*****
Rem, House Radcliffe
Rem fancied himself a good actor – excellent, even – but he was smart enough to suspect that acting ability alone would not guarantee swift and smooth passage through House Radcliffe’s security. One person there was, though, whom no one ever questioned, a person so essential yet low in station and loathsome in nature that everyone avoided him whenever possible: the Mucker, the man who cleaned the jakes. Rem had no trouble locating the tools of the trade. And being a good actor, he understood the importance of olfactory verisimilitude (a word he’d improbably learned from Kittins) and had a good – or a bad – soak in a back-alley cesspool before reporting to the servants’ gate of House Radcliffe. Oh, there was every probability Rem would get quite, quite sick from this action, but he had more than enough coin in reserve to afford the most talented A’Sheas, whose services were acquired by means of charitable donations to various causes. Rem could be staggeringly generous, if need be.
He was surprised, upon arriving at House Radcliffe, to find two women “manning” the gate. Both were of average height, with dark brown hair and eyes to match. Sisters, then. Each wore the Radcliffe crest – a leek, of all things – upon her left shoulder. The older-looking of the two women addressed Rem.
“Where in Mahnus’ name have you been, Mucker? The privy’s nigh unapproachable!”
“Sfljj,” Rem mumbled.
“Wonderful. An idiot!” the other sister exclaimed irritably. “Well, I suppose that’s fitting.”
The first sister sighed, equally annoyed. “You’d best get to work, then. And, mind you, don’t touch anything outside the jakes. You’ll never be heard from again if you do!”
With that dire warning ringing in his ears, the actor was ushered into House Radcliffe. He’d no idea how the other members of Long’s team were faring, but he very much doubted a single one of them had managed to gain entrance to two of the Eight Houses. Then, he remembered how dangerous a place this was and eschewed any sense of pride in being there.
Just inside the door, an old man sat behind a miniscule desk, lit by a lone candle on the verge of guttering out. He looked up from the ledger in which he’d been writing and squinted at Rem inquiringly. “And you are?” A moment, and then he caught the scent. “Oh, yes. Nevermind. I can bloody well smell who y’are. The first floor jakes are straight on, first hallway on your left. Go to the end, hard right, you’re there. Come back when you’ve finished, I’ll direct ye to the next.”
“Mmllrp,” Rem replied.
Advancing further into the mansion, Rem quickly realized he had not merely come in the servants’ gate but was, indeed, in the bowels, so to speak, of the servants’ wing. There was little to indicate power or wealth here; the floor and walls were plain and unadorned. There weren’t even any windows to look out. Rem came to a standstill, gathered his thoughts. Wandering around the servants’ wing dressed as a turd was hardly going to give him access to the kind of gossip he needed if he was going to satisfy either Henton or Captain Long. Well, the old man at the door had promised to direct him to the next privy as soon as he’d finished cleaning the first. Nothing to be done, really, but muck it out.
Had it not been for his experience in battle, Rem would never have had the stomach for it. But he had seen and done things in combat that made even plunging the jakes seem wholesome. Still, he suspected it would be some time before he felt the desire to eat anything. Finished with his task at last, he returned to the old man by the door.
“Gods, I could smell ye comin’ ‘fore I saw ye.” The old man remarked. “Well, then,” he said, “next one’s up a flight. Go back down yon hallway, pass two doors on your right, take the third. Go up the stairs, down the new hallway. It’s the second door on your left. And don’t wander nor poke you nose where it don’t belong. Have ye got alla that?”
“Amerpg.” Rem was rather enjoying this mumbling business. His regular line of work placed such emphasis on diction and articulation that he never got to fully explore or enjoy the vagaries of incoherence. What freedom! What boundless possibilities were contained in the indecipherable response! He felt like some cryptic oracle of yore: his utterances might be taken to mean virtually anything!
“Huh,” the man grunted. “Well, off with you, afore I ‘gin to gag.”
This time, Rem took a couple of wrong turns – on purpose, naturally – before he found the specified location. Ah, yes, this shit was of a much higher caliber, to be sure. If only he were a real Mucker. Stashing his tools near an open toilet, the actor wandered back down the hallway and revisited the second room he’d popped his head into moments earlier. It was a drawing room of some sort, richly appointed in dark wood paneling and equally dark, seductive velour in tasteful curtains and wall-hangings. Even the upholstery was fitted with matching fabric. It was the two doors beyond, however, that most interested Rem, as potentially leading to someone’s private quarters.
Walking carefully along the perimeter of the room so as not to track footprints in the most obvious line of sight, Rem proceeded to the door at the right rear. Pressing his ear against it, he was disappointed to hear snoring: an occupied room was a useless room, even if the occupant was asleep. Cautiously, he crept to the second door, in the opposite corner. This time, he heard nothing from the room beyond. Placing his hand gently, carefully upon the handle, he tested it and found the door unlocked. With patience he hadn’t known he possessed, he opened it slowly, by degrees, to avoid making the slightest sound. Now he was aware of it, he could still hear the unknown snorer laboring away in the other room. Excellent. Let the man be his warning bell: if the snoring stopped, it would be time to leave with all haste. To Rem’s surprise, however, the snoring got louder as he worked the door open wider, which suggested the two rooms were connected somehow, perhaps by a third, unseen doorway. At last, he pushed his own door wide enough to offer a view of the room on the other side. Predictably, it was dark, but not completely so. Like a tortoise, he extended his neck into the space and waited for his eyes to adjust.
It was a dressing room, presumably that of the next room’s resident. But more than that, it was a possible source of alternate clothing, a new disguise, if only Rem could locate something sufficiently subdued as to seem commonplace. It wouldn’t do to appear in the sleeper’s custom made, courtly attire. Quickly, Rem slipped into the room and pulled the door neatly closed behind him, allowing just enough light to seep through that he could navigate without mishap.
As he had hoped, there was another door to the back of this room, slightly ajar. He left it that way. The room also contained an ornate dressing table and mirror, a chair, several chests and a large wardrobe. First sight of the sleeper’s clothing revealed him to be a man. Rem might’ve guessed that from the snoring, but he’d been wrong about such things before. After several minutes of pawing through the man’s clothing in semi-darkness, Rem chose a sleeping gown and night cap. What the sleeper was wearing at present didn’t bear thinking on. Why the fellow was still abed so late into the morning, however, did pique his interest. Perhaps he was one of the indolent rich, who had nothing better to do than lounge around whilst others did all the work. Or maybe he was sleeping one off. It occurred to Rem the man might be sick, and just as the actor began to frighten himself with the possibility of contagion, he remembered he, himself, was covered in shit. In a flash, he restored the room’s contents as best he could, grabbed the garments in question and snuck back through the door into the drawing room. On a table near the hall, he found a pitcher full of water, which he picked up with his unburdened hand and carried with him back to the jakes.
His tools and the cell’s overwhelming stench were exactly as he left them. Using the water he’d just found, Rem cleaned himself up as much as possible and then shoved his Mucker’s outfit down the shithole before gingerly stepping into the purloined sleeping robe. Last of all, he pulled the night cap onto his head and low over his brow, to conceal his features from casual glances. He’d never
fool anyone close up, of course, but then he didn’t intend to meet anyone close up.
Sometimes, however, life couldn’t care less what we intend. Just as Rem opened the door to step back in the hallway, he spied someone approaching and hastily slammed it shut again, frantically wondering what to do next.
“Still got the runs have you, March?” a man’s voice asked him. “Serves you right, you old fool. You shouldn’t be out of bed, anyway.”
March? March Radcliffe? Rem had never heard of him – no surprise, there. Some of these old families were huge. He did hear the door to the stall next to him open, followed by the unmistakable sound of urination. “That was a devil of a feast, though, wasn’t it?” the unknown man continued.
“Gnrrphlx,” Rem replied. Why ruin a good thing?
“That’s as may be,” the man responded, “But I still think Her Ladyship lays a good table…and a goodly number of her squires, from what I hear.” Although he had seemingly finished his task, the man next door continued to ramble. “Wouldn’t mind seein’ a piece o’ that action, myself, truth to tell.”
Rem felt frustrated, to say the least. Who socializes in the privy?
“What do you think, eh, March? Think you could handle Her Ladyship?”
The man expected a response? Gods! The longer this fellow engaged him, the more likely Rem was to be caught. “Zrrrmmnnttppt,” he mumbled.
“I’m sorry, old fellow; I don’t believe I caught that last…”
Rem made the loudest, most liquid farting noise he could simulate. There was a prolonged silence from the next stall, and then…
“Really! Really, March. I know you’re not feeling well, but that’s…”
Rem let loose with another louder and longer one.
“Good gods, man!” the other man exclaimed. “You’re really not well, are you?”
And again, the biggest, longest, foulest noise the city’s best actor could muster. The man next door bolted from the privy, slamming the door behind himself and stomping off down the hall. After waiting a good two minutes to ensure his visitor did not return, Rem cracked his own door and peered into the hallway. Seeing he was indeed alone, he stepped out into the comparatively fresh air and noticed a book on the floor, obviously dropped by the talkative tinkler on his flight to freedom.
A book? No, a diary. A lavishly decorated, heavily scented and surprisingly thick diary, filled with the flamboyant script of a man who thought himself immensely important. Suddenly, Rem got nervous, realizing exactly where he was and how ill-prepared to deal with exposure or, Mahnus forbid, capture. He regretted disposing of his Mucker costume, as he wanted nothing more than to leave with this new treasure immediately. With great apprehension and a sudden case of the shakes, Rem began his search for a place to hide until nightfall.
~FOUR~
Vykers, In Pursuit
There were villages, towns and cities along the Queen’s Highway, to be sure, and Vykers avoided them all, along with the unwanted attention he and his band would have received were he to set foot in the smallest of them. But he was able to send Aoife or Hoosh into various towns along their journey, whenever staples ran low or he wanted to sample the latest rumors.
On one such occasion, the Fool returned with a coin he could not stop chuckling over. With the exception of the Frog, no one else seemed to care or notice. Yet, Hoosh got under Vykers’ skin like nobody’s business.
“What are you cackling at, fool?” Vykers said that last word like an insult, but Hoosh never took it that way.
“A coin I’ve not seen before,” the Fool grinned. He held out his palm, inviting Vykers to take a closer look. “Behold, ‘the Hero.”
Faster than Hoosh thought possible, the Reaper snatched the coin from his hand and held it up before his eyes. Pretending to look at it, Vykers stole a glance at the Fool’s face and was gratified to see the fellow’s façade crack. Good: he’d made him uneasy. Vykers’ satisfaction was short-lived, however, once he turned his focus to the coin, for there in cold, finely stamped silver was his own likeness. “Fuck is this?” he asked, alarmed.
“As I said,” the Fool responded smugly, “it’s a new coin, a new denomination, if you will. I’m told it fits right between the Noble and the Royal.
“It’s worth that much?” Vykers was impressed.
“Not to me,” the Fool countered.
Vykers sneered back. “Still, I don’t reckon I like seein’ my face on a coin.”
“Can I see?” the Frog asked from his place by the fire.
With a loud ‘ping,’ the Reaper flicked the coin in the boy’s direction. The kid grabbed it, right out of the air.
“I think it’s meant to be a compliment,” Aoife said, as she leaned over the Frog’s shoulder to get a closer look.
Only the two chimeras remained unmoved.
“That’s as may be,” Vykers said, “But I don’t want the people’s…admiration. Makes it harder to…”
“What? Betray them when the time comes?”
There were a lot of ways the warrior might have responded. He might, for instance, have lashed out and broken the Fool’s nose. Or his neck. He might have shoved him into the fire. What he chose instead was to merely answer “Yes” and walk away. Let the Fool chew on that for a while, Vykers thought.
Am I imagining things, or are you developing self-restraint? Arune asked.
Gods, Vykers groaned. It never rains, but it pours. And what do you want?
Your welfare.
Vykers snorted. O’ course you do.
Of course I do, Arune assured him. The Fool is testing you. What I can’t figure is why.
‘Cause he’s stupid? The Reaper offered unhelpfully.
He’s not stupid.
Then maybe he’s just suicidal. One o’ these days, I’ll grant his wish and plant him. Let him laugh at that.
*****
Humans do not have the most sensitive of noses, and yet there are certain scents that never fail to engage their imaginations: wood smoke, snow, baking bread. And the sea. When Vykers caught his first whiff, he inhaled mightily, almost in spite of himself. The sea, at last. How long had it been since he’d seen it? Too, too long. Perhaps if he ever became king, he’d establish his capital on the shore. And then again, perhaps not. There were, after all, things that came from the sea that did not always smell so pleasant. Still, he looked forward to the sounds of surf, the sight of massive breakers crashing onto the beach, the brisk breeze on his face. He looked forward, too, to a change in diet, however brief. In Her Majesty’s castle, he’d been stuffed on poultry and rich sauces. On the road, Three had supplied him with endless game. A bit of fish would make a nice change. Maybe some crab. Fresh chowder with bacon.
His thoughts were drawn back to Her Majesty. Finding her, rescuing her, was his real priority, although he didn’t entirely understand his own thinking on the matter. What was she to him? So what if she died?
He felt Three approaching before he saw him.
“So, this is your ocean I smell?”
“My ocean?” Vykers grinned. “Aye. What do you think of it?”
“Smells big,” Three replied.
Vykers laughed. “Oh, it’s big. You got no idea!” Three looked a touch nervous, which only made Vykers laugh louder. “Nothin’ to worry about, though. It can’t come ashore and eat you.”
Three relaxed. “That’s good to hear.”
“Actually, that ain’t true, neither. It does come ashore sometimes, carrying homes and people away with it, never to be seen again…but not very often.” The chimera looked positively sick, and now Vykers struggled to stifle his laughter. Eventually, he changed the subject. “What’s the story with your new brother?”
Three opened his mouth slightly, in the manner of a cat that smells something unpleasant or unwelcome. He glanced over at the new chimera, who was warming himself by the last of the fire. Cautiously, Three took Vykers by the elbow and encouraged him to put a few more yards between them and the fire. “He s
eems confused” the chimera said in a low voice.
“Seems,” Vykers answered.
“Yes.”
“But?”
Three nodded. It was good Vykers could read him so well. “It’s been over three years since my brothers and I escaped from that fell compound. We found no survivors…”
“Which don’t mean he hadn’t escaped already.”
“Possibly,” Three admitted. “But what’s he been doing all this time? Where has he been, and why does he show up now?”
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 12