Vykers flashed a grim smile. “You don’t trust him.” Statement.
“No. I trust no one.” A second later, realizing he might have offended his former master, Three added, “Except for you.”
“Except no one, old friend. Not even me.”
Three frowned, but it was a frown of agreement. It was sage advice, after all.
Vykers spoke again, “So, in a scrape…”
“I’ll keep my eyes on him,” Three replied quickly. “And I will kill him if he does anything untoward.”
The Reaper looked directly into the chimera’s eyes. “I know you will,” he said.
*****
Kittins, House Gault
There was a thud against the side of his bunk, and Kittins opened bleary eyes to find His Lordship staring down at him.
“Haven’t seen you in days, man. Are you ill?”
“Yeah,” Kittins said. And it wasn’t entirely a lie. He’d become sick of himself, of his own careless violence.
Darley eyed him skeptically. “Have you seen the A’Shea?” he asked. “I won’t have you spreading anything catching.”
Kittins forced himself into a sitting position. “I ain’t contagious, and I’m past the worst of it.”
“Glad to hear it. I thought, perhaps, that last job had affected your conscience.”
“If I had one, I’m sure it mighta,” Kittins rumbled. “But it died years ago. This here’s naught but a flu or some such. Just about gone, as I said.”
His Lordship relaxed visibly. “Good, good. Hope I’ll see you on your feet soon, then. There’s quite a lot going on and much to be done.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen within the hour,” the big captain said. “You can find me there, your lordship, if I can be of service.”
For some strange reason, His Lordship seemed to like Kittins, to value his opinion and proximity. It wasn’t like the captain had made any special effort to flatter or please the fellow. Hells, he wouldn’t have known how had he wanted to. Maybe Kittins was the kind of man – hard, strong and frightening – that Darley had wished himself to be, might in fact have been if things had turned out differently. Whatever the case, in no time at all, Kittins had somehow become His Lordship’s right hand man. There was something in that that bothered the big man, but he couldn’t puzzle it out at the moment. Especially not on an empty stomach.
For the first time, Kittins noticed the other bunks were empty. He wondered what time it was. Then he wondered what day it was. Then he realized it didn’t matter. One day in hell’s the same as another. But about those empty bunks…everyone else must have been at dinner. He could join them, but he preferred not to. Besides, he’d already told His Lordship he could be found in the kitchen, so that was where he’d be.
A half hour later, the big man had discovered his appetite and was making short work of a sizeable hunk of beef and an equally large loaf of bread. In between bites, he drank from a pitcher of milk, as if it were an enormous flagon. He rarely drank milk – hadn’t had any, in fact, in years – but for some reason he found himself craving and thoroughly enjoying it.
“You’re feeling better, I see.” Lord Darley stood in the doorway and watched Kittins eat.
The captain grunted in affirmation. The cook, who had been puttering around near the oven, had conveniently disappeared.
Darley eyed Kittins speculatively. “How would you like a room of your own? You don’t seem to care for the other men – and I can’t say I blame you – and a little more privacy would make it easier for us to do business.”
Kittins wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and stood. “Sounds good, your lordship. I’d like that.”
“Finish eating. There’s no rush.”
Kittins grinned. “Truth is, this is my third helping. I’ve prob’ly had enough.”
Darley arched his eyebrows. “Ah! Yes, must stay in fighting trim, eh?” After a pause, he continued. “Have you ever been down to the cellars?”
“Can’t say as I have,” Kittins replied.
“Well, then, let’s take a little tour, shall we?”
For a moment, Kittins wondered if this new, private room wouldn’t be found on the upcoming tour, a cell in the family dungeon. Reflecting on his actions of the past week, he realized he wouldn’t care if it did. Maybe a prolonged period of solitary confinement was what he needed, or at least what he deserved. Nah. Few get what they deserve. His Lordship had something else in store for Kittins.
*****
The route to the cellars was confoundingly labyrinthine. They could almost assuredly not be found by accident, and there was a series of minor security measures along the way that, collectively, made such a prospect virtually unthinkable. Kittins marveled at the ever-unfolding size of the Gault estate. The horizontal, above-ground spread of it, alone, was considerable, but when one took the subterranean, vertical reach of House Gault into account as well, it was astonishing, mind-boggling.
“Musta taken your folk hundreds o’ years to build this,” he told His Lordship, when he stopped to unlock a door.
“Hundreds and hundreds, I’d say.”
“The estate’s that old, is it?”
“You’ve no idea. No one has. By virtue of mere longevity, Gault’s got a better claim to the throne than any of the other eight, and perhaps even Her Majesty.”
Kittins sniggered. “She’s not going anywhere.”
Darley looked over at him. “Isn’t she?” he asked pointedly. “Rumor has it, she may have already gone.”
A greener, less experienced man might’ve pressed the issue – this was, after all, the very topic of Kittins’ investigation – but the captain kept his cool, feigned indifference. Darley was more likely to confide in him if he felt Kittins wasn’t overly interested in everything he had to say.
After a time, the two men arrived at an immense chamber, fashioned out of the very bedrock. Pillars separated the space into a number of smaller rooms, but did nothing to diminish the emotional impact of its overall size.
His Lordship smiled proudly and said “Welcome to the Grotto. It’s a sort of informal men’s club beneath House Gault.”
Kittins was too flabbergasted to speak.
His Lordship continued, “Here, you’ll find drink, games of chance, sparring partners and women to suit your every taste and purpose. But if you don’t fancy women, why…”
“I like women just fine,” Kittins said quickly. A breath or two later, he added, “But I was expecting to find a dungeon, cells, prisoners, when you led me down here.”
“Naturally. And we have those, as well, just off to the left there,” Darley pointed. “Past the fire pit.” At Kittins’ bewildered expression he went on. “All the big houses have their dungeons. It’s where we keep our hostages.” He looked Kittins directly in the eyes. “And our traitors. Conventional wisdom has it that solitary confinement is what breaks a man. I disagree. I say what breaks him is listening to others enjoy themselves and knowing he’ll never experience that again for himself. Thus, the Grotto – an endless orgy of every vice you’d care to indulge. And it keeps the guards happy and loyal.”
“No doubt,” Kittins replied.
Darley nodded. “Have a look around, make yourself at home. I’ve a little business to attend to but I’ll find you again later.”
“No doubt,” Kittins repeated quietly, as His Lordship headed off into the room about his affairs.
Stepping fully into the chamber, the big man took his time surveying the scene before him. In the first few seconds alone, he spied more examples of the Gault family crest – a pair of crossed axes – than he’d seen anywhere else on the estate. Good to remind the men where their pay came from. Just a few feet to Kittins’ right was an apparently makeshift bar that had clearly become more permanent than originally intended. It was only large enough to accommodate two or three patrons, but Kittins noticed the barkeep was handing out entire bottles to any and everyone who approached. One of the men at the bar was Kittins’
barracks mate, Wrensl Deda. When the man saw him coming, he straightened up on his stool and put on his best glad-handing expression.
“Ah, there you are, Janks!” he called out cheerfully. Funny, the cheer in his voice was not in evidence on his face. “I was startin’ to think you lived only for work.”
“Huh,” Kittins grunted. “What’re you drinkin’?”
Deda stared at this bottle as if seeing it for the first time. “Dunno, really. Some sort of wine. Red wine, must be. It’s good, though. Old Darley knows how to keep his men happy.”
“So I’ve heard,” Kittins observed wryly.
“Stand you to a bottle or two?” Deda asked.
“Why not?”
Deda laughed. It was a weird sound, completely devoid of mirth. “Yeah, why not? Why the hells not? Barkeep!” he yelled, “A bottle o’ yer best for my friend Janks, here!”
“What else you fancy down here? What’s good?”
The other man took a long pull from his bottle and leered at Kittins. “Well, the ladies is good, ‘o course…always assumin’ you like the ladies…”
“I like the ladies!” Kittins came back a good deal louder than he’d meant.
Deda leaned away from him. “Alright, okay. You like the ladies. There’s some don’t, is all I’m saying. There’s some prefer other…”
Kittins cut in, “I get it. But apart from the ladies and the drink, what’s to do? You got a favorite past time, Deda?”
“Well,” Wrensl began, “there’s some like to fight. You might enjoy that. Me, I’d rather gamble. And then there’s the freak show.”
“The what?”
“Freak show. Old Darley’s got a bunch o’ Svarren down here, keeps ‘em in cages to frighten the prisoners, I guess. But sometimes, they bring ‘em out and parade ‘em through the Grotto. It’s kinda fun to hurl insults at ‘em. Or bottles. For the right price, you can even try bedding the females…if that’s your thing.”
Kittins felt that black anger rising inside himself again, the anger that had led him to burn the baby butcher alive…and a baby along with him. He tamped it down, took the proffered bottle of wine and drank deeply. Deda, he saw, did the same.
“Show me this freak show,” he commanded.
*****
Vykers, At the Coast
They’d reached the coast at last, and not a moment too soon, to Vykers’ way of thinking. In his weakened state, he’d grown weary of the chase and no longer found interest or intrigue in the mystery of the Queen’s disappearance. He just wanted to find her, bring her home, and be done with it. He did experience a brief instant of amusement when Number Three saw the sea for the first time. The chimera’s expression was almost that of a small boy, frightened by a thunderstorm, funny to see in one so otherwise unshakeable. Then Vykers remembered there was, in fact, a small boy in their company. Yes, the Frog was no less astounded.
“This the edge o’ the world?” he asked the group.
“That it is, from the fishes’ point o’ view!” Hoosh cackled.
“Think of it as a large lake,” Aoife instructed.
Vykers stole a look in her direction. The wind had blown her hood back, and even now it danced in her luxuriant red locks and brought a blush to her cheeks. She caught Vykers’ eye and immediately looked away.
Figures, he thought.
What figures? Arune asked coyly.
He wasn’t in the mood. The Queen’s Shaper promise us a boat or some such?
Should be just down the coast. Now we’re here, I can probably get them to meet us halfway.
Do that. I wanna get outta this saddle as soon as possible.
As you say, Master.
Master? Vykers said. I like that.
I was kidding.
*****
The sun was setting when at last they spied their ship – a single-masted cog, bobbing at anchor more than an arrow shot offshore – so Vykers opted to make camp on the beach. “Could be our last time on solid ground for a while,” he said. The truth was, he wanted to give the Frog and Number 3 a little more time to get used to the idea of leaving said ground and consigning themselves to the sea.
Three sprinted off into the surrounding hills on his regular evening hunt. Pickings were slim though, and all he could scrabble together was a pile of seabirds, albeit a shockingly large pile. He might have done better if the other chimera had helped hunt, but it seemed that was not amongst his talents.
Vykers moved to stand over him. “You don’t hunt?”
“I’m a poor hunter, I’m afraid.”
“And yet you’ve survived in the wilderness for more ‘n three years.”
“I was hardly thriving when you found me.”
“You mean, when you found us.”
The chimera lowered his gaze. “Just so.”
Vykers scowled at him. “I got my hands full with these others,” he said, indicating the boy and the Fool. “I don’t need any more dead weight.”
The Frog was about to object, but Aoife put a restraining hand on his shoulder. This was between the Reaper and the newcomer.
The chimera’s body language became even more subservient, like that of a whipped dog. “I will find some way to be of service, Tarmun Vykers. I give you my word.”
“Your word, is it?” Clearly, Vykers was unimpressed. “What do we call you then? What’s your number?”
“I am Forty-Seven,” the creature said, extending his hand to show the sigil burned onto its back.
Vykers whistled. “Forty-Seven? Gods, how many o’ you fellas did they make, anyway?”
“I believe I was one of the last.”
“You believe.” The Reaper wasn’t buying it. “You know how many men I’ve killed, Forty-Seven?”
The chimera was silent while he weighed his answer. “A number beyond counting.”
As there was no hint of irony or sarcasm in the comment, Vykers let it stand. “Remember that,” he warned, and turned back towards the others. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we take to the sea, and from there, only Mahnus knows how or when we’ll return. Any of you wanna part ways, this is the time to do it.”
Nobody spoke, not even the Fool. Vykers sighed. He was sort of hoping Hoosh would give up.
“Alright then,” he said in a tone that suggested they’d all had their chance, “let’s finish these birds and get some sleep. Three,” he asked the chimera, “you take first watch?”
“I will.”
*****
In the end, they had to let the horses go, as Vykers had suspected they might. While the hold of the cog was undoubtedly large enough to accommodate them all, there was no way of knowing how long they’d be at sea, and the Reaper wasn’t sure they could keep the beasts healthy and alive for the duration. Too, the longboat dispatched by the ship to pick them up wasn’t designed for such large animals, and they’d have had to make a separate trip ashore for each horse. Vykers wanted to board, set sail and resume the chase. He had precious little patience in the best of times; his wound made him even more restive.
Once aboard, he endured another less than welcome surprise.
“Ah, Reaper,” a familiar voice called out, “it is good to see you again.”
“Historian,” Vykers rumbled. “I didn’t think you folks ever left Ahklat. What’s your stake in this?”
“Direct as ever, I see. Like a sword thrust,” the pale man replied. He cast his black eyes over the rest of Vykers’ companions and continued, “Perhaps we should discuss this in private, in the captain’s quarters…”
“I’d rather do it in my cabin.”
“The captain’s quarters are your cabin, Reaper.”
“And the captain?”
The Historian showed the barest hint of a smile. “He’s bunking with the cook, I’m told. He was afraid you’d take his quarters anyway, so he abandoned them voluntarily.”
Vykers looked about the deck, frowned. “I’da been good with a simple hammock. I’m a warrior, not a thief.”
“Nev
ertheless. Shall I show you the way?”
Again Vykers scanned the deck. Most of his party was still boarding, whilst the deck was alive with sailors preparing to raise the anchor, hoist the sails and depart.
“Lead on,” he answered.
The captain’s quarters did not disappoint. They boasted the most floor space, the biggest bed and the largest windows on the ship. There was also an excellent selection of alcohol, although it was obvious from placement of the bottles that one of their number was missing. Ah, well, Captain’s prerogative.
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 13