As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)

by Allan Batchelder

  He couldn’t wait.

  *****

  To everyone’s astonishment, it took another week of sailing down the coast to find a suitable landing site without either cliffs or the enormous wall that seemed always to accompany them. Initially, the wall had seemed a curiosity. But as the miles crept by, its impossible size began to weigh heavily on the minds of passengers and crew alike. How could there be so much stone in all the world, or the men to cut, cart and place it? Every so often, its color and texture changed – presumably as one quarry was exhausted and another opened up – and occasionally the style and shape of its blocks changed as well. In the end, it did not end or even turn inland so much as it petered out, as if its builders had run out of money, time or interest. Or maybe they’d forgotten why they built it in the first place, though that didn’t strike Vykers as any too likely.

  In many ways, the search for a beachhead felt like the longest week of a long, tedious journey. To be so close to land – a new, mysterious land, full of prizes just waiting to be discovered – and yet to be unable to come ashore was agonizing. But at last the day came when the first mate identified the perfect place inside a sheltered bay and the captain ordered a scouting party to investigate. Of course, the Reaper insisted on going along, and who’d dare to argue? The Frog wanted to go, too, but Aoife put her foot down and insisted he stay aboard until the safety of the beach had been established.

  “Let ‘em clear away the beasties, bugs ‘n brambles first, lad,” the Fool chipped in helpfully, “that way, there’ll be naught for us to do but rest and relax when we come ashore.”

  “Don’t wanna rest!” the Frog complained, “I wanna find some treasure, or maybe a new pet!”

  The strangeness, the excitement of this alien coastline had restored some of the Frog’s boyish sense of wonder, Aoife was glad to note. For too long, he’d been forced to put on a brave face. It was comforting to see and hear him acting like a boy again.

  As to the landing party, well, Aoife struggled with whether or not she should join them. Being a healer, it made sense, was probably even her duty. A part of her, though, was looking forward to putting a little distance, however briefly, between Vykers and herself. In the Sisterhood, she’d aided other A’Shea in treating addicts from time to time, unfortunates hooked on booze, wild mushrooms or various other substances. She’d witnessed firsthand their awful struggles to escape the grips of these things. She worried she might be beginning to feel that same sort of need for Vykers’ company and she resented that – and him. Which, naturally, reinforced her desire to get away from the man, if only for a few hours. With relief, she watched the tender pull away from the ship, carrying the first mate, three sailors, Vykers, the Historian and the two chimeras. She felt a moment’s anxiety at the thought she might never see the Reaper again, but immediately dismissed it as nonsense. Like it or not, he’d be back.

  *****

  Vykers was sweating, despite the sea breeze in his face. “Warmer, here,” he said.

  “We’re a good deal further south than you’re used to,” the Historian replied.

  Both chimeras had their mouths open, in the manner of cats smelling another animal’s spoor.

  “What?” Vykers asked.

  “So many new aromas. It’s quite…intoxicating,” said Three.

  “Don’t know as I like the idea o’ you two bein’ intoxicated,” Vykers joked lamely. He wasn’t nervous, exactly, but neither was he accustomed to entering thoroughly unknown territory.

  After close to a half hour’s labor, the sailors managed to row the small boat ashore and lost no time in loading their crossbows. Vykers jumped overboard and landed in the shallows, soaking his boots, but enjoying the sensation, anyway.

  Arune spoke up for the first time in days. If you can wait a few minutes, the Ahklatian and I should be able to learn something of Her Majesty’s fate.

  Got your magic back, eh?

  It’s nice to be back on solid ground.

  You can say that again.

  Vykers noticed the Historian was staring in his direction, though not looking at him directly. Must’ve been communicating with Arune, Vykers figured. The chimeras spread out, north and south of the boat, and continued sniffing the breeze. Out of habit, Vykers drew his sword and glided into an ageless, nameless drill of focus and balance while he waited on the two Shapers’ findings.

  She’s alive, Arune said eventually. That’s something, anyway.

  “Alive,” Vykers grunted aloud. “But where?”

  The Historian responded, “To the southeast, it would seem.”

  “You’ve been here,” Vykers reminded him, “what’s to the southeast?”

  “That depends entirely upon how far we have to travel.”

  “Within two weeks’ travel, then,” the Reaper said.

  “Plains, mountains, the largest lake you’ve ever seen.”

  “And beyond?”

  “Jungle.”

  Vykers had never heard the word before. “Jungle…” he said, testing the word.

  It’s a type of forest, Arune offered. But I’ll wager you won’t recognize a single plant or animal we find there.

  Long as a sword kills ‘em, I don’t give a fuck.

  “Let’s make camp near that driftwood over there,” Vykers told the First Mate. “Spend the rest of the day gettin’ our bearings and depart in the morning.”

  “Yes sir,” the First Mate replied. “Just let me take the tender back to the ship and inform the captain.”

  The Reaper nodded. All things considered, he felt pretty good. He was back on land, had decent weather and the Queen still lived.

  It seemed too good to be true.

  Arune, he thought, any uglies out there we gotta worry about?

  I’ve been searching. Nothing nearby we can’t handle.

  Keep looking.

  In the Reaper’s experience, anything that seemed too good to be true was usually prelude to a shit storm.

  *****

  Rem, House Hawsey

  The plan was simple enough; it was going through with it that demanded more pluck than Rem perhaps possessed, for it required him to seduce and then bed Lady Hawsey. The goal was to get her to reveal the location of the diary, and then to wear her out so thoroughly that she slept through the ensuing search for and retrieval of same. But had Rem the stomach, backbone and other anatomical necessities? He’d never been shy about such things before. Then again, he’d never attempted a creature quite like Her Ladyship.

  For one thing, the woman wore more makeup than an entire troupe of actors. Rem wasn’t sure there was an actual person under all that stuff. In addition, though there was no danger of disease thanks to the House A’Shea’s zealous commitment to her job, there was also no guarantee that Her Ladyship’s sense of hygiene was within social norms. Finally, she was old – not as old as Her Majesty, but undoubtedly old enough to be Rem’s mother, which thought nearly rendered the actor permanently impotent.

  Still, he had to have that diary and a second chance at its secrets.

  At dinner, the boy who played most of the company’s female ingénues began flirting with Lord Hawsey, as planned. After much wine and ribaldry, His Lordship became almost uncontrollably excited, whereupon the boy led him on a merry game of hide and seek. Lady Hawsey watched these proceedings with a gimlet eye, but eventually turned away in evident bitterness; her husband’s weaknesses were an old and insoluble conundrum. Enter the dashing actor, Remuel Wratch. How he laid on the charm and flattery! In no time, he had the old wench by the short and curlies. She giggled – a sound not unlike the cry of the common loon – at his every joke. She batted her eyes so often and dramatically, he feared they might fall from their sockets and roll across the dinner table, only to be eaten by a glutton mistaking them for hardboiled eggs. A dew of perspiration formed in the not-so-fine mustache on her upper lip. And Rem was going to make love to her? Madness! Masochism! More wine!

  Phase two of Rem’s plan involved sneakin
g away with Her Ladyship during a distraction, caused by the props master “accidentally” setting fire to his end of the table. This would unquestionably result in long-term banishment from His Lordship’s dining room, but it was a loss Rem and his comrades felt they must buck up and bear bravely. And, truth be told, it was a rather impressive fire, which was fortunate because the actor and his prey suddenly lacked the physical coordination necessary for a rapid or stealthy retreat. Alcohol, it has oft been observed, does a fine job of reducing one’s inhibitions, but it also impairs one’s agility.

  In a hallway just off the dining room, Her Ladyship bull-rushed the actor and pinned him into a corner, where she started tickling him as if he were a child and breathing heavily onto his neck. Ah, yes, there’d been sardines for dinner, hadn’t there? And onions, too. But what accounted for that strange, rotten odor? It didn’t bear thinking on.

  “Is my boy ticklish?” Rem’s assailant crooned. “Come to mama, then, come to mama!”

  Rem ducked under her arms and dashed off down the corridor, careful to remain just out of reach but not so far away as to discourage Lady Hawsey’s amorous intentions. Funny, Rem mused, that her husband was having an almost identical experience on the opposite side of the estate. As the couple neared the master bedchamber, Her Ladyship pushed past the actor and dismissed the guards. Then, with what he assumed was meant to be a fetching, come-hither look (it was more of a wretching, go-thither look), she beckoned him to follow. He hadn’t had quite enough wine, he decided sadly, but perhaps there was more within.

  He had barely gotten all the way inside when Lady Hawsey tackled him and knocked Rem to the floor. In seconds, she was upon him, grinding her hips against his thigh and her rubbery lips against his mouth. Impossibly, inexplicably, Rem felt himself rising to the occasion, and he wondered, not for the first time, if he weren’t a bit mad. This was not the sort of thing one would merely regret in the morning, but for the rest of one’s life.

  “Is…there…more wine?” he forced out.

  “Oh, silly boy!” Her Ladyship scolded, “Am I not liquor enough?”

  Mahnus! The stench of sardines and onions was deadly. “Just a little more, milady. A toast to your beauty!” Somehow, Rem managed to wrestle his way to his feet and locate a half-full decanter near the bed. With no cups in evidence, he drank straight from the vessel itself. “To you!” he said quickly and took a prodigious gulp.

  “To me!” the woman said, climbing her way up his legs and lingering near his wedding tackle.

  “Uh,” Rem sputtered, “Er…will you…will you write this down in your diary, milady?”

  She giggled. “Haven’t got one.” She began unlacing his breeches.

  “Indeed?” Rem sounded surprised. “I thought all great people kept diaries!”

  “P’raps I will, then…” Her Ladyship said in a deep, throaty voice full of lust, “after this…”

  Rem drained the last of the wine and tumbled, just beyond Lady Hawsey’s grasping fingers and onto the bed. “I’m sure His Lordship must keep a diary…” he prompted hopefully.

  “Oh, he does,” his tormentor answered disinterestedly, “But it isn’t his. But why should we care for that, my naughty, naughty boy?” And she commenced to strip in what, Rem supposed, was meant to be seductive fashion.

  *****

  An eternity later, Rem lay on his back, naked and feeling as though he’d been beaten by a mob of angry children. Her Ladyship had pulled his hair, bitten him, raked her nails across his flesh and practically strangled him to death in her ecstasy. And she had been insatiable, as if she hadn’t made love in years. Fortunately, she had also let slip the location of the hidden diary. Rem could barely imagine how he would have coped if he’d gone through all this without acquiring that information. Now, while Lady Hawsey snored blissfully away at his side, he needed to retrieve the diary, exchange it for the forgery he’d created and depart before His Lordship returned – easier said than done, especially given his sore and still-inebriated state. And it was dark in the room, a mixed blessing because it hindered his search for his clothing and the counterfeit diary, but also concealed the parts of Her Ladyship best forgotten.

  Luck was with him –for the moment, anyway. He found his trousers, shirt and jacket and rummaged around in its pockets for the false diary. After dressing as quickly as his addled wits would allow, he set about his quest for a chair with a removable back cushion. Since there were only three chairs in the room, it wasn’t difficult to find, although he had to admit the cunning nature of the chair’s design would have kept the book secret for eternity had he not known where to look. He peered over at Lady Hawsey, was reassured to find her still quite asleep. With the original diary and its twin in hand, Rem crept towards the nearest candle to compare the two. He was quite pleased with his own memory and eye for detail; the books were not flawlessly identical, but they were close enough, especially if, as Rem hoped, Henton had already finished reading his copy and had only hidden it for safekeeping. In that event, the forgery should easily pass any cursory inspection. But even if His Lordship had not finished the book, it was Rem’s intent to read it through himself and return it within the next twenty-four hours. Of course, this meant a possible repeat of tonight’s grueling gymnastics. Well, no one could say Remuel Wratch had not suffered for the cause. Fast as he dared, Rem made the switch he’d come for and slunk out the door.

  There was no one about and the torches and candles burned low. Rem made it about two or three in the morning. He was dying for a long, hot bath with enough soap to scrub the night’s sights, sounds and other sensations from his mind. But he needed to get reading.

  *****

  Long, House Thornton

  Long opened his eyes to the familiar – and now welcome – darkness of his cell. Alerted by the faint clinking of the prisoner’s chains, the Steward spoke through the blackness.

  “Not dead, then. I thought perhaps we’d given you too large a dose of elixir.”

  Long’s tongue felt swollen and his mouth too dry to produce words. He croaked out something unintelligible. To his surprise, a tin cup of water was pressed clumsily against his lips. He opened them and drank. “No torture?”

  The Steward laughed. “Oh, there’ll be torture. Don’t you worry about that. We got a little behind schedule in your interrogation due to the idiot in the next cell over, so we had to go straight to our truth serum. But now that we know who you are, we can afford to take things at a more leisurely pace.”

  “You know who I am?” Long asked stupidly.

  “Captain Peter Fendesst, A.K.A., Long Pete, an operative of Her Most Royal Majesty and erstwhile apple farmer.”

  Yes, they knew. But maybe Long still had a card to play. “That’s me, right enough. But do you know the real identity of your torturer?”

  A snort in the darkness. “That’s a new one: the double-agent torturer. You’ll have no difficulty convincing me he’s a bad fellow. That’s why we hired him.”

  Long tried to return the snort with feeble results. Still, he forged ahead, “That’s as may be, but he used to work for me, nonetheless.”

  “For you?” The captain was somewhat mollified to hear surprise in his captor’s voice. “For you, you say? I’m having difficulty deciding if that is the most brilliant lie I’ve ever heard…or the most idiotic. Tell me, if he worked for you, why didn’t he just identify you outright?”

  Long had no answer. “I don’t know. He seems to have developed amnesia or some damned thing.”

  “That’s rather convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

  It surely seemed that way, even to Long.

  “And it doesn’t change anything. You’re going to be tortured and most likely killed. That’s how it usually goes, at any rate,” the Steward concluded cheerfully.

  “Then why are you sitting down here in the dark with a dead man?”

  The Steward yawned audibly. “Sometimes men break when they finally see what’s coming. Sometimes they want to…unbu
rden themselves.”

  Long thought of his old friend Janks. “Yeah, and sometimes they rise from the fuckin’ dead and make your life a nightmare.”

  For once, it was the other man who could think of nothing to say. Instead, Long heard him get to his feet and shuffle away, almost as if he could see. There followed a brief thumping on this side of the cell door, in response to which it scraped open, admitting just the tiniest amount of torchlight, against which Long was able to make out the Steward’s retreating silhouette. The man turned partially and said, “The next time you see me, Captain Fendesst, will be the last time you see me.”

  Later, alone again in the blackness, Long realized those words offered not one but two different possibilities and took what comfort he could in that knowledge.

  *****