As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)

by Allan Batchelder

  After some time, he realized he had to flee the kitchen and get about his business or be driven mad by the culinary delights surrounding but denied him. Looking up, he saw no one was paying him the slightest attention, so he wiped his hands on a nearby towel and sauntered into a side hallway, from which he’d seen various porters come and go. He passed several cooks or cooks’ assistants bustling about their affairs as he walked; Long’s luck held, as none showed any interest in him. At the end of the hallway, he came to a tee, with the option of going either left or right. He felt a slight breeze to his right and guessed that led, eventually, outside. Having no desire to leave, he turned left. He continued to be amazed at the sheer variety and volume of artwork on display everywhere he looked– some of it even appealed to him. Long had never owned any and wondered what Mardine would say if he dropped a Noble or two on a painting and carried it home with him when he returned. He was genuinely unable to imagine her response, which was one of the characteristics her found so charming in her.

  Before Long knew it, he was lost. He’d wandered into a room full of books – a library, he believed it was called – and couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there, which alarmed him no end. It dawned on him, too, that the House featured an improbable number of sunflowers, in its vases and its artwork and especially here in the library, in dizzying profusion. But he couldn’t afford to lose focus for even a second –

  He felt the cold, hard and sharp blade of a knife against his neck. He froze.

  “There’s an artery just there. If I so much as nick it, you’re a dead man.”

  Long recognized the voice as that of the Steward. He discovered himself unable to think of a response.

  “What?” the man asked, “No excuses? No pretense of looking for the privy?”

  Previous experience had taught Long the best thing to do was keep his trap shut.

  “Who are you really, Mr. Deliveryman? What are you looking for?”

  Long felt a trickle of blood down his neck. Just a trickle, mercifully. Then his skull blazed with pain, he saw ghostlike sparks and passed out.

  ~FIVE~

  Vykers, at Sea

  It was raining like all hells, so everyone fled below decks and huddled together in semi-social clumps. Aoife had her own tiny cabin, but the Frog preferred to spend his time around the ship’s crew, listening to their far-fetched tales of life at sea, regularly interspersed with songs, jokes and general jabber from Hoosh. Of Vykers and his chimeras, there was no sign, for which the A’Shea was grateful and beyond grateful. She still hadn’t recovered from Vykers’ assault.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate. She’d kissed him back, was what she’d done. What in Alheria’s name had she been thinking? Had she been thinking? Or was some other part of her body in control? She yearned for Toomt’-La’s counsel and genteel xenophobia. Vykers was poison – a necessary poison in many instances, but as the poet once observed, “They love not poison that do poison need.” Nothing good could ever come of letting the man have his way with her. And, really, it wasn’t fair to him, either. She could never love him. Not truly. He was a beast – he even had fangs of a sort! Better to rebuff him and let him find satisfaction somewhere else. And that was all it was, she was sure: satisfaction. He merely desired to sate his lust upon her and then she’d be cast aside, forgotten as all women were with such men. She’d have no part of that.

  And yet…there were spells all A’Shea used to dampen such feelings within themselves, and Aoife had inexplicably chosen not to employ them. She knew she should, even thought she wanted to. But she could not bring herself to do it. And see how much time she’d wasted pondering the matter! Vykers had infected her thoughts like a disease. A poisonous disease. Aoife laughed ruefully to herself. I am losing my mind!

  *****

  After the rains came the doldrums. Although there was of course no breeze above decks, the passengers and crew came up anyway, to escape the stuffy, close air below. Aoife poked her head outside and decided she’d risk a possible encounter with the Reaper for a bit of fresh air. It seemed everyone aboard was of her mind, for the deck was packed with sailors and passengers alike, some working, some mingling, all enjoying the fine spring sunshine and a good taste of air that did not savor of sweat, tobacco smoke and mildew. She located Vykers in the bow, chatting in quiet tones with the Historian and the ship’s captain, a fellow who, in any other company, would have been accounted muscular. Not far away was the Frog, pretending fascination with some of the ship’s rigging while he quite obviously eavesdropped. Aoife signaled to him and was relieved when he smiled back, stood up and walked in her direction.

  “So?” she asked.

  “They’re talkin’ ‘bout the Queen.”

  Aoife smiled indulgently. “I gathered. Have they any idea where she’s gone?”

  “They’re sayin’ not upcoast or down, but across the sea,” the Frog breathed excitedly.

  Across the sea. That was frightening. She was sure it made no difference to Vykers, but to Aoife the fabled lands across the sea were a mystery she felt thoroughly unprepared to handle. Would Alheria even respond to her prayers? Her training said yes, but her heart was not so sure.

  A scream fractured the calm, and Aoife and everyone else frantically searched for its source. Along the starboard rail, a sailor struggled with an enormous, dog-sized squid that had somehow attached itself to his face. Miniature lightning crackled across the creature’s body and from thence, across the sailor’s. A shape flew across Aoife’s vision and landed on one of the other sailors.

  “Storm squid!” the captain roared. “We are beset.”

  Aoife pulled the Frog close and ducked back into the stairwell. Now, scores of the impossible sea creatures flew across the ship, issuing high-pitched shrieks and attacking anyone foolish enough to remain on deck. The A’Shea had no time to wonder how such a thing was possible, so busy was she in searching out the wounded or dying.

  “Mahnus’ balls!” she heard the Frog say. Following his gaze, she saw the Reaper had gone into action, whirling his blade through the clouds of flying squid, like a windmill beating back flocks of crows. He was surrounded by a nimbus of flames that engulfed any creatures his blade failed to dissect. At the same time, the Historian cast spells of his own, instantly freezing his attackers in thick crusts of ice, which subsequently sent them tumbling to the deck, where they shattered like so much glass. The A’Shea felt movement behind her and looked back to see the Fool, crouching in shadows just downstairs of her. A body raced past, followed more slowly by another, and Aoife realized the chimeras had joined the fray. A few of the ship’s crew flung nets at the squid and, once successful in snaring them, beat them to jelly with belaying pins. The whole action smacked of routine, and Aoife felt certain this ship had known many such encounters. At her side, the Frog pulled his dirk and prepared to enter the fight, compelling the A’Shea to enspell him, calming the boy immediately. He would resent her for it, she knew, when the spell wore off, but that was better than seeing him carried overboard to his death.

  For a fleeting moment, it seemed as if the squid were winning the melee. But the combined efforts of Vykers’ party and the crew proved too much for them, and they sank back into the sea, having managed to steal only one man.

  “That there’s Dobbins, sir,” one of the sailors told the captain.

  “He was a good ‘un,” the captain replied, panting heavily. “Now, let’s get this shit cleared off my decks.”

  “Cookie’ll be happy with the fresh catch,” another man said.

  “And so’ll them squid!” the first sailor shot back angrily.

  In no time, the sailors had piled a number of the squid into a single net and begun hauling it off towards the galley. The rest of the creatures, those deemed too damaged, small or otherwise inedible, were swept off the deck and back into the sea.

  “Say ‘ello to the sharks for me, you tentacled bastards!” the second sailor yelled after them.

  Aoife cont
inued to survey the scene, checking for injuries. Two or three sailors had sustained electrical damage; it would have been far worse for them if the squid had succeeded in mobbing them. They’d have been fried in their own skins or dragged overboard like Dobbins. Vykers was down on one knee, wincing at the pain in his side. Aoife resisted the urge to rush to him, though as an A’Shea she felt ashamed for doing so. Whatever their personal issues, it was her duty to help him. The Historian, she saw, glanced her way and then bent to help the Reaper, himself. Too late now. Aoife had lost her chance.

  “What’d you do to me?” the Frog asked behind her.

  Aoife was in no mood. “Saved your life. You’re welcome.”

  “You don’t know as you saved me life!” the Frog protested.

  The A’Shea turned to him. “You’re still here and unhurt. That’s all that matters. Do you disagree?”

  He was a boy; he could not refute her logic, so he dodged: “I mighta helped! I coulda maybe saved that sailor!”

  “And you,” Aoife countered, “do not know that!”

  Frustrated, the Frog kicked the step above his own and headed back below decks.

  While her attention was focused on the boy, the Reaper snuck up behind her (although it was rather unlikely he ‘snuck’). “Looks like it’s chowder tonight,” he said.

  “Are you hurt?” Aoife asked. Stupid question! Of course, he’s hurt! She turned to look at him, and he stared directly into her eyes.

  “I’ll live,” he answered flatly and squeezed past her so closely that she felt his breath on her neck, eliciting spontaneous butterflies in her stomach. Yes, she thought, I’m sure you will. But will I?

  *****

  Chowder it was, as Vykers had predicted, and not an especially appealing one, at that. Oh, the Reaper had eaten worse in his time. It was just that he’d expected more of a ship’s cook, particularly one who’d recently been ashore and restocked his larder. This stuff could’ve done with a bit of bacon, a trace of onion, something. Vykers was no chef, but, during his time in the Queen’s castle, he’d learned there was more to a good bowl of chowder than milk and root vegetables. To be fair, the generous chunks o’ squid weren’t half bad…but they weren’t half good, neither. Somehow or other, Cookie had managed to produce plenty of bread, though. If the whole meal was bland, it was filling. There’d been times when the Reaper would’ve conquered the kingdom for an old rind of cheese.

  The Historian sat nearby, eating something of his own creation. Vykers understood it was Ahklatian ritual to eat unpleasant meals as penance for crimes past. He wondered what the strange man would make of the chowder.

  “So,” the Historian said, continuing an earlier conversation, “If Her Majesty had made landfall anywhere on the continent, we might have found and joined her in a heartbeat. That we did not leaves only two possibilities: one, her captors are attempting to lose us in the vastness of the ocean and will return to land, somewhere, when we’ve abandoned hope, or two, they are, as we’ve surmised, leading us across the sea to the lands beyond, where they assuredly have an advantage.”

  Vykers belched. “What advantage is that?”

  “I don’t speak of a specific advantage. We can infer they know the territory better. It’s also possible they’re leading us into a trap.”

  “Everything’s a trap.”

  The Ahklatian looked at Vykers with his black eyes, his expression unreadable. “I’ll not argue the point.”

  “Arune says it’ll be harder to track Her Majesty in this other land.”

  “That is true.”

  “Because?”

  “We know our own lands fairly well; we know almost nothing of what lies across the sea.”

  “Seems like we’ve had plenty o’ time since the Awakening.”

  “Aye. But being unable to cross the seas by arcane means has forced us to explore in the more conventional, slower manner. And, almost to a man, those we’ve sent have not returned.”

  Vykers regarded the Historian quizzically. “Almost to a man?”

  The Ahklatian beamed back at him. “Almost.”

  “Alheria’s tits, man, why do you take so long to get to the marrow of it?”

  “Time is all I have, Tarmun Vykers,” the Historian responded, with more than a hint of sadness in his voice.

  “You’ve been to these lands,” Vykers grumbled.

  “Not all of them. But I have been across this sea, yes.”

  “Looks like you’ll be of some use, after all.”

  *****

  Kittins, House Gault

  They kept Long Teeth – Svarren – in cages, just off the main chamber in the Grotto. This was the so-called “freak show.” The “full freak show” involved bringing the creatures out in chains and parading them around the Grotto, to be poked, prodded and pelted with stones or refuse by guardsmen of House Gault. Sometimes, the men would pull an especially ugly specimen aside and get the hapless thing drunk, after which they’d dress him up in woman’s clothing and taunt him until he was close to death. It was pure, unadulterated and unrelenting sadism. And it disgusted Kittins. Worse, some of the men had a penchant for sexually assaulting the female Svarren and killing them if they tried to resist. Kittins hated Long Teeth, but he hated bullies worse. If he had his way, he’d castrate the lot of ‘em and toss ‘em into a bear-baiting pit. But…the nature of his mission compelled him to play along. Drunken, rowdy guards were happy guards and more likely to spill the House secrets.

  One night, they brought in a few new Svarren to replace those they’d killed, and Kittins saw something he’d never seen before: an attractive female. Oh, she was no great beauty, but she was tall and graceful and boasted an unusual sloe-eyed look that made her appear perpetually wistful and sympathetic. The instant he spotted her, Kittins knew her future in the Grotto held nothing but misery and abuse. He wondered how much he could tolerate before he was forced to act, to intervene on this strange Svarren’s behalf. The question unsettled him so much that he downed half a bottle of wine brooding on it. And, hells, he was drinking far too much lately.

  As had become his habit of late, Wrensl Deda came into the Grotto and immediately sought Kittins out. He was under the misapprehension that he and Kittins were now friends. Kittins would happily have broken his neck. Too, ever since he’d begun reading in earnest, he found it more and more difficult to indulge in the commoner’s cant that Deda and the other guards spoke. There were some, always, who could adapt their speech to any occasion, but more and more, Kittins was not of their number. Secretly, he worried this would prove his undoing, yet he simply could not dumb his language down enough to fit in everywhere he went. And he was not sure he wanted to, anyhow. He didn’t aspire to come off like a Mahnus-cursed Shaper, but neither did he care to sound like a knuckle-dragging grunt.

  “I hear they got some fresh Long Teats!” Wrensl cracked.

  Kittins took a monstrous swig of wine and wondered whether it might not be more fun to choke the smaller man to death.

  “You seen ‘em?” Wrensl asked, looking around.

  “I’ve seen them,” Kittins admitted. “Same old, same-old.”

  “Hey, new meat’s never old.” Such a philosopher, he was.

  Kittins held out a massive paw to the barkeep, who placed a fresh bottle of wine in it, which the captain plunked down in front of his companion. “Svarren are boring. Drink. Tell me what in all hells is going on upstairs.”

  Wrensl gladly accepted the bottle and took several audible gulps. “How d’ya mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Kittins hedged. “Just if this is the most interesting place in House Gault, we’re all fucked.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s always some kinda political shit goin’ on, you can count on that,” Wrensl said, dragging the palm of his right hand across his mouth.

  Kittins looked away, pretended boredom. “That right? Like what?”

  “Oh, you know, who’s a cuckold, who’s a spy, who’s a thief, who’s anglin’ for power.”


  “Right!” Kittins laughed, as if the very idea was beneath consideration. “Like anyone cares about that ‘round here.”

  “You’d be surprised, my friend, you’d be surprised.”

  “Bet I wouldn’t.”

  Wrensl’s ruddy face lit up. “You bet, do ya? Fine, then: what’s the bet?”