As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)

by Allan Batchelder

  If Vykers expected Flail’s countrymen to surrender, he was mistaken. A bolt of pinkish light exploded in the air directly in front of the warrior’s chest, and he felt a familiar burning throughout his body.

  Arune?

  Busy, she snapped.

  Eerie tendrils of darkness crept past the Reaper from the direction of the Historian and wound their way into the enemy encampment, evoking screams of pain and terror wherever they went.

  Vykers advanced into the gap at the gate, lately occupied by Flail, and swept his sword back and forth as a deterrent to anyone foolish enough to consider approaching. Someone shouldered past him in a rush; the Frog had evidently recovered from his meal and was looking for more.

  And where’s the Fool? Vykers wondered.

  Back with the prisoners, Arune answered.

  I thought you were busy.

  I was. We killed the enemy’s Shaper.

  Ah, Vykers replied. And how’s the Fool think he’s gonna handle all ‘o them captives?

  Arune laughed. You’d be surprised.

  What did not surprise the Reaper was his enemies had finally decided they’d had enough. After losing their monster, their basher and their Shaper – along with who-knew-how-many others, they’d decided to accede to Vykers’ wishes. Looking around the camp, he saw that every man in their force had gone down on one knee, the left knee, and bowed his head in submission.

  “What a beautiful sight!” Vykers exclaimed.

  Beautiful? Arune asked. I never thought to hear you utter that word.

  Shows how much you know, the Reaper joked. There’s plenty o’ things I find beautiful.

  And I can name one of them, Arune thought to herself. I only pray we live to see her again.

  Vykers turned and looked back the way he and his party had come. They’d nearly reached the middle of the mass of armies abutting the obelisk and the salt marsh beyond, and yet, for all that, there remained as much or more to come, with ever stronger foes into the bargain. Vykers wiped his blade on the sleeve of Flail’s corpse and slid it back into the scabbard across his back. Then, he bent over and retrieved the actual flail, giving it an experimental swing or two. “Damned fool weapon,” he rumbled. “Good against savages and peasants, no doubt. Not so good today.” That said, he tossed the thing back into the dirt, next to its master.

  The Historian appeared at his side. “Shall we proceed?”

  “Let’s.”

  *****

  Kittins, the Witch’s Hut

  He sat up. It may have been the greatest accomplishment of his life to date, what with the stiffness of his joints and muscles and the close-to-unbearable pain of his numerous wounds. The old witch had said they were healing, but they hurt worse now than when he’d received ‘em. The fact was, he probably shouldn’t be sitting up at all, but his savior had disappeared, and Kittins wanted to take a leak on his own for once. He was also curious just where it was that he’d washed ashore. He was more familiar with the countryside upriver of Lunessfor than down, but he hoped to see something, some landmark or other, that might provide enlightenment.

  Because he was planning to return to the city and kill His Lordship, Darley Gault. Why? His head was too muddled to provide him with concrete answers; all he knew was that he liked the idea – more than liked it, really: it burned like a hunger within him. So. He would return to House Gault, pretend to come calling for his promised reward, and then strangle the fucker with his bare hands. Darley looked a strong fellow, but, to Kittins’ way of thinking, he had nothing to lose in the attempt. He’d already died once. More than once, really, if you counted the essentially decent man he’d been before arriving at House Gault. Oh, he’d been a hard man, but he hadn’t been a bad one. Now, he had some acts, some murders in his ledger he’d never get erased. But it seemed the gods, fickle as they were, hadn’t finished with him, yet.

  From his pallet, he lurched to his feet, stifling the resultant scream of pain that would have brought Croonsbasket running to see what the matter was. When he reached his full height, he was overcome with dizziness and nausea and almost fell right back onto his face. He’d been a soldier, once, and a good one, too. His training kicked in, his iron-hard discipline, and he stood stock still until the queasiness passed.

  In time, he examined himself. He was naked, save for a primitive skirt around his waist that hung to mid-thigh. His skin was a quilt work of stitches running off in odd directions. Apparently, he’d sustained more wounds than he remembered, and perhaps even a few further during his brief career as flotsam. Most of his wounds were mildly puffy and itchy, but none were warm to the touch – a good sign they’d not gone septic. Still, he couldn’t exactly saunter into town in his current condition and expect to avoid attention.

  He looked around the witch’s shanty and found little of immediate use or value. She’d a single metal pot which she kept full of soup that was probably older than Kittins; at least, he was sure that was true of some of its ingredients. There were also some earthenware bowls, one or two of which were so cracked as to be nigh onto useless. Hung from the ceiling’s very low rafters were dried odds and ends, pieces of once-living things Kittins recognized, and others he pretended he did not. None of it seemed the slightest bit helpful.

  He remembered he had to piss and hobbled his way towards the hovel’s entrance. He was hoping the air smelled better outside than in, but it only smelled bad in a different way. Inside, the hut smelled of burnt herbs, grasses, sweat and Croonbasket’s soup. Outside, the air had a pungent, swampy quality with a hint of sulphur. It was late afternoon, and Kittins could see no sign of the witch or anyone else. He wandered a short distance until he found what he took to be a tributary of the river and lifted his skirt to relieve himself in its waters.

  “Out fer a stroll, are you, Poor Tom?” the witch giggled behind his back.

  Kittins let out a long breath. He’d hoped he wouldn’t run into her again. Without turning around, he said, “Time was, I’d’ve thanked you for what you did. I’m not so sure it’s a mercy now, though.”

  “And still, the dead envy us sumpin’ awful.”

  Finished, Kittins turned his head and regarded the little woman with skepticism. “Do they,” he said wryly.

  “They do and does, Tom.”

  “You understand my name’s not Tom.”

  “’Tis Tom to me!” Croonbasket replied blithely.

  “How do I get out o’ this swamp?”

  “Ya canna go, now! Yer not ready.”

  Kittins wondered what she meant by ‘ready,’ but decided that, whatever her intent, he had to go. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any coin or a weapon to lend me?” He wondered what he meant by ‘lend,’ knowing full well he had no intention of ever returning.

  The old witch reached into the neck of her gauze-like shift and pulled something out from between whatever remained of her breasts. “Just this.” She held the object out and up, so Kittins might see it better in the late afternoon/early evening light. It was some sort of handmade totem on a leather thong, an assemblage of little bones and twine, adorned with a small but truly fine opal at its center. “Take.”

  “Why?” Kittins asked uncertainly.

  “You need it, Tom, if ever a man did.”

  “I’ve got nothing to give you in return.”

  The little witch smiled a tiny, private smile and chuckled.

  A more hopeful man might have been paranoid, worried about the consequences of accepting such a thing; Kittins had simply stopped caring. Gently (and when was the last time he’d been gentle?), he took the proffered necklace and slipped it over his head and around his neck.

  “Can you at least point me in the direction of Lunessfor?”

  She winked her eyes at him and extended a hand to her right. “Might be, you’ll find a raft up’n’down the shore, hard by.”

  Kittins regarded the old woman awkwardly for a final few seconds. He’d no idea how to conclude this conversation and so, in the end, he just t
urned and walked away.

  *****

  Rem, the Queen’s Castle

  Kittins was not the only member of Long’s team who was having difficulty getting to his feet. Rem dreamed he was sitting in a cold mud puddle, and, when he woke up, discovered he’d soiled himself as a result of the Shaper’s…assault – what else could one call it? To make matters worse, he’d been left where he’d fallen, in the middle of the floor. The complete absence of guards made him realize the Shaper and others of the Queen’s staff did not view him as any kind of threat; indeed, it was difficult to say if they viewed him as any kind of anything, which was quite a blow to his self-image. He’d believed himself the greatest actor in the land and a spy of no mean ability, as well. He now understood two things: one, the Queen’s staff cared not one whit for his acting ability or reputation, and, two, they had even less regard for his skills as a spy.

  He was hungry, cold and filthy and had been completely robbed of any dignity he’d once possessed. Luckily for him, he’d been in similar straights before and felt fairly sure he’d recover. He was nothing if not resilient.

  But why had the Shaper dealt so harshly with him? Hadn’t Rem done what he’d been hired to do and more? Hadn’t he taken tremendous risks and endured unspeakable sacrifices in order to obtain the requested information? And was he then expected to spill everything he knew or suspected without the slightest compliment or gratitude? Gods, the upper classes were worse than peasants!

  Unable to endure his own aroma any longer, Rem at last got to his feet and walked, as carefully as possible, towards the door. It opened without impediment and swung noiselessly inward. He peeked around it, looking for guards, and saw none. Was he really so laughably feeble they’d let him wander the halls unattended? The notion was hard to credit. There had to be someone, somewhere, alert to his presence.

  He walked down the hallway for several doors in one direction, and finding none that were unlocked, turned and walked the other way. After several minutes, he chanced upon an older man just leaving his room.

  “Greetings!” Rem called out, as cheerfully as possible. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to the baths?”

  The other man looked him up and down and offered a look of such distaste it was all Rem could do to prevent himself from blushing in shame. “I think you want the servants’ baths,” the man said snidely.

  “Good enough,” Rem shrugged. “How do I get there from here?”

  “A better question would be how you got here from there…”

  “Ah, yes, well, I was a guest of Her Majesty’s Shaper, and I gather I failed to amuse him.”

  “Ha!” the older man scoffed. “I do not doubt it, sir. We’ve little use for fops in the castle, and even less for incontinent fops.” Rem was about to object, but the other man continued, “Continue down this hallway. When it comes to a tee, go left and walk until the new hallway turns right. Take the stairs you’ll find there to the bottom, and ask someone who lives down there. I’ve never been and, if the place will accommodate someone like you, never intend to visit. Good day, sir.” The man took a deep breath and ducked past Rem as quickly as possible, only bothering to exhale when he’d gotten well out of reach. Rem heard him muttering something as he faded into the distance.

  Following the old man’s directions, he eventually made his way to the servants’ level, where he found considerably friendlier company. It was true, his breeches were stained fore and aft, but the cut of them and the material they were made of was far finer than most of the servants had ever owned. If they mistook him for a young nobleman recovering from a night of drinking and debauchery, he’d not correct the impression. It was about damned time someone in the castle treated him with a little respect. Thus, he landed in the baths without any further abuse, physical or verbal, whilst an obsequious chambermaid took his clothing for cleaning. Rem was so long in the water, the maid was able to finish the job and return before the actor had even dried off. In this task, too, she seemed eager to please, though she was somewhat less happy to see Rem fully clothed again. Ah, but it was good to be handsome! In recompense for her efforts on his behalf, Rem gave the maid a quick peck on the cheek and returned to the stairs he’d used earlier.

  It was time to find his company and leave the castle.

  If the Mahnus-cursed Shaper would allow it.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, he got his answer. He’d been staring at the steps beneath him instead of watching the path ahead and come face-to-face with the man in question.

  “Well, you smell better, at any rate,” Cindor said.

  Caught off-guard, Rem found himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “Uh, yes, er…about that…”

  “You’d better be about to tell me you’re prepared to cooperate fully, with none of your foolery. I have precious little tolerance for evasiveness and word games.”

  Rem had a hard time meeting the wizard’s glare. “I don’t understand why you’ve used me as you have. Have I not done what I was hired to do?”

  “I understand you’re an actor of some sort,” Cindor responded, apropos of nothing.

  Rem stood up straighter, met the Shaper’s eyes. “Of some sort? You won’t have to look long to find many who’ll say I’m the best in the kingdom.”

  Cindor smirked. “Indeed? Then you understand the importance of sticking to the script, of following directions.”

  So, this was a conversation about his attempts to set Houses Hawsey and Radcliffe at odds. “I do. I know, too, that sometimes a little improvisation is necessary in order to…advance the plot.”

  “And sometimes ‘advancing the plot’ results in disaster. Henton Hawsey is dead, as is his Ladywife, along with Gelter Radcliffe and several other members of the Radcliffe family.”

  Rem felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. “Wh...what? How?”

  The Shaper’s eyes seemed to bore into Rem’s; the actor could almost feel his brain heating up. “How? Rumors were spread, supported by circumstantial evidence and bolstered by the testimony of a witness or two who can’t be found. Hawsey launched a series of assaults on Radcliffe; Radcliffe retaliated in ways Hawsey wasn’t expecting. Quite the bloodbath, actually.”

  If he’d had anything in his stomach, Rem might have thrown up. “But…I was given to understand Her Ladyship was with child…”

  “Not anymore.”

  Rem fell against the wall, overwhelmed with guilt. He’d as good as murdered Her Ladyship, himself.

  “Come, now. You must have expected something of the sort.”

  “Why? I’d never heard of open conflict between any of the Eight. Enmity, yes. But bloodshed?”

  “Don’t pretend you rue their loss,” Cindor said dismissively. “You’re not that good an actor.”

  “You should write for the town’s daily news. You sound like every other critic I’ve ever heard,” Rem chuckled sadly. “Anyway, I’d like to take my company and go now, if you don’t mind terribly much.”

  “Alas,” Cindor sighed, not untheatrically, “I told them you were dead, and the whole group’s disbanded.”

  “What???” Rem screamed. “Why?”

  “Because you looked fairly dead to me.”

  “You knew I wasn’t dead!” Rem yelled accusingly. “Otherwise, you’d have had me taken away. But you left me where I fell!”

  Cindor smiled a ghastly smile. “Yes, but look on the bright side: I didn’t kill you after all.”

  “What am I supposed to do now?” Rem asked, more to himself than the Shaper.

  “As it happens, we have an opening for…a spy. And you fancy yourself a spy, so it would seem our interests intersect.”

  “A spy,” Rem repeated without intonation.

  “Well, after all, Remuel Wratch is dead, so you can’t very well go on being him.”

  ~TWELVE~

  Vykers, the Lake Bed

  Try as he might, he could not completely overcome his wound. Even with help from Aoife, Arune, his sword, and Ci
ndor’s belt, Vykers felt himself less than half the man he’d been before meeting the End-of-All-Things. He’d struggled in every duel he’d fought on the lake bed, though none knew it but himself. His parries were a touch too slow, his attacks lacked their customary strength, his overall ability to anticipate was sluggish. If he couldn’t function at his best…

  But it wasn’t in Vykers to finish that thought. He would do whatever he must; he would kill anyone who dared stand in his way.

  As the afternoon waned, he felt frustrated at how much distance remained between himself and his goal. He’d bashed his way through several more champions since he’d killed Flail, and still the obelisk and the Queen were not within reach.