The Frog rolled over and sat up, surprised to find the Reaper standing over him and even more surprised when Vykers suddenly laughed out loud. Aoife bolted upright, clearly disoriented and whispered a few quiet words to calm herself.
“What’s going on?” she asked with more than a trace of irritation in her voice.
Vykers looked her way, smiled what he thought his most appealing smile, and said “Your boy’s got a few tricks up his sleeve, I see.”
Aoife digested this for a few seconds and finally understood. “He’s lived amongst the children of Nar. He has…learned a few things, yes.”
“No wonder he was able to reach us without getting eaten, then: kid blends right into the grass.”
“Or anything else!” the Frog added. “Anything natural, that is.”
“I’d like to learn that trick, myself,” Vykers said.
Aoife objected. “You’re too dangerous as it is, Tarmun Vykers. I’d fear for the world if you adopted the ways of the children of Nar.”
Mercurial thing that he was, Vykers’ good humor was gone. “Fear for it now,” he said, and walked back to his things, ready to start packing up and moving out.
The A’Shea despaired of ever understanding the man. Or her feelings for him. About him. She couldn’t accept that she had feelings for him. And then there was the Shaper who shared his body. Oh yes, it was supposed to be Vykers’ big secret. In Aoife’s mind, it was the smallest of his secrets, dwarfed by questions of his origins, his intent, his absolute isolation. What was he, really? What did he want? Why had he set himself – or been set by forces unknown and unseen – so far apart from the rest of humanity?
“We got anything to eat?” the Frog wondered aloud.
Aoife smiled a small, tight smile. Even she was now thinking of him as ‘the Frog.’ Vykers’ influence was pervasive…and undoubtedly unhealthy for young Tadpole.
“There is meat,” Number Three offered, helpfully.
“Mead?” Hoosh cried merrily, leaping up from his bedroll. “Did someone say mead?”
“There’s no mead,” Vykers answered, more forcefully than necessary. He was gratified, however, to see the Fool plop back down onto his ass dejectedly.
Shaper, Vykers thought, I’m tired of this. How much further to the coast?
A week, perhaps.
Perhaps?
Assuming we don’t run across any more highwaymen, Grebbers, Oursine, Svarren or other threats.
Actually, I’d welcome a few more threats.
I’m sure you would, Arune snorted. But I suspect your companions don’t share your enthusiasm for conflict. Except for Number Three, that is.
And you?
I admit to getting bored on occasion. But it might be better for everyone if we kept the boy, the A’Shea and the Fool out of harm’s way.
You’re joking, right? They might as well rename the Queen’s Highway ‘Harm’s Way’ for all the safety you’ll find here. I –
More company.
Vykers scanned the horizon in each direction. I don’t…
“Master,” Number Three said, “something approaches.”
“Trouble? More o’ them grubbers?”
Grebbers. And no. Not more of them. Something else.
The Reaper pulled his sword and planted it, point down, in the grass between his legs. His rested his forearms on its quillons. Gradually, he became aware of something moving along the ground in the distance. “What in Mahnus’ name’s this, then?” he said to no one in particular. “A host of angry mice?”
“Entoo-Rii-ii,” the A’Shea said.
She was the last person Vykers would have picked to identify the oncoming threat. “The what?”
She searched his face, her blue eyes, arresting. “They are of faerie.”
Vykers exhaled aggressively. “Great. Fuckin’ great. What next? A mob o’ rutting will-o-wisps?”
The A’Shea cocked her head at him, quizzically. “Will-o-wisps don’t…mate…like that.”
“Don’t they?” Vykers responded, unimpressed.
In minutes, the blur of moment resolved itself into a group of creatures even smaller in stature than the Grebbers and much fewer in number.
“You won’t need that sword,” Aoife told Vykers. “Or any other weapon,” she hastily added to the Frog. “They’re not here to fight.”
“Think I’ll decide that for myself,” Vykers replied. Looking around, he noted that Number Three and the Fool (he couldn’t call the man by name. It was too ridiculous to be counted a name) were both on their feet and facing the approaching whatever-they-were. And although Aoife had a restraining arm on the Frog, the boy seemed braced for all eventualities, as well. When at last the Entoo-rii-ii came into view, the Frog visibly relaxed.
“Oh,” he said, as casually as you please.
Vykers looked askance at the boy. Oh? That’s it?
The Entoo-rii-ii came to a stop a good twenty paces away, or further than Vykers or his chimera friend could leap. They were but half as tall as the Grebbers and in appearance reminded the Reaper of the A’Shea’s former companion, Toomt’-La – not in any particular, but in their overall aspect, as if they’d sprouted from the ground rather than having been born from a womb. Their leader was a curious being of indeterminate age and gender who bowed in Aoife’s direction when he had come near enough. The A’Shea returned his bow without saying a word to alleviate Vykers’ confusion.
The woman’s got secrets, Arune observed.
The Reaper couldn’t help chuckling softly to himself. That was funny, coming from the Shaper.
The fairy leader turned to Vykers and appraised him before speaking. “Hedeshai testori i m’derrial oo tsa noomin.”
Vykers could hear the Fool, off to his left, struggling to stifle the giggles. For once, he and the Fool were in agreement. “Look,” he began, “I got no…”
“He wishes to thank you for weakening the Grebbers, “Aoife said.
“You can speak his language?”
“No,” Aoife admitted, “but somehow…I understand what he says.”
The little being continued. “Hedesh-o, sestura a mahni fendri o o. Hedesh-ha choo tansy. Tzuri i a a? Vestoo am qui am.”
“He says the Grebbers had been massing to attack for days and days, and we broke the back of their host.”
“I’m the Reaper,” Vykers said. “That’s what I do.”
“Hesheshai im woonata, hedeshai a a biscooli. Fantra a oo hinsi.”
“In payment of this debt, he tells you to beware. All is not as it seems.”
Vykers wondered what the fairy words for “no shit” were. Since when was anything ever as it seemed? Some payment. “Well,” Vykers told Aoife, “tell him thank you and…uh…thank you. That’s all, I guess.” The warrior was just turning to head back to his belongings when the fairy leader held forth a small, amber orb, about the size of a pea.
“He wants you to take it,” Aoife explained.
The Reaper walked back to the fairy leader, knelt down, and accepted the orb. Maybe this was the actual gift and not the self-evident advice. He made an effort to make eye contact with the leader and all of his retinue. They gazed back impassively, with eyes that seemed a thousand years old. “Thank you, again,” he told the leader.
“You’re meant to eat that, but wait until the king and his subjects have departed,” Aoife warned.
“King?” Vykers asked, unsure he’d heard correctly.
“Yes,” Aoife responded, waving gently to the Entoo-rii-ii as they departed. “Leaders come in all shapes and sizes.”
When the fairies were at last out of sight, Vykers popped the golden orb into his mouth. “It’s honey,” he said, to his own surprise. Aoife offered a smile so bright and so fleeting, Vykers thought he’d imagined it. He shook his head. Honey.
*****
Kittins, House Gault
The other men in the barracks liked to think of themselves as a hard bunch – ruthless, cruel and without fear. They were forced
to rethink those beliefs the first time Kittins came through their door. The man was big. Bigger’n big. And his battle-ruined face was a nightmare. It was obvious he knew all about pain – givin’ and takin’ – and cared not one whit for surface appearances or considerations. He was the new man, but the second he walked into the room, he was the man. No one wanted to fuck with him.
This much and more the Lord of House Gault observed when dropping in to spy on his newest recruit. The big brute was almost too perfect, which immediately raised Darley’s hackles. Fortunately, there was one fail-proof test of a man’s utility and loyalty, and His Lordship would propose it the first time he found himself alone with the new man. If the fellow passed, well, there was no end to the jobs Lord Darley could find for him. If he passed. Darley continued on his business, leaving Kittins to his own.
The big soldier swept his gaze across the room. A handful of men were engaged in a game of cards, a couple more slept in their beds. One fellow picked at his toenails, and another sat in a chair, reading, with his legs propped up on his bed.
“Anybody wanna give up his watch?” Kittins asked. “I gotta get out o’ this room or I’m like to hurt someone doesn’t need hurtin’.”
The toe-picker looked up, fella named Wrensl Deda. “I’m up next. Y’can ‘ave my watch, if you like. I was s’posed to man the kitchen gate, but I think that old cook’s taken a shine to me, and I’d just as soon avoid her.”
Kittins smirked. He’d seen the old cook. Despite her lack of height, she went twice the weight of a man at the very least and maybe thrice. Her skin had a permanent greasy sheen to it, almost as if she’d been dipped in oil, and she smelled, faintly but persistently, of old cheese. Kittins could see why the man wished to avoid her. “Yeah,” he said, “I’ll take that watch. What are you going to do, instead?”
Normally, Deda – or any of the others – wouldn’t have answered such a question from a new recruit. But, again, Kittins’ frightening visage and fierce demeanor made the other men more pliable. “Thought I’d go down to the basement. Watch ‘em torture the prisoners and what-not.”
He hadn’t gone yet, himself, but Kittins wondered if there wasn’t more occurring down there than Deda was letting on. A quick glance at the furtive looks of the other men confirmed this suspicion. Could it be that House Gault had Her Majesty in its dungeons? It didn’t seem likely, but he supposed he’d have to investigate…after this next watch. As Kittins turned to go, he believed he could actually feel the other guards making faces at him and each other behind his back. He figured he’d have to hurt one, as publically and painfully as possible, make an example of him, in order to keep the rest in line.
*****
Long Pete, House Hunting
It was a simple plan, but the best they could do on such short notice: Long and Yendor would separately pose as mercs looking for work. They would visit each of the Houses they hadn’t covered in their previous plans and discussions, believing those to be Spirk’s most likely targets. Once there, Long or Yendor would claim to be waiting for a fellow-in-arms and inquire as to whether or not anyone matching Spirk’s description had been seen of late. Yes, yes: it was true that even folks who saw Spirk rarely noticed him. But his two companions could think of no other way to approach the problem.
Long had had no luck at the first of the great Houses, and as he made for the next, rehearsing everything he planned to say, he turned a corner without looking and ran smack into…
Esmun Janks.
Flustered as he was from the unexpected collision, Long first thought he was imagining things. As he put his hands out to steady and reassure the other man, however, he became quite certain of it. Except that Janks was dead, killed by Long’s own hands; except that Janks didn’t seem to recognize his old friend. Of course, Janks hadn’t recognized him the last time they met, either, but Long was under no spell this time. At least not so far as he knew.
“Janks?” he asked the man in his raspy voice.
“Might want to pay more attention where you’re walking, mate,” Janks said.
This was too uncanny a moment for Long to process in a mere ten seconds. “I…I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I was in a bit of a rush, it’s true. But, now we’re stopped, you look a mite familiar. Have we met before? Isn’t your name Esmun Janks?”
“Whoozit Janks? No,” the man stated emphatically, almost wincing at Long’s voice. “Never heard o’ him. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to get out o’ my way, I have business to attend to.”
Long needed more time, couldn’t let the man go. “Look, at least let me stand you to a drink or two, eh? Little peace offering for almost running you over?”
“I’m sorry, no,” Janks replied. “I’ve lost too much time already.” With that, he bustled past Long and rushed off in the opposite direction.
Long leaned into the wall of the nearest building, slid down it and sat, utterly and absolutely confounded. The man was Janks’ twin. But Janks had never mentioned a brother, and Long felt certain he would have. If he’d liked him, Janks would have boasted of his brother’s qualities incessantly; if he’d hated him, Janks would have complained about his shortcomings to the same degree. Was it possible Long hadn’t killed his old friend, that Janks had somehow survived and harbored a grudge? But that made no sense, either. The real Janks would’ve punched Long in the mouth for such an injury. Long Pete felt a familiar, prickly sensation up and down his arms and legs: goosebumps. He stumbled back up to his feet, torn. On the one hand, he was supposed to be looking for Spirk, needed to find him, in fact, before the young man got himself – or the whole gang – into trouble. On the other hand, Long had just seen a ghost and wanted to follow the apparition to learn the truth of things. When he looked again, Janks had rounded another corner – Long wasn’t sure which – and disappeared. Well, Long thought, he would go after Spirk. He could always come back here later with the rest of the boys and see if Janks came by again.
A half mile and several minutes later, however, time worked its usual magic, and Long began to think he’d imagined the whole encounter, or at least been so shaken by the unexpected impact that he’d misidentified the other fellow. Yes, that was it. Janks was dead, had been for three years. Maybe Long was so homesick for Mardine and Esmine that he’d made himself see something, someone, that wasn’t there.
After stopping to ask directions twice, the old soldier finally found his way to the gates of House Fyne. Like House D’Escurzy, from which he’d come, House Fyne was located in a part of town well beyond Long’s means – had he any interest in living there. North Hill, as the district was called, was actually built on a series of hills. The highest of these were entirely taken over by the opulent estates of Houses Fyne, Radcliffe, and Thornton, along with the less magnificent mansions of several lesser Houses. The whole place was immaculate, as if the address was even too dear for fallen leaves, litter and dirt. As Long drew near the gate, one of the four – four! – men standing guard out front snarled at him.
“Shove off!”
Though taken aback, Long struggled to remain calm and professional. “Was just checkin’ to see if your fair House needed any more swordhands…”
The guards traded disbelieving looks, and the rude one spoke up again. “You ain’t speakin’ of yourself, I hope, old man.”
“Me and a friend,” Long crackled. “Younger fella with a port wine birthmark on his face. He ain’t been by, has he?”
Rude didn’t even glance over at his cohorts before answering. “No, he ain’t, old crow. Now, like I said, you’d best shove off, ‘fore I give you a beating.”
“You sure you ain’t seen…”
That was too much. Rude yanked his sword out of his scabbard and swaggered over to Long. “Thought you said you was a swordhand, but you seem more like a stupid bastard to me. That what you are, old man? A stupid bastard?”
Slowly, Long grimaced, grabbed at his chest and doubled over, letting out a low groan. When the other man drew nearer to in
spect or perhaps mock him further, Long straightened out in an instant, driving the top of his head into the other man’s chin and knocking him backwards onto his ass. Before Rude could even rise to a sitting position, Long’s sword was at his throat. Seeing this, the other guards stood down.
“If I’m a stupid bastard, what’s that make you?” he asked the man at his feet. Eyes filled with fury and embarrassment glared back at him. “All I did’s walk into your little square, offer my services and ask if you’d seen my friend. There’s no call to get nasty.” Oh, he wanted to say more, to unload on the young thug. You think you’re the cock of the walk, do you? I’ve stood nose-to-nose with the End-of-All-Things, had him screaming threats in my face that would’ve shriveled your testicles up like raisins. Well, I’m still here, and the End ain’t! But Long said none of that. Keeping the point of sword on Rude’s neck, he surveyed the square again, made eye contact with each of the guards. No, they hadn’t seen Spirk. Carefully, Long lowered his sword and backed away.
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 8