now on, you’re The Frog.” He turned to Aoife. “And The Frog stays.”
“That’s ridiculous!” she objected.
“Is it? The Frog here crossed countless miles of open land – on foot, no less – without gettin’ killed by bears or bandits, all so’s he could be with you. You don’t turn your back on such loyalty, such bravery.”
The color rose in Aoife’s cheeks. Even in the play of light and shadows from the flickering firelight, it was obvious she was upset. “I’ll not allow him to stay, Tarmun Vykers. He’ll get killed in your company.”
“He might do. On the other hand, he’s safer with me than travelling back to Lunessfor in your company.” Aoife fumed. “’Sides,” Vykers added, “I won’t be without you, either.” Aoife blushed.
Oh, you’re a smooth one, Vykers, Arune said sarcastically.
Man does what he has to, he replied.
Has to? That’s a laugh. You’re smitten and you know it.
Vykers knew when to ignore the Shaper and did so now. “The Frog stays,” he told the A’Shea with finality. “Now find him something to eat and let ‘im bed down for the night.”
The Frog glanced from the A’Shea to the Reaper and then over to the frightening chimera and the Fool. What in the world had he gotten himself into this time?
*****
Kittins, House Gault
“So,” the man said.
“So?” Kittins asked, straightening up from his bowl of soup.
“I see you found the kitchen.”
“The man can’t find a kitchen ain’t a man,” Kittins growled.
The nobleman seemed to consider this a moment, and then spoke. “I am Lord Darley, of House Gault,” he said. He pointed his chin at Kittins’ ravaged face. “You get that in the war, then?”
If he was trying to catch the captain off-guard, he’d have to do better than that. The truth was so close to the lie he’d already offered, the two stories were practically one and the same. “Gang o’ thralls tried to eat my head while I was still wearin’ it.”
“I’m relieved to see they failed,” Darley said wryly.
“Well, it ain’t exactly been a boon for my love life, if you take my meaning. But, yes, I made ‘em pay for it.”
Again, Darley examined Kittins with an appraising eye. “’Round here, a man of good service has no difficulty finding female companionship…or whatever other kind of…recreation…suits his tastes.”
“Huh,” Kittins grunted. He didn’t know what else to say, and daren’t say too much.
“You’ll get two Merchants a week – not exorbitant pay, but more than enough when you factor in room and board. And your pay will go up as you demonstrate your worth to House Gault.”
On top of the money he already had stashed away, it was, indeed, more than enough. “Sounds fair,” Kittins replied.
“I think we’ll start you on guard duty, and you’ll bunk in the barracks. From time-to-time, odd jobs will need doing, and that’s when you’ll have your best chance to prove yourself.” Darley paused. “You’ll need to see Cieriste; he’s the household chief of staff.” Apparently, Kittins looked somewhat confused, because Darley felt the need to clarify, “He’s sort of the household Captain and Quartermaster in one. You’ll want to stay on his good side.”
“Will do.”
“One thing more,” Darley added. “You’ll address me as ‘your lordship, ‘milord,’ or ‘Lord Darley.’ Do not forget that: around here, station is everything.”
Kittins rose hastily and affected an almost graceful bow from the waist. “Yes, milord. As you say.”
Darley smiled, and Kittins knew he was in.
*****
Rem, House Hawsey
Patronage from House Hawsey meant guaranteed salaries and access to special performance venues and opportunities. But it also meant sleeping in an old, somewhat neglected barracks off to the side of the estate. It was true that with the extra money they brought in, the men of Wratch & Company could easily have paid for much more comfortable accommodations in any of the city’s better inns, but they’d be less likely to overhear house gossip, which was, after all, their whole reason – or Rem’s, anyway – for accepting Hawsey’s patronage in the first place.
As the actors’ first official performance wasn’t due for another week at the least, they busied themselves mending props, practicing stage combat or tormenting the housemaids. Rem watched and listened to everything. He possessed tremendous attention to detail and could memorize an amazing amount of information in almost no time. And so, he did some of his best “work” merely sitting and whiling away the time, feeling absolutely no pressure or even desire to perfect his Morris dancing, his juggling or his rather famous death throes.
It was during one of these moments of quiet observation that he was at last approached by the Lord of House Hawsey. Henton Hawsey was all of five feet tall and almost the same in width. The jaw line obesity had stolen from him, he had regained with a crisp and neatly trimmed beard, dyed one shade beyond convincing. Upon his head sat “the wig that must not be mentioned,” which was a helpful title, indeed, because the damned thing was so heinous, it was hard not to laugh outright. Whether its hairs had once belonged to a human or an animal was a topic of much debate…at the other Houses. No one in House Hawsey ever spoke of it, for fear of banishment. For his part, Rem wasn’t entirely sure where to look when speaking to His Lordship. As if the rest wasn’t bad enough, the fellow was slightly cross-eyed and had a fairly dramatic overbite. After much internal struggle, Rem settled on the end of the man’s nose –which was mercifully mundane – as his focal point in this and all future conversations. Naturally, every city, town and village in the land had its share of misshapen, misbegotten unfortunates, but never had Rem seen anyone so ludicrously ill-fashioned as the lord of House Hawsey. The man looked like he’d been assembled from cast-offs by a blind, drunken godling with chronic palsy.
“Ah! Remuel! I withed to thpeak with you!” His Lordship began in a decidedly rehearsed lisp.
Although he was an actor of some note, Rem never gave a better performance than he did in that moment, pretending that his spontaneous and uncontrollable laughing fit was, instead, the result of having swallowed a fly. He harnessed all of his willpower, all of his mental energies and continued to stare only at Lord Henton’s nose.
“I would like to hear my opthions for entertainment on my belovedth birthday, thome fortnight henth.”
“Oh,” His Lordship said with a disturbingly ribald giggle, “I thintherely doubt that! But let-th have your tale of Tarmun Vykerthz, all the thame. I’m told you were prethent at the final engagement. Now, tell me,” Henton asked, “Can you inthert any thord thwallowerth? Effiny lovethz her thord thwallowerthz, no end. And who can blame her, eh, my friend? ‘Tithz a poorly kept thecret that I’ve got quite the thord mythelf…”