“By yourself?”
The Historian made the odd wheezing sound that passed for his laughter. “I am a Shaper, after all.”
“Right.” Vykers was somewhat embarrassed at having forgotten this rather obvious detail. “What can you tell me about ‘em?”
“The knights? Heavily armored, well-trained…and I’d say there were somewhere between thirty-five and forty of them.”
“How’d they all…appear…like that, just all at once?”
Now it was the Historian’s turn for embarrassment. “Ah, that’s hard to say. Fascinating, though, isn’t it? I’ve never seen a group that large in a Shaper’s Leap before. And then, of course, there was no Shaper in the group.”
“Shaper’s Leap,” Vykers repeated. “Cute.” And then, in vintage Vykers’ fashion, he changed the subject entirely. “We kill ‘em all, or did anyone have the foresight to take one prisoner?”
The Historian grinned the tight-lipped grimace that passed for his smile. “There, I can be of some help. Yes. We have two.”
“And horses?”
“Seven.”
“Huh.”
“A small observation, if I may,” the Historian said. “You don’t seem to take much pleasure in good news. Is it possible your forebears were Ahklatian?”
Vykers understood this to be a joke of some kind; it just didn’t strike him as funny. He hoped the Historian and the Fool could practice on one another – out of earshot – until one of them developed a sense of humor.
“Let’s mount up. We can question the prisoners as we ride, or wait ‘til we camp. I wanna get the hells away from this Mahnus-cursed beach.”
*****
A man doesn’t get nicknamed ‘the Reaper,’ because of his penchant for sentimentality and mourning. Tarmun Vykers had mourned exactly once in his life and had sworn never to do so again, never to put himself in a position where he might be tempted. He didn’t like feeling helpless and lost, adrift. In truth, he didn’t like feeling, period, unless it was the euphoria that came from smashing his enemies. The way he looked at it, one could either be pushed around or do the pushing.
And yet, he brooded on Three’s death, as well as his own probable culpability in it. He’d assumed his chimeras and Shaper would catch wind of an attack before it happened. He’d even imagined there might be some sort of parley beforehand. But he’d been wrong, terribly wrong, and Three was dead as a result.
Even supposing he could get his mind around that, the Frog had gone missing. Vykers had an idea what had happened there. The evidence suggested something dire and desperate. When and if the kid returned, his…predicament…was likely to put a permanent end to anything good building between the Reaper and the A’Shea.
Finally, all of this weakened his party, at a time when Vykers himself was weakened. He’d never admit it to anyone else, hardly dared think it himself, but if they were beset by another such group, he wasn’t sure they’d survive.
Vykers couldn’t remember a time since his beloved’s death, years past, when he’d felt so low, so dispirited.
It made him angry.
*****
Spirk, House D’Escurzy
Lord Titus spent more and more time asleep, leaving Spirk alone in the gloom for longer and longer periods. He would like to have been worried for His Lordship, but the truth was, he was already so frightened for himself that he had little emotion left for the old man. Titus was dying, he knew. And his relatives, like wolves, were surely circling in to gnaw his bones. More than once, Spirk thought he heard whispering in the walls – entirely likely, given the secret door he’d found and the nature of the other D’Escurzys – and he feared falling asleep, lest the wolves take him, too. There must be a lot of unpleasant ways to die, Spirk reflected, but having one’s bones gnawed whilst one was still using them had to be amongst the worst. Not that he really believed the D’Escurzy relatives would bite him, with the possible exception of Faenia (the prospect of which he found weirdly arousing, much to his chagrin).
But Spirk was saved one evening when Lord Titus’ personal chef came to visit. He was a soft, round little fellow with long, golden-blond hair tied back behind and down his neck, in the fashion of a northerner. He’d explained to Spirk once that he was not, in fact, from that region, but that, in order to ensure his hair did not find its way into his master’s food, he’d been commanded to wear a cap or tie it back. As he was almost as proud of his hair as he was of his cooking, he tied it back. If he was talented and slightly vain, he was also kind, and always brought Spirk a little something special – a tart, a biscuit, once even half a pheasant cooked in a wonderful sauce. This particular evening, he’d come to determine the reason for His Lordship’s dwindling appetite.
Upon seeing Lord Titus’ condition, he turned to Spirk. “I can’t leave you alone in here, my friend.”
“I’m not alone,” Spirk insisted, “His Lordship’s here, too.”
“If the others get wind o’ this, they’ll swoop down on this room like vultures, and neither one o’ you will be seen alive again,” the chef said quietly. “Best call the town constable.”
“The constable? Don’t you mean the Captain of the Guard?”
The chef laughed. “He’s been bought and paid for, I’m sure. Nah, nah: constable’s the only way to go.” The fellow grew serious. “Can you manage to stay alive for the next hour or so?”
What an alarming question! Spirk was so taken aback that he needed a moment to think about it. “Yes, I think so. I hope so.”
“Good, then,” the chef replied, patting Spirk on the shoulder. “Now, you lock that door behind me when I leave and put something heavy in front of any secret doors you find hereabouts.”
“Secret doors! You know about them, too?”
Again, the chef chuckled. “My friend, I’ve kept myself alive and employed here for more ‘n a decade. I know which side of the pancake’s hot.”
Spirk supposed he knew what side of the pancake was hot, as well, but couldn’t for the life of him figure out how that came into things. Nevertheless, the instant the chef left the room, Spirk barred the door and began moving tables and chairs into strategic positions along the walls. He soon discovered, however, that this left the floor woefully unprotected. Frantically, he started shifting the room’s area rugs into new positions in hopes of defeating an unexpected assault from below.
What was below? Spirk had no idea. Since the day he’d wandered into House D’Escurzy, he’d been in the constant employ and company of His Lordship. He really had no idea what wonders – or horrors – the rest of the estate contained. There might be anything underneath Lord Titus’ bedchamber. There might even be tunnels teeming with nasty Svarren. With that thought in mind, Spirk grabbed the fire poker and scrambled onto a table. When the Svarren came, he’d be just that much harder to reach!
On two occasions over the next hour, Spirk thought he heard movement in the walls and even noticed an armoire rattling ever so slightly. The D’Escurzys – or boblins – were trying to breach his defenses, but had so far had no luck. Spirk was so grateful, he swore he’d kiss the chef when next they met (the prospect of which was also weirdly arousing).
When the chef and constable finally arrived, Spirk was sound asleep on the table, and it took several minutes of increasingly urgent banging to wake him. Embarrassed, he rushed to the door.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Who d’you bloody think? It’s the bleedin’ constable, isn’t it?” a gruff voice responded through the heavy wood.
“I’m here, as well!” the familiar voice of the chef sang out.
Spirk couldn’t open the door fast enough. He’d survived the Svarren onslaught! With the door finally flung wide, he saw not two, but one, two, three, four, five men. The constable barged past without so much as a ‘how-do-you-do’ and moved to Lord Titus’ bedside. Lifting a candle on His Lordship’s nightstand, he held it close to the old man’s face. With the other hand, he produced a small mirror fr
om his pocket and held it close to Titus’ lips.
“Nearly gone,” he pronounced. “Will somebody fetch the House A’Shea?”
“Actually,” one of the other men interjected, “he left specific instructions to be left alone in this case.” The man unfolded a sizeable piece of parchment that he’d had hidden in the sleeves of his robe. “To wit: ‘No special attempts are to be made to revive me whatsoever. When it is my time, I wish to go with dignity and without…’ and these are his words here, ‘bullshit.”
“Wh…wh…what do we do, then?” Spirk asked, on the verge of tears.
The constable scowled at the floor. “We wait.”
*****
“That’s it, then.”
A younger Spirk might’ve said “What’s what?” or some such. But that was before the End-of-All-Things, before Pellas’ sacrifice. Now, Spirk could feel the change in the room and instinctively knew two things: first, the old man was gone, and second, things were about to get a whole lot more challenging. As if through some prearranged signal, the other five men turned silently in his direction.
Here it comes, thought Spirk. They’re goin’ to punish me for Lord Titus’ death.
It was the constable who spoke first. “You’d better tell ‘im, Barnes,” he said to the man who’d read from the parchment, earlier.
“I suppose so.”
Spirk couldn’t stand the suspense. “I’m in trouble now, ain’t I?”
The other men laughed, every last man jack of them.
“Oh, aye, you’re in trouble, all right,” said Barnes. “The D’Escurzys will be coming after your head.”
“But…but why?” Spirk mewled pitifully.
“His Lordship’s named you his sole heir and inheritor, and we’re here to bear witness.”
Spirk was nonplussed. “He…I…what?”
The constable cut in. “You’re the new Lord of House D’Escurzy.”
And one, apparently, who had issues with incontinence.
*****
Kittins, House Gault
He hadn’t even asked her name or determined if she could speak the Queen’s tongue. In part, this was because he knew she’d been traumatized and was unquestionably overwhelmed by her predicament and surroundings. But he was also seized by conflicting desires: he didn’t want to know anything about her that might make her matter more to him, but he also didn’t want to rush the building of trust that might lead to…him mattering more to her. Face it, he’d told himself, you’ve got no face! What other kind of woman would have anything to do with him? And what in Mahnus’ name was it he saw in her, a savage? The gods knew what she had lurking in her family tree – not that Kittins anticipated or even wanted children, especially with a Svarren woman. But he was not so naïve as to think he had complete control over such things. Life, like the Svarren woman, was a wild, untamable creature, a thing of beauty, perhaps, but not remotely tractable.
After rescuing the woman from the Grotto, Kittins had given her his bed, whilst he planned to sleep in the hall outside his door. The Svarren, however, was having none of his mattress and chose, instead, to sleep in a nest of pillows in the corner. After a few days of this and seeing his bed unused and unappreciated, Kittins threw gallantry out the window and reclaimed it. For the first couple of nights, he feigned sleep, listening to the woman’s breathing and rustlings. Each time, he eventually fell asleep, despite his best efforts to remain vigilant. Each time, he awoke in the middle of the night, feeling a mild uneasiness or embarrassment at his lapse. He was not afraid of the Svarren, but neither did he wish to become complacent. Accordingly, he stashed a small knife between his mattress and the wall, in a spot only he was likely to find it. Better safe than sorry, after all.
And then the night came when she climbed in beside him. They were both as tense and taught as bow strings, but Kittins found that as he relaxed, she relaxed. He rolled towards her, to get a better look into her eyes, and she smiled back at him. She gave off an almost-dizzying odor of floral bath oils (thanks to the household staff), over a much more subtle earthy musk. Kittins ran a large, callused hand down her naked back and she made a soft, guttural sound he took to be pleasure.
*****
Their coupling was rough, frantic and spoke of a need Kittins was usually loath to acknowledge. When they were finished, the big man was exhausted and fell into a deep, contented sleep…
Until an intense, stabbing pain blossomed in Kittins’ neck – she’d bitten him! Knifepoints of agony exploded across his back and along the right side of his head, where her nails – her claws – anchored into his flesh, granting her teeth better purchase. If he allowed her jaws to close completely, he knew, she could well sever an artery and he’d be done. His vision went red with rage, and he pulled back on her hair hard enough to dislodge her upper teeth from his throat. She hissed like an angry cat and raked her nails down his back, much as she had hours earlier, only now with more lethal intent. Still, Kittins did not let go, but indeed pulled harder and harder, until the Svarren woman’s face was a full arm’s length from his own. Abruptly, he let go of her hair, and her head naturally snapped forward, where it met his rushing toward it in a furious smack. For a second, her eyes lost focus, and in that moment Kittins flung her off the bed and onto the floor. She scrambled to regain her feet, but the big captain was too fast, smashing her in the left cheek with a massive, bony fist. Strong as she was, she went down hard and fast. Kittins fell on her, wrapping his hands around her throat, and crushing her windpipe. In less than a minute, the fight was over and she was dead. Kittins’ anger, however, was just getting started. Retrieving the knife he’d hidden against the wall, he removed the woman’s head. Then, drenched in his own blood and drunk with rage, Kittins staggered from his room and out into the Grotto proper. When its other occupants caught sight of him, they quickly grew silent and slunk away. They’d seen the big man in this humor before and the results had not been pleasant.
Kittins encountered no resistance as he stormed over to the Svarren cells, his lover’s head still leaking a trail of blood in his wake. From a post nearby, he fetched the master key that would allow him access to the surviving Svarren. Once inside the first cell, he came face-to-face with a pair of smaller males. He beat them to death with the female’s head and moved off to the next cell. Its occupant was a much larger and more aggressive male, but such was Kittins’ wrath that he killed it in even less time than the previous two creatures. By now, the Svarren woman’s head was a soft and shapeless mass of blood and hair – useless as a weapon, so Kittins again pulled his knife and hacked an arm off his latest victim. It would make a nicer club, anyway.
By the time Kittins reached the final cell, he’d abandoned the arm and simply attacked the three brutes inside with his bare hands. He took some damage this time, but didn’t feel a bit of it as he fought.
At last, all the Svarren were dead. As he was about to turn to leave, Kittins heard the cell door slam and its lock engage. Looking up, he saw a host of men at the bars, none more prominent than Lord Darley, who frowned at him in palpable disapproval. At His Lordship’s left shoulder was a man who looked like Deda, minus a few teeth and an ear.
“Give us the room,” Darley commanded those standing around him, although he wasn’t really standing in a room. His meaning was clear.
Kittins exhaled, sat on a corpse.
“You have an anger problem,” Darley said.
What the fuck was Kittins supposed to say to that?
“Which means we have a problem. I cannot simply allow you to run around beating or killing whomever you please, whenever you choose.” His Lordship said nothing for a moment and then continued. “It appears I was wrong about you.” He scanned the area for eavesdroppers. “That is embarrassing.” After another lengthy pause, he concluded, “I believe a little time in here will allow you to reflect upon your actions. I need time to think on this, as well.”
Kittins watched His Lordship walk away, wondering if he’d finally gone
too far and, more, how he’d become what he’d so clearly become. He’d always been a brawler, yes, but in the army he’d had discipline, respect for command, a sense of right and wrong. Now…? He was an animal, little different from the Svarren he’d just killed. He’d come into this House an agent of the Queen. Somehow, he’d gotten hopelessly, irrevocably lost.
He was worse than dead.
*****
Long, House Thornton
“And now for the torture you were promised,” Janks smirked, selecting a small, sharp knife from a collection of tools he’d laid out for the purpose.
“But you already know who I am and why I came here,” Long protested.
Janks nodded. “I’m told you claim to know me, and, now I do bethink me, I recall runnin’ into you on the street recently, when you made the very same assertion. But…I promise, we’ve never met.”
“Might be you’re blocking all memory o’ me,” Long offered. He had to try something, after all; he wasn’t looking forward to whatever it was Janks had in mind.
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 25