*****
Vykers & Turley, Inside the Castle
The new tunnel was also concealed behind an arras.
“Can’t believe anybody’s fooled by this!” Igraine cracked.
“I believe it’s more the case that the castle folk would rather not know.”
“Are you shittin’ me? No curious youngsters lookin’ for something new to explore? No lovers lookin’ for a place to…”
“People have been known to disappear in these tunnels. I think Her Majesty has cultivated some healthy superstition amongst her guests,” Turley cut in. “And then, of course, my people play a role.”
Igraine sneered. “Only, they’re not your people anymore.”
Turley fell silent, and Vykers could see he’d hurt the goblin. So much the better, he thought. If you’re gonna survive in this world, you’ve gotta get used to pain and lots of it.
The passage leading out of the castle was much more direct than that those he’d taken coming in, and Vykers wished he’d known of it earlier, especially when he learned where this one led.
“It’s a…what is your word for it? A bawdery?”
“A what?”
“A harloteria?”
“Huh?”
“Brothel?”
“Ah!” Igraine smiled. “A whorehouse. That makes sense. Those fancy folks in the castle have their needs…” He was just getting warmed up to the subject when he remembered Igraine. “The hells,” he muttered. “Looks like I won’t be partakin’…”
The corridor cut sharply to the right and came to an abrupt end at a wooden panel. At its base, a thin line of light seeped through from the room beyond, carrying with it a thousand aromas, a soup of perfumes, expensive wines, sweat and burning candle wax.
“How do we open this thing?” Igraine asked, nodding at the panel.
Turley’s eyes grew wide, as if the need to open it had never occurred to him. “I have no idea. I’ve never used it.”
Wasting no time, Igraine threw herself into the panel. Vykers would have gone straight through; Igraine bounced off, stumbled backwards and collided with the corridor’s far wall, where she chose to rest for a moment. She caught Turley staring at her and quipped “Used to work…in the old days.”
Before Vykers could formulate an alternate plan, the panel creaked open, revealing an extremely tall and equally unattractive woman in silhouette.
“You couldn’t just knock?” she demanded, in a deep, husky baritone.
Igraine pushed forward, snagging Turley by the front of his new shirt, and propelled herself and the goblin past the stranger and into the new space. It was, as Vykers had suspected, the sitting room of a brothel, perhaps one of many such rooms. Behind him, he heard the panel scraping shut and turned to see the tall woman swinging an armoire back into position against the wall. Looking more carefully at his host, Vykers realized she was a he, a man dressed in woman’s clothing. The Reaper was not unaware of the irony.
“You’ve got the stink of a fugitive about you,” the man said.
“And you?” Igraine asked. “What do you stink of?”
“Charming!” the man said. “And what in Alheria’s name is that thing?”
Igraine glanced over at Turley, who had collapsed onto a nearby couch, swimming in his enormous shirt and with his hat pulled down so far his face was invisible. “That is…that’s my little brother, Turley. He was born with the cord wrapped around his neck and, well, never grew quite right after that.”
“I see,” the man responded, barely hiding his distaste. “But you…you don’t look so bad.”
“So I been told.”
“I’m not surprised,” the man cooed. “In fact, we’re a bit short on fresh young faces around here. If you’re not in any trouble, do you fancy a bit of night work? Pays well!”
Igraine shook her head. “Sorry. I got all the work I can handle.”
“I bet you do!”
Igraine ignored the comment. “What’s the fastest way out o’ here?”
“There’s a stairway through those doors,” the man pointed. “But you don’t…”
Vykers didn’t wait around to hear the rest. Igraine grabbed Turley’s arm and rushed through the doors…and into the middle of an orgy. From the look of things, the participants were in some type of drug or alcohol-induced stupor, which explained the absence of the usual grunting and groaning that might have served to warn the Reaper. In his haste to escape the whorehouse, Vykers ignored the proceedings. Turley, however, stood slack-jawed and goggle-eyed, seemingly unable to move.
“Move it, or you’re gonna find yourself livin’ here.”
Turley moved it.
There were other doors, other possible exits, but the pair bolted up the stairs, down a short hallway, and out through a door of very sturdy design. Dawn was approaching.
“Still dark enough to smuggle you into my quarters. We’ll have to find new ones soon, though. The widows are a nosy bunch, and I won’t be able to keep ‘em off you for long.”
Turley had never been outdoors, had never seen the castle from the outside, had never smelled so much raw humanity. Again, he was nearly transfixed by the excess of sensory stimuli. Finally, Igraine took ahold of his collar and dragged him along behind her, like a farm girl leading a cow to slaughter.
“Actually, we gotta make one visit first.”
The visit turned out to be a stop at Igraine’s tailor, an open-minded but tight-lipped fellow who’d had no qualms or questions about making masculine clothing for the young woman some weeks earlier and who, Vykers was certain, could again be trusted in clothing Turley.
“I’ve got a problem,” Igraine said, as she barged into the tailor’s shop right at closing.
The tailor swept over her with his eyes. “You’re looking a little more muscular. Can I let something out for you?” he asked.
“No. It’s not me.” In the interest of saving time, Vykers decided to come clean. “I’ve got a goblin friend just outside the door who needs to look more human.”
The Reaper was surprised at the tailor’s lack of surprise.
“Bring him in,” the man said, adjusting his spectacles.
In seconds, Turley stood forlornly in the middle of the shop, whilst Igraine locked the door behind him.
“Interesting,” said the tailor. “Can’t really fit him in a boy’s kit; his arms are too long and his legs, too short.”
Vykers watched with interest as the fellow circled the goblin, looking him up and down and tallying something up on his fingers.
“Could put him in a robe, though. That’d hide the real length of his arms and legs. Might pass for a dwarf. Head’s a bit small, but a good hood’ll hide that, too.” He turned to Igraine. “You good with a dwarf?”
Igraine nodded. “Anything’s better than a goblin.”
“Dwarf it is, then. Let’s take him in back and see what fits.”
If Vykers was impressed with the tailor’s demeanor, he was even more impressed with the man’s skill. In no time, Turley was transformed from a freakish oddity into something passably normal. If he was rather mysterious, at least he was no longer an obvious monstrosity. Even Turley, standing in front of a full-length mirror, was amazed by his new disguise.
“You’d never think, to look at me now, that I’m just a castle goblin,” he mused.
Igraine laughed. “We’re none of us what we seem. None of us. Now, let’s go get a few hours’ shut-eye.”
*****
Kittins, On the Road
Someone was following him, unbelievable as it seemed. Despite the weather and the endless, empty miles, someone was on his trail and had been for some time. Who, though? Who in the wide world would choose to follow the Dead One, especially once his journey led him out of the city and into the wild? While it was true that he’d done much wrong to many, Kittins had only one enemy that he knew of, and that was Cindor. But the Shaper possessed the ability to spy on him at any time. Why send an actual person into such hards
hip and peril? Perhaps Kittins’ confusion was reason enough? That would be just like the Shaper.
If memory served, there was a town of good size just a half day’s travel ahead of him, Barnaby or Birnaby or some such. There, the captain would find a dry bed, a warm fire, and a hot meal. And a tankard of ale or two. If this spy wanted to watch Kittins up close, the Dead One would give him every opportunity. And besides, his horse needed some care as well if it was going to survive the long trek north.
Imagining that hot meal did wonders for Kittins’ morale and endurance. The miles evaporated, and he found himself at the gates of Qirnby much sooner than he’d expected. It was less than half the size of Lunessfor, but it was still large enough for Kittins’ purposes. It boasted a number of inns, a larger number of brothels, and even a theater – not that Kittins gave a damn for such foppery. Point was, a man, even an ugly man, could get his needs met in Qirnby.
Or not.
His old face had been bad enough, but his new one flat out terrified everyone he encountered, including the guards at the town gates. After much debate and not a little intimidation from Kittins, they finally agreed to let him enter Qirnby, but only with the understanding that he would be followed and watched, wherever he went. Great, he thought, I’m at the head of a parade. So much for stealth.
In larger cities, everyone was a stranger and few noticed newcomers. In Qirnby, Kittins was as conspicuous as a dog with wings and considerably less charming. Thus, he had a difficult time finding welcome anywhere, and there were even establishments that refused him entry. He might’ve made an issue of it, but guessed his not-so-secret escort would attempt to intervene, and, after all, he hadn’t come to town to start a brawl. No, he wanted only to refresh himself and his mount and perhaps get a glimpse of the person who’d followed him out of Lunessfor.
Just when he was about to abandon hope of meeting these needs, he stumbled across a tavern called The Last Place, and, indeed, it was both the last place he checked and the last place he would have checked. Painted a blinding white with unspeakable pink shutters, The Last Place did not, on its surface, appear to be the ideal spot for a hard man to get drunk in private. The tavern’s inside told a different story, though. It was just as gloomy, smoky and fragrant as Kittins would have hoped. And as crowded. And while each and every one of the tavern’s patrons gave the captain a good once-over, none seemed overly concerned about his intentions. He got the distinct impression they were leery of him, but unafraid. He could make them afraid, of course. For the time being, he chose to sit back and savor the sensation of normality.
He made his way towards the fireplace, where he found all the seating was occupied. He was about to look elsewhere when a whole table of patrons got up and moved into a darker corner. Interesting: even when he meant no harm, his visage, his overall aspect told folks otherwise. Just as well, he thought.
No sooner had he found a seat to his liking, than the barkeep appeared as his side, an awkward, gangly sort who looked like he’d been broken and put back together incorrectly -- not that Kittins had any room to make such judgments.
“What can I do fer ya?” the man asked in an accent Kittins had never heard before.
“Something hot, something cold and maybe a bed?”
The barkeep studied Kittins for several heartbeats before he replied, “Yah. I can do that. Cost you a Merchant, though.”
Which was fine with the captain. “I got a horse, too. Anyplace nearby I can stable him?”
The other man nodded. “’Nother Merchant, and I’ll take care of it meself.”
Kittins considered arguing that a Merchant was too high for one night’s stabling, but decided against it. He had the money, and it wasn’t as if he was saving up for his wedding. “Done,” he said at last. “Pony’s out front. Only one out front.”
The barman nodded again and headed off about Kittins’ business. The captain leaned back, put his feet up and settled in for what he anticipated might be a long wait.
*****
Rem, In Pursuit
Kittins had decided to pull off the main road and enter Qirnby, to Rem’s profound relief. Another mile, another hundred paces, and the actor might have frozen to his mount, requiring a joint burial. Or an especially large funeral pyre. Frankly, the notion of being set afire wasn’t half as unpleasant as it ought to have been.
Rem had followed the big man for days, always keeping him on the very edge of vision. Sometimes, the weather was so bad, this meant trailing Kittins at a stone’s throw. Other times, when the storm let up and the snow stopped falling, Rem let his quarry dwindle in the distance until he was little more than a speck on the horizon. If Kittins pulled into a roadside inn, Rem found another, farther along. If the big man made camp amongst some trees, Rem backtracked until he found a suitable spot to do likewise. But it wasn’t easy. The captain seemed impervious to the cold and immune to fatigue. A harder man, Rem could not imagine, unless it was perhaps the Reaper.
Unlike Kittins, Rem had no trouble entering Qirnby, although he waited a good half hour after the captain passed through the gates before following him. By that time, it was getting dark, and Rem could think only of a hot bath. He figured Kittins would find his way into a tavern somewhere, and a man of Kittins’ description wouldn’t be difficult to locate, so Rem could catch up with him later.
That was his plan, anyway, until he saw the billboard: “Wratch & Company Present Rampage of the Reaper.”
His astonishment could not have been greater if Mahnus himself had come dancing down the street at the head of an army of milkmaids. In the first place, he was Wratch, and Wratch was supposed to be dead. In the second, Wratch & Company had allegedly disbanded. Third, there was no such play as Rampage of the Reaper. The effrontery of these people – who and whatever they were – defied belief.
Rem stopped the first person who passed and asked him, “Where is this performance being held?”
“At the Black Stag, off Market Square.”
“And which way is that?”
The man pointed, obligingly.
Rem spurred his tired pony in the designated direction. After a few false turns, he found the place he was looking for, a long, low building with a riot of signs and billboards out front, an indoor theater, of course. They were not as spectacular as the outdoor variety, but were growing in popularity nonetheless. A fad, Rem thought them. It just wasn’t right to see or perform in a play with a roof overhead. As he was in something of a hurry, Rem paid the overly expensive stable boy at the theater’s front door, bought himself a ticket and went inside.
The Black Stag must have borrowed or stolen every candle in town in order to light the place, and still the shadows lingered. On stage, a number of glowing spheres of magical origin improved matters, and Rem had to admit he was both impressed by and jealous of the troupe’s ingenuity. In time, a small group of musicians appeared to the left of the stage and began playing an old air with which Rem was very familiar. He became so lost in thought and reminiscence that he scarcely noticed when the play began. When next he looked, his old friend Keez had come onstage and begun to perform one of Rem’s most famous monologues in the person of Tarmun Vykers.
Rem’s heart sank. It was obvious what his former fellows had done: Keez had assumed Rem’s name and position, and the company had continued on its tour unabated. They’d even changed the name of Rem’s greatest play to something more…pedestrian and, if he was honest, accessible.
Rem watched in horror as Keez gave a brilliant performance and received a hero’s applause. As for the rest of Wratch & Company? They seemed as happy and hearty as Rem had ever seen them, and he was torn: a part of him felt betrayed, as if something of inestimable value had been stolen from him. And yet another part of him understood how difficult it was to find work as an actor, and he couldn’t begrudge his old friends their apparent success. He felt resentment…and pride, envy and relief. In the end, as the crowd chanted his name – his very own name! – he stood and slunk ou
t of the theater, allowing his counterfeit to bask in adulation.
Somehow, he ended up drunk in the middle of the street, well past midnight. He couldn’t recall how he’d gotten there, much less what he’d done with his horse and gear. All he knew was that he was still conscious, and he wanted to change that. A block away, the sounds of raucous merriment erupted from a hideous white building with pink shutters. It seemed like just the place.
He bumbled up the steps, and tumbled through the door. The interior swam before his eyes. He wasn’t sure he could make it all the way to the bar, so he threw himself into the closest chair, not caring one whit that it was already occupied.
“’Ere! What’s the meanin’ ‘o this?” the seat cushion shouted.
“Watch yerself!” yelled the table.
“Hello!” said the floor.
It was filthy and stinking, was the floor. But it possessed one fine quality, in that it halted Rem’s downward motion. Just when he began to feel settled, he flew upwards and threw upwards, dangling at the end of somebody’s arm.
Captain Kittins.
“’Ello, Captain,” Rem offered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. If Kittins said anything by way of response, the actor missed it, falling rapidly into unconsciousness.
“So, you’re the spy,” Kittins rumbled.
At first, Rem couldn’t guess what the man was talking about, largely because he wasn’t sure he hadn’t died the previous night. “Where am I?” he slurred.
“In a bed,” the captain answered. And then, “Your own. Mine’s on the other side of the room.”
Rem rolled over to get a better look at his host and almost threw up again. He found none of the humor in the situation that his old friend Yendor so often did.
“What happened to you?” said Kittins.
“Lot of stuff, most of it bad. And the worst of it is, the world’s kept on turning without me.” Having finally gotten a good look at the newly remodeled captain, he asked, “What happened to you?”
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 21