With Footfalls of Shadow

by Donogan Sawyer

  Travis hopped over the last two steps, leaned down and wrapped his arms around Aunty Jule’s ample frame. She squeezed him tight, then put her arm in his and guided him inside.

  “Oh, my little man has come to town again. You sit down and tell me what you been up to.”

  Travis walked across the cramped room and sat in his accustomed seat. The uncomfortable barstool was just about the only place in the room not piled with laundry. Travis sat carefully to avoid the sharp pinch of the cracked wood, and settled in for a chat. As always, Aunty Jules continued working while they talked. Travis could not recall a time when she was not working. She once told him she had the best job in the world because, “My hands stay busy and my mind stays free.”

  They chatted for the better part of an hour. He filled her in on the various jobs he had undertaken over the last eighteen months, and soaked in the familiar atmosphere. He was glad for the reprieve. He pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and idly started folding it, while Aunty Jules told him of the local gossip. He was not one for scandals of the court, or the clans. In fact, he had always held some disdain for the intrigues that people of higher station felt were important, but Aunty Jules was always so excited and animated about her stories that he found himself quite engaged.

  “So what happened to your arm, little man?” Aunty Jules asked, without turning around.

  Aunty Jules never missed much.

  “I caught the wrong end of a machete on my last job,” Travis improvised. “A little accident.”

  “Uh huh,” Aunty Jules said, apparently not convinced. She spread a shirt out on her ironing board and pulled an iron out of the oven.

  “So what kind of job you on now?” she asked, an unfamiliar apprehension in her voice.

  “Oh, I got lucky with an easy gig,” Travis said, trying to sound casual. “I have to deliver this package to a guy in the capital.”

  “Yeah? Who?” she asked.

  “Some guy called Verkleet. Ever hear of him?”

  “Verkleet?” she asked, her voice thin. “Can’t say I have.” And she turned quiet.

  “Is something burning?” Travis asked.

  Aunty Jules threw the iron back in the oven and cursed. She picked up the shirt, and Travis could see a small burn mark under one of the pockets. Aunty Jules put the shirt to her face, and took a deep sniff at the mark. From his vantage point behind her, Travis couldn’t be sure, but it looked to him as if she may have wiped her eyes as well.

  “This stupid iron,” she complained. “Why this shirt? The pink gury bird who owns it is gonna pitch a fit.”

  She turned to face him. “Verkleet, huh?” She crinkled her face in concentration. “You know, maybe I have heard of a man by that name.”

  She walked over and picked up the folded paper Travis had just set on the pile of laundry beside him. “A little castle. Look at that,” she said admiringly, her expression distant. “Who would have thought?”

  “Thought what?” Travis asked. He was sure she was holding something back.

  “Who would have thought a little scrap of paper like this could be made into a beautiful castle!” she said, her humour returning. “I want to pack my things. Then you, and me and little Biffy Squeeze can move right in!”

  Travis smiled. He wondered what Maclamar’s clientele might think if they knew a simple laundry lady in Chestertown insisted on calling him Biffy Squeeze.

  “So what do you know about this Verkleet?” Travis asked.

  Aunty Jules turned back to her work, and picked up the conversation in her usual good-humoured tone. “It’s one of the names used by this man, I think. That’s why I didn’t recognise it at first.”

  “Sorry Aunty Jules, but it kind of looked to me like you had recognised it,” Travis pushed.

  Aunty Jules picked up the metal wand she had smacked the boys with so many years ago and waved it threateningly. “Don’t you tell me what’s in my own mind, boy.”

  Travis held his hands in the air in apology, and to remind her that he was unarmed. She set the wand down and started ironing again as she spoke. “Verkleet, if it’s the same guy, he’s what you might call ... Let’s just say he can be a hard man to find.”

  “What does he do?” Travis asked.

  “I don’t know. He’s just one of those people who sort of pop up every now and then, do somethin’, and then disappear again.”

  Travis thought for a moment. “How can I find him?”

  Aunty Jules continued ironing. Then she put the iron back in the oven, and pulled out a new one. Finally, she answered, “If this man is who I think he is, you won’t have to find him. He’ll find you.”

  “Huh, this job is even easier than I thought,” Travis said.

  Aunty Jules looked at him sternly for a moment, then her expression softened into a smile.

  “That’s the right attitude, little man,” she said, putting down her iron. She grabbed a piece of paper and pen from a shelf and scribbled something on it. “If I was you, I’d start makin’ my way to Kraal by the northern pass. I got a place you can stay in Endrin. Go to this address, and tell Sammy that Aunty Jules sent you.”

  Travis took the note from her hand as he stood. “Thanks, Aunty Jules.”

  Suddenly Travis found himself in midst of a great bear hug. “You be careful, okay?”

  Travis squeezed back, a little mystified. “I will, Aunty Jules. I will.”

  “I think you finally found yo’ way of workin’ it out with the world. I just hope the world wants to work it out with you. But tonight, you stayin’ with me,” she informed him.

  “I was hopin’ you would say that,” he replied.

  “Got some chicken pie in the oven right now. You hungry?”

  “Oh yes, chicken pie, my favourite,” he answered, regressing to a slightly more childish tone.

  “Don’t I know it?”

  XV

  A good king must have the strength of a warrior, the wisdom of a philosopher, and the cunning of master swindler.

  – King Tobias

  Argus walked with the King through the winding corridors beneath the palace. They were cold and damp, and little care had been taken in planing the floors or the walls flat. Flickering torches cast haunting shadows, and the sickly-sweet smell of old death wafted gently up the path before them.

  “I hate this place,” said the King, curling his nostrils in disgust.

  Argus ignored the comment, and continued the business at hand. “The people are confused, Your Highness, and scared.”

  “I know, Argus. It is unfortunate and I believe it is time to seek a remedy. Santaque is dead and Riley is neutralised. I see no great threat from any other quarter,” Arconus considered. “The people of Jeandania have learned to obey me. Now perhaps I can win their affection. Today will be a day of turning. After the matter with Gastious is concluded, I was thinking of declaring a holiday or a festival or something. Lots of dancing, drinking; that sort of thing.”

  Argus nodded thoughtfully. “This might be a good idea. The people could use a distraction from recent events, and what better distraction than a show of generosity from their King. Turn them from suspicion and fear, to frivolity and gratitude.”

  “I’ll have my aides come up with some theme,” the King replied. “Perhaps it will finally put them to some useful service.”

  They rounded the last turn in the caverns, which ended in a squarish antechamber. On one wall, cut about chest high, was a series of long narrow windows. Beyond them, on the same wall, was a bulky wooden door with a heavy metal bar keeping it closed, protecting those in the room from what was on the other side. The room was empty save for one brutish figure peering through a window. As Argus and the King came near; they could hear him speaking in low, comforting tones, as if cooing to a baby or a favourite pet.

  Argus’s father had always encouraged him to hone his gift of empathy. “What a rich world you will discover in the hearts of men,” he used to say. Argus had always resented his father�
�s preoccupation with lesser mortals, but his lessons in empathy had proven very useful over the years, and on occasion an experience would help him appreciate his father’s fascination with the art. As he observed the King’s Prime overlooking the pits, he sensed a peace and a soft contentment, even joy, coming from the old beast, who normally emanated only contempt, anger and aggression. Argus recognised now the root of those negative emotions came from more than just his Bok-inherited nature. Gastious held in him a sense of being constantly persecuted, not only by those he fought against, but also by those he served. Gastious was about to make a great sacrifice for his King, who demanded loyalty without regard for his welfare. In this moment before his sacrifice; Gastious found solace, peace and escape from persecution in the company of these giant insects. Argus found this passingly curious.

  “Any word, Gastious, on the whereabouts of General Riley?” called the King.

  Gastious was startled. Argus sensed the peace flow out of the beast, and his customary unpleasant emotions flowing in to take its place. Today there was more than anger and contempt flowing through Gastious’s essence. Today there was also fear.

  “Yes, sir, but I’m not certain any of this information will be useful,” answered the half-man, half-Bok, squaring his shoulders. “Riley’s men are all dead but one, and he is unlikely to last the night. They told me of some places we might find him, but the general was a soldier long before these men joined him. Surely he has options they aren’t aware of.”

  “How many men are still out there with Riley?”

  “To our best estimation, less than fifty.”

  Arconus nodded and peered through the window as Gastious spoke. Argus looked as well. The observation windows were thin, so that the young wasps could not slip through. Inside the cavern, there was some natural light coming from the mouth of the cave above, which had been closed off by thatched ribbons of steel, to keep the wasps from terrorising the city. The observation room was carved out near to where the light shone, which was typically where those being interrogated were placed. Riley’s soldiers were a grisly sight. Argus knew Arconus had only grudgingly allowed Gastious to restore the pits after years of disuse, but now saw that they proved a useful tool in extracting information from those reluctant to share it.

  The wasps needed a host in which to lay their eggs, and they needed to keep that host alive for the three to four days, until the eggs hatched, and then while the larvae matured into flying insects. Argus had seen prisoners run around the cavern swatting at the giant wasps, each about half as long as a man, and then scream in agony as one inevitably landed on his back and inserted its stinger into the victim’s spine. The prisoner would typically continue running; in a curious, perhaps instinctual, attempt to escape what had already happened to him. The wasp would lift from its victim’s back and hover patiently above until the prisoner fell to the ground, whimpering, as paralysis overcame him; allowing the wasp to weave a confining web around him, and then lay its eggs in the victim’s body.

  It was the feeding’s that made the prisoners talk. These happened about twice a day, apparently to ensure that the host stayed paralyzed and nourished. The wasp would close in, buzzing ever closer, circling around the victim’s head for a moment or two, and then land on his chest. The longer the victim struggled, the longer he suffered, as the wasp would lean over, face to face, and open its horrible jaws. Four strong, hairy appendages would clamp around the victim’s head. Then the wasp would insert its feeding apparatus deep into the throat of the host. There it would stay for about thirty seconds, and for those thirty seconds the host could not breathe. Breathing was not cut off long enough to kill a man, or even render him unconscious, but it was quite long enough for the victim to experience the sensation of suffocation. Most men would eventually beg to trade information for a swift death, rather than face another feeding.

  Argus looked into the pit, at what was left of the four men captured from Riley’s command. A wasp sat on a rock above one of the carcasses, cleaning its legs.

  Argus had studied for many years with eminent biologists and entomologists centuries ago, during the Age of Letters. It was a time that Argus missed, when the Walvaai were still numerous, and society’s highest ambition was knowledge, not power. From his studies, he knew a true insect could not evolve to be larger than a man’s fist, because as an insect grows larger, its exoskeleton grows thicker, and eventually would become too heavy for the insect to survive. These wasps however, had found a curious way around that evolutionary barrier. Their outer shells evolved into a leathery skin, and their wings grew wider. They retained a wasp-like shape, with a thin stalk connecting the clearly defined thorax and abdomen, but their bodies were sleeker than their miniature ancestors. When airborne, they gave the impression of a flying scimitar. Their heads were fearsome, with four sets of mouth-parts and cold, expressionless, honeycomb eyes. They were a terrifying lot, surviving on instinct alone. They had no intention to harm anyone or anything, or to aid the King. They simply behaved as nature directed them. This made them a predictable and efficient tool. They were also completely free of emotion or judgment. Perhaps this is what made them Gastious’s treasured pets.

  “Thank you, sir, for this time,” Gastious asserted to the King.

  The King turned from the window to face Gastious. “It was the least I could do. You have served me well, and you are about to do a great service for Jeandania.”

  Gastious bowed his head, saying nothing.

  The King spoke solemnly, “The people are assembled. It is time for the trial.”

  ~Æ~

  The sombre beat of a lone drummer filled the courtyard in the assembly area. A wooden platform had been erected for the trial, upon which sat the King on his throne. A number of selected clansmen and some of the King’s advisors took seats along the base. One of the Ban’hoen twins stood next to the King, ready to be of service; the other stood on the platform holding an axe, ready to serve as executioner. Gastious wondered which of the twins held the axe, and suddenly felt the power of the illusion Arconus created in using the twins in this manner. The man in the dark robes seemed to be in two places at once; both at the King’s side, awaiting orders, and by the side of the condemned, waiting to strike.

  Gathered around in the courtyard, in every available space, citizens craned their necks to get a glimpse of Gastious. For many years this had been the place where the King of Jeandania would sit in judgment over his people to settle their disputes. Sometimes men would come here to argue their case against a neighbour. Sometimes businessmen would come to argue their disputes before the King. The King would listen, then he would judge, and the decision would be final. This was the first trial for treason Arconus had heard. In every other case, a trial had been deemed unnecessary. The King thought the occasion important enough to commission a new stage with a better vantage point to sit in judgment. It still smelled of freshly cut wood.

  Gastious dragged his chains across the stage, past the cleaving stump. He quickly inspected the various weapons. When the time came, he would choose the sharpest.

  His mind flashed to his childhood. He had played games with Arconus and his brother, Thelonious, when they were children. The boys had discovered him two years before their parents had, and would come to the servants’ quarters on occasion to torment him. One of their favourite games involved a mock execution. Of course, Gastious would always play the part of the prisoner to be executed, just as he was always the monster, the beast, the traitor, and sometimes the pack mule. He didn’t mind because the two boys were the only people who gave him any attention, and he had found it fulfilling in some way.

  His mother had died giving birth to him, and the other servants had kept him fed and hidden for as long as they could. He knew now it had been a fear of retribution from the gods, rather than love, or even sympathy, that had motivated them. No one had any real desire to save him, but no one was willing to risk the wrath of the gods by killing an innocent. He had been treated more
like an inconvenient pet than one of them, though the staff had not hesitated to call on Gastious for the most unpleasant tasks.

  Acquiescing to Arconus and his brother in their cruel games at least made him feel a part of something. Eventually Lord Schenkdower, Arconus’s father, did discover him, and it was his relationship with the boys that saved his life. The lord had unsheathed his sword on the spot when he saw his sons playing with him, but the boys pleaded with their father to spare him. Lord Schenkdower repeatedly tried stepping around his sons to stab at Gastious while they argued. Finally, Arconus said, “But father, wouldn’t he make a most excellent bodyguard?”

  The lord sighed, and finally sheathed his sword, saying, “All right, but keep it out of my sight. Should it cross my path again, I will kill it.”

  Arconus had saved Gastious’s life, and forever earned his loyalty.

  Gastious looked down at the scars on his arm. Of all the wounds he had acquired over the years, these were still the deepest. He was proud of them. They were a testament to his dedication to Arconus. Many years ago, when Arconus was nearly a man, he had forced himself on the youngest daughter of a rival clan. This was the first indication of his predilection for young girls. The girl’s four brothers came after Arconus. Gastious had used his bare arms to block the hacking sword of the youngest brother, about twelve-years-old, not quite strong enough to inflict a serious wound on an arm like Gastious’s. He was the last one to die, stabbed in the back by Arconus as the young man rained blow after blow upon Gastious. The scandal had cost Lord Schenkdower half of his wealth and cost Arconus his father’s favour, but Lord Schenkdower had recognised the loyalty of his son’s bodyguard, and from that point forward had seen to his care.

  It took some months for his wounds to heal, and he was given quarters near Arconus for his convalescence. Against all predictions, his arms returned to full functionality over time, and Gastious was permitted to stay in his room, rising from beneath the servants’ quarters to a station far above that of any other of the Schenkdower employees. It was his loyalty that elevated him, rising in stature as Arconus rose. Although he had felt conflicted when Arconus ordered him to throw Thelonious from the bridge, he did not hesitate to follow the order. He then stood witness at his benefactor’s side as Arconus tearfully explained the ‘accident’ to Lord Schenkdower, supporting every word of Arconus’s lies, and clearing the way for Arconus to become the sole heir to the Schenkdower fortune.