As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)

by Allan Batchelder

  The guards exchanged looks of confusion. "Can't rightly remember," said the man on Rem’s left.

  "Why don't you knock and see?" said the other.

  Rem knew a conspiracy when he saw one, but he'd come this far, the brandy was wearing off, and he felt if he didn't act now he would lose his resolve forever. His nerves betrayed him, though, and the knock he produced was so feeble as to be almost inaudible.

  Lady Hawsey heard it, nonetheless. She must've been some sort of sorceress. The door creaked open a scant three or four inches, and Her Ladyship's voice rang out accusingly, "Where have you been?" Before Rem had a chance to answer, a hand flew out of the darkness and pulled him violently through the doorway. Another hand – presumably the last remaining one in the room not belonging to the actor – snaked past his head and pushed the door shut behind him.

  Too soon, his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, leaving him face to face with the insatiable one. Except, for the moment, she seemed preoccupied. “I must tell you, my love,” she began with a husky whisper, “that I now carry your child.”

  Bollocks! A lie! A bald-faced lie, if ever there was one! If anything frightened Rem more than contracting some horrid venereal disease, it was leaving a trail of bastards in his wake, children who’d weigh him down emotionally and financially as he strove to become the greatest actor in history! A bit overstated, perhaps. But if he was ever to have children, they would be conceived with a woman of his choosing, a witty, comely wench with a good leg for dancing and a strong arm for wielding the wood axe. With that in mind, he’d made a habit of seeking the help of every A’Shea, Shaper, Alchemist and Mountebank he encountered, to ensure he could not, would not ever impregnate a woman against his will. He had a private stash of anti-fertility elixirs that was positively unrivalled in the middle Kingdoms, and so he was, for the nonce, as sterile as an army of eunuchs.

  So, yes, a lie. What, then, was Her Ladyship after? If she was truly with child, who was the father? And whom was she protecting with this cover-up, the other man, or herself? If she was not with child, what did she hope to gain by saying so? Rem was stymied.

  “Well?” Her Ladyship demanded, pressing herself against the actor until he was pinned to the door.

  “You know I live to serve you,” Rem heard himself proclaim, “What would you have me say?”

  Her Ladyship wrenched him away from the door and spun him towards the bed. “Kill my husband!”

  “Whu…w…w…whaaaa?” He’d never stuttered in his life, but he stuttered now like he’d been born to it.

  “You must needs kill Lord Hawsey.”

  Rem could think of nothing intelligent to say. “But why? How?”

  Lady Hawsey tackled him and continued whispering urgently into his face. “Because milord is what he lacks; that is, a prick.”

  Confirmation.

  “And thus he cannot get me with child. If I begin to show, he’ll have me killed…right after he murders you.”

  His thoughts were so busy scrambling for purchase that Rem was incapable of formulating any sort of response. Until Her Ladyship bit his lower lip. “Ouch!” he cried.

  “You’ll do it, won’t you, love? For me? For us?”

  Damn it all! His Mahnus-cursed privates were not cooperating.

  “Mmmmm,” Her Ladyship groaned. “I see you will.”

  He was her toy. And he well knew what happened to most toys, whether their owners were children, dogs or cats. This was Her Ladyship’s attempt to seize control of House Hawsey for herself. If she was in truth with child, she could claim it had been Henton’s heir and no one could gainsay the matter…except for Gelter Radcliffe, a fact that was clearly unknown to Lady Hawsey.

  And who and where was this alleged child’s real father? Rem would bet any amount of gold the man didn’t have long for this world, if he was even still in it. Rem’s concentration was broken by a hoarse, carnal grunting, and he realized he had somehow almost-magically disassociated himself from Her Ladyship and whatever it was she was doing to his body. All he knew for certain was that he needed to switch the diaries again and get himself and his company the hells out of House Hawsey before the ceiling came crashing in.

  At length, Lady Hawsey wore herself out and passed into blissful slumber. How like a man, Rem thought. Then, if she’s the man, what’s that make me? Quick as he dared, Rem put Gelter’s real diary back where he’d found it and retrieved his forgery. He spied one of Her Ladyship’s myriad rings on the bedside table and, without knowing why, slipped it into his vest pocket. He was worried about how he’d handle the two guards outside Her Ladyship’s chamber, but was relieved to find them gone. They must have departed by prearranged signal from Her Ladyship as soon as the actor had been admitted. Rem didn’t doubt those men were in for a rough go of it in the days ahead.

  Over the next hour, he sought out each and every member of his company and advised them to prepare for a final performance, followed by a hasty departure.

  Always exit the stage with a flourish!

  *****

  Aoife, In Pursuit

  It turned out that Vykers’ party hadn’t managed to round up all of the dead knights’ horses. Aoife happened upon a frightened and exhausted mare that had somehow gotten its reins tangled in a copse of thorny bushes and been unable to extricate itself. By the time Aoife arrived, horse and woman were in equal disarray and, wary though they were of one another, each found hope in the other’s presence. The A’Shea consciously radiated calm and well-being as she approached the mare, and it gradually became so docile that it was as if they’d known each other forever. It took Aoife several minutes to unwind the unruly reins; when she’d finished, she gently led the horse to a small pond she’d passed but a short while earlier, and, thus, the adage was proven wrong, for the horse drank both long and deeply. When at last it had finished, it began munching on leafy plants it found at the water’s edge. Aoife would not rush the poor beast. Although it was only late afternoon, she thought it best they both got some sleep. Again, she led the horse by its reins to a new destination, a small grove of trees. Here, in the shade, the A’Shea cast a few spells to hide herself and her new companion, removed the horse’s barding, saddle and bags and encouraged it to lie down. The mare would have preferred to sleep standing, but Aoife wanted to rest against its reassuring bulk. Apologizing as she did so, the A’Shea cast another spell that caused the horse to cooperate.

  Later, as the sun went down, Aoife was glad of her choice. The days were warmer here, it was true, but the nights still had a bit of a chill.

  Something touched her face, and Aoife’s eyes flew open, momentarily blind in the darkness of deep night. Slowly, she perceived the outline of someone against the night sky, someone standing over her, unmoving. At her back, the mare slept on.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” the A’Shea asked the shadow.

  In response, it gave off a faint, violet aura that allowed Aoife to see its face.

  “Too-Mai-Ten-La?” But she could see it was not.

  The creature inclined its head in an attitude of curiosity and…something else. “How do you know these words?” It asked in a deep, gravelly and heavily accented voice. “You are not of the people.” He drew closer.

  Aoife could see why she’d mistaken this newcomer for Toomt’-La: like her old companion, he too was a satyr.

  “Not of the people, and yet marked by the people. Who are you that you should merit this honor?”

  That last was remarkably hostile. “I am mother-sister of Nar!” she shot back, a little too loudly. “Who asks?”

  The satyr drew closer still, until his nose was nearly touching Aoife’s. “Mother-sister of Nar?” he repeated contemptuously, “A human female? What madness is this?” Arcane energies began to crackle along his arms and hands.

  “Yes, Mother-sister!” Aoife countered. “When the great forest of Nar was destroyed by a tyrant, its denizens chose me as the instrument of their rebirth – me! I am no mere human, satyr
. Do not think to try me, lest you would wage war against your own kind!”

  The satyr appeared to consider this. “It is your kind with whom I would wage war, your kind I would exterminate had I the opportunity.”

  “You have my pity, then. I wish no such thing upon anyone.”

  “Then you are a fool!” the satyr sneered. “Humans are a wildfire that will burn the world to the bedrock if given the chance.”

  By this point, Aoife was glowing with an impressive blue fire of her own. She expected an assault at any moment. It might even be necessary to strike first. “For all your age and experience, you know so little,” she quipped.

  “We shall see, Mother-sister of Nar. We shall see,” the creature growled. “Make one mistake in my land and even the wind will not lick your bones.” Then, as she expected, he faded out of her vision and into the night.

  The A’Shea needed every spell, cantrip and meditation in her repertoire to banish the jitters that seized her in the aftermath of the satyr’s visit. So, the fey folk of this land were even less enamored of her race than was Toomt’-La. She would have to tread carefully, indeed.

  Aoife spent the rest of the night watching, through the leaves above her head, the constellations whirl across the heavens. The satyr did not reappear, but the A’Shea’s memories of Toomt’-La were so strong and plentiful, she could almost feel him beside her. “Toomt’-La?” she whispered into the night breeze. She knew, of course, that he would not reply, but it saddened her that he did not, nonetheless. There were times when her loneliness was almost unbearable.

  After sunrise, the mare was again thirsty and hungry. Aoife found a brush in the beast’s saddlebags and curried its coat while it grazed. In less than a day, she had earned that much trust. At last, she resaddled the mare, adjusted its tack and reins and pulled herself onto its back, murmuring words of peace and comfort all the while. For herself, she found a bit of dried meat and brown bread in one of the saddlebags, which tasted far better than she’d anticipated. Quieting her thoughts, she focused on Vykers and felt the by-now familiar pull of his Shaper. South, then. With a gentle nudge from her heals, the horse set off at a canter, happy as you please.

  *****

  Vykers, In Pursuit

  He hadn’t forgotten his two prisoners; he just didn’t give a shit about them and couldn’t imagine they had anything of value to offer in trade for their lives. After more than a week’s hard riding, though, the tedium of the hunt began to wear on him, and, as the party made camp one evening, he wandered over to the stump to which the Historian had bound them and squatted next to the most alert of the pair. The fellow had black hair, two weeks’ or more growth of beard and soulful brown eyes. The Ahklatian had been good to the prisoners, fed them, slaked their thirst whenever necessary, bound their wounds. Hells, Hoosh appeared worse off than these two. Vykers extended his claws, reached out a hand, and turned the man’s face towards his own. When their eyes met, Vykers flashed his canines. The knight’s face became a mask of fear.

  “You’ll need my help in communicating with him,” the Historian noted from the fire.

  “I think I’ve made a fair start,” the Reaper responded.

  “He fears you, that’s certain. But I’ll wager he fears the ague, as well. Does that mean they’re communicating, too?”

  “Very well, Historian, have it your way. Ask him who he serves.”

  The Historian drew closer, recited a brief incantation and placed a hand on the prisoner’s head. “Now, you may ask him yourself. But only for the next hour or so.”

  I could have done that! Arune objected.

  But you didn’t offer.

  “Who do you serve?”

  Whom.

  The soldier’s eyes widen perceptibly. “What…are…you?”

  Vykers struck him across the face. “Whom do you serve?”

  By now, the second soldier had roused himself somewhat and regarded the proceedings with a mixture of resentment and horror.

  “I serve His Exalted Magnificence, Emperor Mendis Staurachia, the Eleventh.”

  Vykers’ rolled his eyes in disgust. “Not another o’ these big titled bastards! It’s deeds makes a man, not words.”

  “Ah,” the Historian interjected, “But it’s words that record those deeds after a man’s death.”

  The Reaper placed the talon of his forefinger under the man’s chin. “And where is the throne of this Emperor? How far away, would you say?”

  “A month’s ride to the northeast.”

  “A month?” Vykers was stunned. That can’t be true, can it?

  He isn’t lying, if that’s what you’re asking.

  “And what were you men doing so far from home?”

  “This is our territory. We’re one of the units assigned to patrol and protect the western quintile.”

  Gibberish. All Vykers could make of it was that this emperor’s domain was extensive. “We passed within a few miles of one o’ your armies. What’s the story, there? They protectin’ your western whatever, too?”

  “That,” the man breathed, “And putting down some rebellion or other. That’s how His Exalted Magnificence stays strong.”

  “Mmm,” Vykers grunted. He understood that.

  “How many soldiers does this empire o’ yours boast?”

  The man looked at his companion, asked a question the Reaper did not understand. The second man repeated the same phrase, shrugged and said a single word. The first man then said “two million.”

  The Reaper struggled to keep his face emotionless. That’s gotta be a lie! He said to Arune.

  That’s what he’s been told and led to believe.

  Vykers felt something strange, but it was not fear or even awe. It was covetousness, it was envy. There ain’t two million fighters in all of our homeland. I doubt there’s two million men of any sort. Two million men was a lot of killin’. “You asked what I am,” he said to the first knight. “I am the Reaper, destroyer of Empires.”

  He was gratified to see the other man return a look of unwavering certainty.

  The Reaper was not given to dreaming. He did not know why; it was just something he’d never done much. He didn’t miss it, spent no time worrying about it. It was what it was.

  He dreamed that night, though.

  He’d stormed into a huge temple of white marble. The air was hot, dry and smelled of incense he knew he’d never experienced before, yet nevertheless recognized. He and those with him slew wave upon wave of defenders to achieve the building’s inner chamber. At last, his forces came face-to-face with a final row of elites that stood between him and the man they guarded, a man on a tall, stone dais.

  The man on the dais screamed in fury, “Who dares profane the sanctum of the Emperor, Mendis Staurachia, Third of the Name?”

  The Reaper wanted to laugh aloud, “I do. I, Tarmun Vykers!” What he heard himself say instead made no sense: “I, Treamann Wikerrian. It is I who ‘profanes’ your sanctum, and it is I who will tear it down upon your cowardly head!”

  There followed a bloodbath that predictably concluded with Vykers – or Wikerrian – holding the severed head of the Emperor high above his own in triumph, to the thunderous cheers of his fellow warriors.

  And then he was himself again, in Heride, getting yelled at by good old (mean old) Hobnail, his once-upon-a-time sergeant.

  “You act like a child, Vykers. That what you are, a wee one? You want to be suckling your ma’s teats, boy?” Hobnail drenched Vykers’ face in a haze of spittle. “Or are you a man? ‘Cause a man thinks, a boy don’t. A man considers before runnin’ into a cave, a boy don’t.”

  “I was…”

  Hobnail smashed him one, right in the teeth. Vykers could’ve ducked, but that would only have made matters worse.

  “You was nothin’, Vyke, you was nothin’. Not without my say-so!”

  He was eating a handful of odd fruits called ‘olives.’ They came in black, brown and green. They were cured in briny vinegar and stored in oi
l. Vykers had always loved ‘em, but…that couldn’t be right, ‘cause he’d never had one before.

  The face of his lost beloved, Hesh-Tu, rose up out of nowhere and, rather than revisit the pain of her loss, Vykers forced himself awake.

  The sky was still dark, but no stars could be seen. The Reaper wondered if rain was coming.

  Burner? He called to Arune.

  Vykers.

  You ever hear of someone named Treamann Wikerrian?

  No, Arune lied. Why do you ask?

  I dunno. Just some bullshit dream I had. Wake me when it’s sun up, will you?

  Before she could even agree, Vykers had fallen back asleep.

  *****