Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3)

by Allan Batchelder

  “I smell liquor!” Yendor boomed, startling his companions who’d thought him asleep.

  “Yes, but…” Long began.

  “But nothing!” Yendor barked. “You ain’t broken. Someone’s gotta taste the stuff to see if it’s safe, and I elect me!”

  The captain would have liked to object. He knew too well what his old friend was like on spirits. But Yendor’s argument made some sense, too. If the mysterious liquor turned out to be fatal, it was better to lose the weakest member of the crew. “Fine,” said Long. “Suit yourself.”

  “Give me a hand, eh, Ron?” Yendor prompted.

  Seeing the captain had agreed, Ron moved the pot to Yendor’s lips, while Spirk supported the man’s head. Ron held his breath as he slowly tipped the pot enough to spill a small stream of its contents into Yendor’s waiting mouth. The older man gulped. And gulped. And gulped. When Ron tried to pull again, Yendor reached out with his good arm and pulled the pot closer. Several gulps later, Yendor lay back, smiled, and died.

  At least, that’s how it looked to everyone else.

  “He’s still alive,” Spirk said reassuringly.

  “Now what?” Ron asked.

  The captain sat on the floor and answered, “We wait.”

  Long dreamt of Esmun Janks and was still dreaming of him when Spirk nudged the captain and woke him. “Sorry,” Long said, disoriented. “I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep.”

  Spirk kneeled down next to him. “We all did. Guess that monster’s not chasing us anymore, huh?”

  That made sense. Long thought to ask how long they’d been asleep, but then remembered there was really no way to tell underground. He was, however, quite hungry and had to piss something awful. “Help me move this stuff from the door,” he told Spirk. “I think I’ll take a peek outside and see what’s what.”

  There was no sound beyond the door, nothing but silence and darkness. Long craned his neck into the passageway, poking his sword just ahead of himself, and found no monsters waiting to eviscerate him and his friends. Emboldened, he stepped outside the shop and listened again: still nothing. A door across the way was slightly ajar, and Long moved towards it and gently eased it open with the point of his sword. He’d expected a loud creaking noise, but the door was as silent as everything else in this damnable place. The new room was the twin of the one he’d come from, except that most of the shelves were empty, and equally empty pots filled up an entire corner of the space.

  Well, thought Long, I’ve finally got a pot to piss in. Maybe I’ll live it up and piss in all of ‘em.

  When he returned to his companions, he found the younger men gathered around Yendor, who was sitting up and in better spirits than he’d any right to be.

  “Greetings, your Lordship!”

  Oh, he was drunk.

  “Prithee,” said Yendor, “vouchsafe to grant me an audience with your most exalted self.”

  Long nearly cracked a grin, but found he was just as annoyed as he was amused. “What?”

  “I’m feeling much better.”

  “So I see. But now you’re drunk.”

  “Oh, aye,” Yendor agreed, “drunk and then some. This…stuff…” he said, indicating the contents of a nearby pot, “is a most wondrous elixir. My pain is greatly reduced, and my injuries feel almost mended.”

  Long snapped his attention to Spirk. “Is this true?”

  Predictably, Spirk shrugged. Long silently admonished himself for expecting too much of the young man. Whatever the origin of Spirk’s powers, he had no training through which to understand or channel them. The captain turned his focus back to Yendor.

  “And your belly…no discomfort there?”

  “If this be poison, ‘tis the happiest poison that ere I tasted.”

  Ron stepped forward. “I volunteer to take a sip.”

  “Oh, you volunteer, do you?” Long smiled. “Be my guest.”

  Ron picked up Yendor’s half-empty pot and sampled its contents. He was about to put the pot back down when he thought better of it and took a second taste. “Damn tasty,” he declared, surprise evident in his voice. He lifted the pot again to take a third sip when Long stopped him.

  “Let’s wait a few minutes, eh? Give it a little time first.”

  A scowl of resentment flashed across Ron’s face so quickly that Long thought perhaps he’d imagined it. He certainly hoped that was the case.

  “As you say,” the younger man relented.

  To Yendor, Long said, “Does this mean you’re strong enough to hobble along under your own power?”

  Without answering, the other man slid off the countertop and stood on both legs. He had the cheerful expression of a carnival magician after performing a magic trick.

  “Mahnus’ balls,” Long muttered in disbelief. Then, “Let’s see if we can’t make you a crutch or cane of some sort out o’ that litter. Oughta be something there we can use.”

  Working together, Long, Ron and Spirk were able to fashion a serviceable crutch out of wood and strips of cloth from their various garments. Yendor tried it out and, though he reeled from the drink, he was able to cross the room several times without stopping or falling.

  “How are you feeling?” Long asked Ron.

  “Like I want another drink.”

  “Hear, hear!” Yendor trumpeted. “Merrier more. The more merrier. The more, the merrier!” he managed at last.

  Ron and Spirk laughed heartily at this, to which Yendor affected an awkward bow. Only Long remained, skeptical.

  “If anyone here needs a taste o’ this marvelous nectar, it’s old grim Johnny over there!” Yendor said, waving an arm at his captain.

  Long flushed with anger. “I’m sorry,” he snapped, “if my daughter’s kidnapping has adversely impacted your buffoonery.”

  Before things could degenerate completely, Spirk rushed to Long’s side, took him by the arm and gently led him aside.

  “Cap’n,” said he, “I know you been feelin’ poorly about your daughter. We all feel for you. That’s why we’re here. Only…” he paused, searching for the words he wanted, “we can’t be miserable all the time. We’ll go mad.”

  Long couldn’t make eye contact with the Shaper. A good part of the captain wanted to rage, to smash things, to hurt himself and others. Another part wanted to weep, and still a third wanted to fall face-first on the ground in embarrassment at his own behavior.

  Yendor appeared at his other shoulder and spoke softly into his ear. “I know you meant to leave me back at that great crack in the ground. And it hurts, my friend, but I know you thought it needful. And I forgive you.”

  Long felt an enormous wave of emotions coming to a crest in his bosom, so he called out, “Give me a draught of that liquor, Ron, will ya?”

  In no time, the four friends were all rip-roaring drunk, sitting on the floor, their backs to one another, and their legs splayed out in every direction.

  I knew a young lady from Kalimasai,

  Made pastries so fine, with one taste you would cry,

  For her cakes and her biscuits, you’d willingly die,

  But the best of her wares was her succulent pie…

  They sang, they laughed, they belched, they farted and laughed some more. They boasted and bragged and confessed.

  And then they tumbled, one by one, off to sleep.

  *****

  Rem & Kittins, On the Road

  The whole trek made no sense to Rem. If the Queen or her Shaper had truly wanted Kittins to investigate these rumors up north, they could easily have sent him there in an instant, in the same way Cindor had retrieved the actor from Long’s company. By the time Kittins arrived on foot – or horseback, if he was lucky enough to keep his mount alive so long – the Reaper might have moved on. So, the reasons Kittins was given for his journey were probably lies.

  Then, what was the truth? What was the real purpose for this trip?

  According to the captain, he’d developed an abiding hatred for the Shaper, and the visual evide
nce suggested the feeling was mutual. Could Her Majesty have sent Kittins north merely to keep him away from Cindor? Why not just kill Kittins? Why not magically banish him to some distant land from which return was impossible?

  Could it be that Her Majesty had some future use for the captain? Rem turned the idea over and over in his mind and, as far-fetched as it seemed, found he could not dismiss it.

  And then he asked himself again, Why am I following Kittins? The Shaper had commanded Rem to trail the captain, to spy on him, but what could he really expect to learn by stumbling after the man’s shadow in a snowstorm? Clearly, Cindor did not trust Kittins. Was it possible he did not trust Her Majesty, either? Rem sighed. The gamesmanship of the powerful was so convoluted, so byzantine, as to defy reason. And here he was, stuck in the middle of it all. What a great play that would make.

  If only he were still Remuel Wratch.

  Well, he thought, as the Poet once wrote, ‘What is done cannot be now amended.’ He decided to pay Kittins a visit after sundown. He and the captain had reasoned that Cindor was unlikely to drop in on Rem when he might be asleep, so they spent their days apart, but often reunited after dark to exchange thoughts and information. Tonight, Rem was especially anxious to share his thoughts with the other man.

  What would happen, he wondered, if the captain and I refused to be anyone’s puppets?

  Rem had come to hate sundown. The world went from terribly cold to unbearably cold – teeth chattering, hysteria-inducing, soul-sucking cold. It was flat-out unnatural. But he had to wait a bit more. He had to allow time for the hypothetical setting up of camp, the building of a fire, eating of meal and more. In reality, he was planning to do most of that when he reached Kittins. The captain usually made an enormous fire, far larger than necessary. Whether that was for Rem’s benefit or was meant to frighten off nighttime predators, Rem didn’t know. It didn’t appear that Kittins was worried or afraid of anything. Life, death, violence, peace – it was all one to the captain.

  When Rem judged he and his pony were on the verge of frostbite, he headed backwards, searching the woods on either side of the road for telltale signs of Kittins’ fire. It took longer than Rem had expected, but his diligence was eventually rewarded with the flicker of flames through the trees. Despite the cold and his hunger and fatigue, the actor approached cautiously, just in case this fire was tended by someone or something other than the captain. But his luck held out, as he saw the man’s death’s head of a face basking in the light of his fire.

  “Thought you might be comin’ by tonight,” Kittins hissed. He wasn’t angry; it was just the quality of his almost lipless speech.

  “I’ve been thinking…”

  “Then you’re a damned fool.”

  “Aye,” said Rem, “I’ll not deny it. But this mission of yours makes no sense.” The actor hobbled his horse next to Kittins’ and unrolled a heavy blanket across its back. He then crossed over to the captain and sat near him by the fire.

  “Do tell.”

  “Why do you think you’re out here?” Rem asked, since it was clear that he, too, wasn’t sold on Her Majesty’s story.

  Kittins grunted, “So I won’t kill her little magician.”

  “But if that’s all it is, why wouldn’t the Queen throw you in a dungeon or take your head off?”

  Kittins stared up into the cloudy night sky. A few tiny snowflakes wandered downward and got lost in the flames. “I been wrestlin’ with that very question for days and days. Got nothing to show for it but a nasty headache.”

  Rem was surprised to hear this. “So, you do feel pain?”

  The captain snorted. “What do you think?” After a brief silence he continued, “Whether you feel it or not ain’t the issue. It’s how you deal with it that matters.”

  Rem gestured to Kittins’ face. “Does that hurt? Still?”

  “Only thing hurts about it is the look on women’s faces when they see me. I could give a fuck what other men think o’ me.”

  “I wish I felt that way,” Rem said, remembering how he’d once reveled in the opinions and regard of others.

  A long silence settled in between the two men as Kittins fed the fire and stared into its embers, disinclined to say anything further and apparently incurious about the purpose behind Rem’s visit. Rem pulled some dried meat from his pack and offered the captain the biggest piece. Kittins took it without a word of thanks or acknowledgement.

  “It seems to me,” Rem said after a while, “that Her Majesty has some future plans for you, is what I’m getting at.”

  “Oh, aye, that old bitch is full o’ plans. ‘S why I want her dead. None of us’ll ever be free ‘til she stops makin’ plans for us.”

  “Well,” Rem laughed uncomfortably, “talking of killing her Shaper is one thing, but killing the Virgin Queen? Are you mad?”

  Kittins continued to stare into the fire, as if daring it to look away. “You’d be mad, too, if you’d seen what I’ve seen, done what I’ve done. And if I’m mad, my friend, it’s her fuckin’ fault.”

  What could Rem say to that? Nothing. And so he sat and chewed his jerky.

  “Time was, I used to dream of having a son. Not a whole crew o’ boys, mind you. I’da been happy with just one. I used to imagine I’d show him how to hunt, how to fight, hells, even how to drink. And if he wasn’t no good with the sword, I’da been frustrated, sure. Angry even. But I’da loved my boy just the same. He’da been mine.”

  Rem was astounded. Kittins, the taciturn one, was sharing something sacred. The only appropriate response was the church-goer’s awestruck silence.

  “But,” Kittins continued, “I can see that’s not to be.” He tore a big chunk off his dried beef and chewed a while. “When that thrall took the left side o’ my face, I told myself, ‘It’s not all bad. Some women like a man with scars. Makes him look dangerous.’ But now? What woman in her right mind would find this attractive?”

  Rem gathered himself and took a risk. “A blind woman?”

  To his great relief, Kittins rumbled with laughter and even slapped him on the back. So what if the blow hurt like the endless hells? The captain’s laughter had been worth it. Rem could still lighten anyone’s mood whenever he chose.

  “Listen,” Kittins said after he’d composed himself. “I reckon the Queen doesn’t know about your little spying mission, which means she won’t know about Cindor’s plan to visit you. I think I can kill him, and she’ll never be the wiser, ‘cause she won’t be expecting him to leave her precious castle.”

  His moment of levity over, Rem was as sober as the village beadle. “You’re still planning to do this?”

  Kittins grinned in response.

  “He’s the most powerful mage in the kingdom!”

  “All the more reason to kill him.”

  There was no talking the captain out of this, Rem could see. “How will you do it?”

  “I reckon he’s gotta come soon, when you’re supposed to be wakin’ up for the day. That’s the kind o’ bastard he is. And while you’re talking to ‘im, I’ll shoot ‘im in the back with an arrow – a poisoned arrow.”

  “And, uh, where are you going to get poison?”

  “You’d be surprised what you can find in books,” Kittins quipped. “But because he’s a smart son of a bitch, he might be prepared for such an attack. So, I’m gonna use multiple poisons, and…you’re gonna knife him in the gut soon as he’s focused on the arrow.”

  “I’m going to…?”

  “You are,” Kittins confirmed, leaving no room for discussion or doubt. “But cheer up; your knife’ll be poisoned, too. Oh, Cindor might kill one or the other of us, but he’ll die next. O’ that, I’m certain.”

  “I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t share your…enthusiasm.”

  “It ain’t a party, friend. It’s a murder.”

  “Yes,” Rem agreed. “It’s a murder alright.”

  *****

  Alheria, Arune & Cindor, the Castle

  Her Majes
ty returned without the Reaper, accompanied instead by a small, pathetic-looking goblin. Cindor could literally taste the magic emanating from the creature on his lips and tongue. It had a familiar, bitter tang that all Shapers recognized at once.

  “Majesty?”

  “A gift,” Alheria explained, “from Tarmun Vykers.”

  This puzzled the Shaper. “Then he’ll fight for you?”

  “No. Not for me. He was quite explicit about that.”

  Cindor was stunned. “He said no?”

  The Queen settled into her accustomed chair at the foot of the dais that held her throne. “He did. But he’ll come ‘round. Vykers won’t be able to live with the possibility that an old foe somehow survived his onslaught. And, you know, he’s never been able to resist the prospect of carnage.”

  “I see,” the Shaper said. “And this…creature?”

  “I’d like a glass of wine!” Alheria announced. “And this creature,” she continued, pointing to Arune, “is what’s left of the Reaper’s private Shaper. Arune, I believe her name is.”

  “Shall I eliminate her?” Cindor asked.

  “Bite your tongue! That creature, as you call her, knows more about the Reaper than anyone alive. Give her a room and see she stays there ‘til I’ve decided what to do with her.”

  “Begging your pardon, your Majesty…” Arune cut in, “is there any chance…I mean, would you consider…”

  “Transferring you into a human body?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble…”

  Alheria stood and approached the goblin until the two were practically face-to-face. “You’re a brave one, aren’t you? But you’ve misread the situation terribly, I’m afraid. You are not in my employ; you are my slave. Please me, and we may talk. Displease me, and your next incarnation will make this goblin seem like a paragon of grace and beauty.”

  Arune bowed her head and stood in silence.

  “Find her a room,” the Queen told Cindor, “and put someone capable on guard outside it. Make sure she’s comfortable, but do not pamper her.”