The Foul Mouth and the Troubled Boomworm (The King Henry Tapes)

by Raley, Richard

  Conan didn’t look happy about it, but he holstered his gun without question. “All of them are gone.”

  “Not far gone if our friend remained behind to slow us down,” the Curator pointed out as if to a child, “widen the search. Be useful to me by correcting your mistakes.”

  Conan flinched like a beaten dog, head down. “Aye, master.”

  “Master?” I finally asked when it was just me, the Curator, and a dank room full of empty cells.

  Again the broken smile. “We can’t all be kings.”

  Well . . . there was that. Guess he knew exactly who I was. Not good. “And what am I supposed to call you?”

  Instead of answering, he opened his satchel, pulled something out of it. It took me a second to recognize my Cold Cuffs. “Your make?”

  Wouldn’t say it put me off my guard, but being so on my guard did take away my usual conversational skills. “Yeah.”

  The Curator studied the cuffs, turning them over twice, running a finger along the glowing white activation strips. “You should mark you work.”

  “Old-fashioned bullshit.”

  The broken smile yet again. “Still . . . beautiful if simplistic. Your early work, I’d guess?”

  Just two Artificers standing in a room used to imprison human beings having a chat about their trade, nothing to see here, move along. “My first.”

  “Ah . . . and did they earn you Plutarch’s approval? Were they enough for him to call you a Brother in Artifice?”

  He knew Plutarch. Son-of-a-bitch, was he from the Asylum? But Ceinwyn . . . Again, either she was lying or she didn’t know. I had a feeling on this particular problem, she didn’t know. But if he’s from the Asylum and she thinks every mancer alive is accounted for . . . “Who are you?”

  Again he refused to answer. “I’ve often thought of my time with Plutarch since I began my crusade to remake the world. The joy of working so closely with another Artificer, of each of you teaching the other lessons you never expected. Happy days for me . . . and my close friends.”

  “Who are you? What year? Why does Ceinwyn think all Asylum mancers are accounted for and that the Curator must be a wilder or a foreigner?”

  That broken diamond shook, ready to dive in and cut me. “Because . . . she killed me,” he declared in such a happy tone it was at odds with the words. “She . . . freed me from all the ties they bind you with. The Guild. The Institution. All strings are caught. All expectation has vanished. I’m free to do whatever I wish. However I wish. No half measures, not any longer. I am an Artificer without limits, and it will be I who saves this world from itself.”

  “Kidnapping children—you’re a real hero, buddy.”

  “Saving children left behind,” he corrected me. “Giving them a purpose, giving them room and board and taking from them their madness and with their gifts . . . forging my great works. You understand. I know you do. You’ve gained some of the freedom I feel, but you haven’t yet broken the last walls. Still tied up . . . still strung up . . .”

  “Yeah, you’re broken alright.”

  He paced to the right, metal boot clanking. “Free, yes, but lonely as well. I sought an apprentice, and the Institution let one slip through their fingers. Why shouldn’t I claim what was cast away? Why should I accept a child’s will? Or a parent’s will? Do we not know better? Are we not superior enough to make the choice for her? I could have given the girl a life of privilege. Not like the others. No . . . she would have been my little princess. Taught all I know. My left hand replaced. Instead . . . you save her so she can die of madness?”

  I bared my teeth something extra, hands itching to throw punches and anima both. The more time I kept him talking, the more time Val had to get the kids away. Boomworm versus Conan? No contest. As long as the Curator was out of the equation—Christmas and the others would be safe.

  Look at me, Mom, I’m a hero.

  Ain’t ya proud?

  “Special dispensation, she’s going to the Asylum this September. Apparently, your spies ain’t as good as they think they are.”

  The fake smile disappeared and in its place his eyes grew to take up all his face. Blazing, out of control, cut cut cut. “She was mine. They were all mine.”

  “Not anymore, crazy pants.”

  “Ah . . . madness. I know it well. I am not mad, King Henry Price. I am merely too sane for this world to accept.”

  “Tell me your name or we end the talking and get to the face smashing, Curry.”

  “Curator,” he mused, “I do dislike the name, but it’s apt, is it not?”

  “Yeah, nice toys.”

  He tossed my Cold Cuffs to me from across the room. I barely kept from unleashing my pool, but instead caught them. The Curator smiled his fake smile again, “They deserve to return to their master.”

  “ . . . thanks.” I pocked the Cold Cuffs in my coat. “Still kicking your ass though.”

  “Why fight me?”

  “You want the kids. I don’t want you near anyone but a psychologist on the other side of the padded wall with a one-way mirror.”

  He pulled out a pair of oversized glasses from his satchel and put them on, then adjusted the satchel’s loop so it was longer, easier at hand. He has so many artifacts that he has an extra bag. Plus everything he’s wearing that I haven’t picked up on . . .

  “But what about what I want?” The Curator asked. “All I wanted was an apprentice to teach my secrets to. The girl would have filled my needs but you . . . you would exceed them. Not just apprentice. Not just a follower. But . . . a partner. A partner who shares my goal of remaking the world. Who shares my goal of overturning the power structures shackling us all.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “Work with me, I’ll let the girl and her sister go.”

  I played along. “And the others?”

  “I already paid top dollar for them. They are investments for the future, I’m afraid I cannot sacrifice them without putting my work behind schedule.”

  The earthquake begged me to let it free and all of a sudden I couldn’t find a reason to hold back. No matter the collateral damage. No matter the cars and buildings and even people that went with it. “Give me your name or I kill you here and now, Curry.”

  Cut cut cut. “If I give you my name, then I will have to kill you here and now.”

  Hold on to your vagina, Seattle.

  “What do the glasses do?”

  He crackled the knuckles of his non-gauntleted hand. “They let me see the exact amount of anima you are holding, regardless of the type.”

  Well . . . shit. “That seems like cheating.”

  “Approval or admonishment?”

  “Approval like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “And the ring you keep twisting?”

  “Zap.”

  “Intriguing. I’ve heard rumors among the Guild.”

  “Are you in the Guild?”

  “Once . . . and I have my spies, but no longer.”

  “What about your bandoleer?”

  “What about your belt?”

  “Fair . . .”

  “I notice you have yet to attack me, despite your desire. Have you finally found someone to be scared of, King Henry Price?”

  “Fuck you, Curry.”

  “The barking of a small dog that knows its weakness. Yapping incessantly to prove how very big it is not. Very loud when it is in its own domicile, yet in the wilderness it learns the truth, does it not? It learns it is prey, not predator, no matter how tough its words may be.”

  “I notice you haven’t attacked yet either.”

  “You are a strong but unskilled opponent. Strong but unskilled opponents tend to be the most dangerous for underestimation. The best course for handling them is to be cautious, to scout out their ill-conceived strategy. You, King Henry, give away more information than most. Every second I learn more. Your ring, your belt, your cuffs, the two metal balls with pyro and spectro-anima in your coat pocket. I kno
w you’ve learned enough of the truth to pool beyond their lies, and yet . . . I wonder what else you know.”

  I snarled a final time. “Only one way to find out.”

  The Curator nodded his head. “As you say. My name is Obadiah Paine, goodbye.”

  In a blink, geo-anima was everywhere. The Curator . . . no, Paine . . .

  Wait . . . I know that name, I’ve heard that name before.

  Focus, you fucktard!

  Paine didn’t move his hands, no gestures at all, which speaks to a serious amount of skill and anima control. The first blast went directly for into the concrete at my feet. An explosive rupturing that would have sent me into the air. Only I dove to my right, rolling down and then back up to standing.

  I could have thrown my pool at him, at his gauntlet and boot maybe, but as evil as the bastard was, he was right about my bravado. At least when it came to the Mancy, he knew more than me. Glasses that can see anima? I was jealous. How fucking cool! the Artificer in me screamed.

  The floor exploded where I’d been just before. Forget throwing me in the air, it would have straight killed me, or if I was lucky: just blown my legs off. Paine had funneled the explosion straight upward with geo-anima. In a purely intellectual place of my mind I couldn’t help but tip my cap to him. Using geo-anima to contain pressure just like you’d use geo-anima to contain other anima-types to form an extremely effective explosion.

  The animal part of my brain though—the animal part was immediately worried that Paine was right. I might not be the small dog but I was the inexperienced dog. And here was alpha wolf ready to teach me a few bite-holds. One at a time. Cut cut cut. Until my legs gave out and he could loom over me, lording my death over me, feasting on every second I remained helpless.

  Can you beat him? I asked myself.

  Not straight up.

  No way.

  But . . . that’s my whole life.

  Offense was always my first instinct. But my second instinct . . . my connection to what a geomancer represents, the lesson Meteyos first taught me: defiance. Keep fucking standing. Wear the bastard down . . . then—when he thinks you have nothing left—then you finish him.

  And don’t let those diamond shards cut you or else the walls will weep with your blood.

  Got to trick him.

  Get his guard down.

  Focus on just getting all that geo-anima out of his hands first, you dumbass.

  I rolled from my shoulder back to my feet, concrete dust raining down around me. I kept backing up, feet light and ready to dive again. All the diving and rolling I’d done lately, I really should stop practicing with my punching bags and enroll in some gymnastic classes instead. Or yoga . . . but then I’d probably get thrown out of the class for being a lecher.

  Them yoga pants.

  Paine advanced calmly towards me, a soft tap of leather followed by a clang of metal boot. Both the boot and the gauntlet had huge targets painted on them. Did they just cover real limbs? Crippled limbs? Were they entirely mechanical? With artificing of some sort guiding them?

  Breaking metal is what I’m best at.

  So tempting.

  Maybe too tempting.

  I backed up some more, anima ready.

  Paine slipped his flesh hand back into his satchel and brought out a thin wristlet. A twist of his fingers and it flipped around and into place. The gesture was awkward but practiced. I tried not to focus on it, thinking it might be some type of magician’s trick to keep my attention off of his gauntlet.

  Only . . .

  It was a magician’s trick alright, just not the kind I’d expected.

  The second that wristlet snapped into the place, my ability to sense any anima from Paine was immediately cut off. He was a geomancer, I was a geomancer. But . . . nothing.

  Fuck me.

  The smile Paine gave me now wasn’t fake, but it was cruel. Evil even.

  Want to play Artificer? Fine!

  I backed up some more, felt the steel bars of the jail cells at my heels. A bunch of metal at my back. Usually this would have brought me comfort but now it felt like being on the edge of a cliff.

  Please, Val, run fast. Get them away from him. I don’t know if I can follow after you . . .

  I twisted my belt buckle and threw the GOB out in front of me. It landed closer than ten feet from Paine, making him reverse course backwards, but not change his pace at all. Geo-anima activated, and bullet-ridden or not, the GOB rose up, assembling into a triangular cutting machine, teeth and claws screeching against each other.

  Above those zealot eyes, an eyebrow quirked. Paine didn’t rush his response, no second blast of anima escaping from him.

  . . . wait a second . . .

  . . . how’s he—

  Paine’s gauntlet went to his shoulder, to his bandoleer, and somewhere found a button to press. The three yellow metal half-spheres ejected away from him, landing on the ground. Just like the GOB they uncoiled themselves. Each was much smaller than the GOB, spider-like with eight thin legs, about the size of a small dog, yet . . . unlike the GOB these weren’t for show. They sprang forward and began stabbing at the GOB with their sharp legs, biting at it with tiny chomper-like mouths at the edge of their half-spheres.

  Fuck me, he has working golems.

  My hands found both my PAD and my SAD, throwing both of them.

  Magician . . . that’s right, King Henry. Only you’re the fake. You’re the illusionist. He’s the real deal. With your GOB and your ball of light and your almost empty ball of fire. Trick him. Eat away at him slowly. Try to work him down so it’s just fists. That’s your edge.

  But if he beats you with fists . . .

  Fucking never gonna happen.

  But if he does?

  Only one thing left to do.

  Two more blasts of geo-anima flew from Paine’s sides, only sensed by me once they left his body’s control. It was less than a second of advantage for him . . . but what an important less than a second. I hopped backwards, unsure at first if those blasts headed at me, but relieved to see them slam into the ground so the impact threw both my PAD and my SAD away from him, each heading into one of the room’s corners.

  Paine worked up a sneer when they both activated in a fizzle of light. “How amateur.”

  “Had to go through a bunch of goons to get here,” I pointed out.

  “For which you have earned the honor to die by my hand and not Conan’s,” he reminded me.

  More geo-anima.

  How much of a pool does this fucker have?

  It’s got to be empty by now . . . got to be . . .

  Forget that! He’s holding back his pool, that’s fucking impossible!

  Unless the Asylum lied about that too.

  But it hurts like hell if you try . . .

  Again there was less than a second of delay between the anima leaving him and when I could sense it. This time it was aimed my way. Not at my feet though . . . not one explosion. Split up—six, maybe seven times. I thought I might be able to do that after a year or so of practice.

  This has to be it, when you felt the pool it wasn’t large enough for much more than all he’s used.

  If I survived this then I had a shot at him . . .

  If I survived this.

  With my arms.

  And my legs.

  Attached.

  To my body.

  Those six or seven or eight or a billion for all they seemed possible, the bursts of anima flew through the air at me, hurled by Paine’s will. Or . . . near me. It was almost too late before I realized they weren’t aimed at me, they were aimed behind me. At the steel bars I’d stupidly pressed myself up against.

  Not fucking good.

  Forget anything as pretty as a shoulder roll or gymnastic at all. I dove forward. Straight up belly-flopped into the concrete. The wind went right out of me but I hardly noticed. I was too busy tracking the flight of all that geo-anima. Over my head, back into the steel bars. Then the cage melted as fast as an indust
rial furnace, malleable metal diving down to spear where I’d been.

  Six, seven, a billion steel snake-like spears missed smashing into my back but changed course halfway, aiming for my legs instead. Better to cripple you with, my dear, some very far removed and slightly psychotic part of my brain threw out.

  Like hell!

  I finally released my own pool into the ground defensively. Copper sewage pipes flew up around me, not nearly as elegantly as Paine’s bunch, or as numerous, but just enough to block the attack. Behold my wonders! Who needs a fucking staff to make a snake, Moses? Shit pipes for me!

  Copper wrapped itself around steel like a rubber-band around a stack of pencils. Double twist that bitch to get it just right.

  Again Paine’s eyebrow quirked. “Impressive.”

  I might have been on the ground, I might have been getting my ass outmaneuvered and outclassed, but I still worked enough up anger and pure fucking gall to snap them teeth at him. “Wait for my next trick—” I pushed myself up, knees, hand down, then standing. The Geo Realm had given me a boost, but I was still beaten and bloody from the last few days. “—here’s a hint: it involves fists, blood, and your face.”

  Paine’s broken eyes spoke more than the rest of his face. Cut cut cut. “Do try, little dog.”

  With another snarl, I rushed across the room at him. This was chance number one. Chance before the last chance. Hand to hand. Paine was taller but I think we probably weighed about the same. He hadn’t shown any speed yet. His hands weren’t as big as mine and the one made of flesh wasn’t scarred, didn’t look particularly tough at all. Hands . . . they’ll tell you a lot. Paine had watchmaker hands. Thin, agile, steady. Precise.

  Not hands used to smashing face.

  Had my SDR as well. Probably not much charge to it after all people it had zapped lately, Mark 2 version or not. But . . . I was below the bottom of the barrel here.

  The big question wasn’t me though. It was him. What did Paine have left? Couldn’t let him get into that satchel again. Would have to stay away from his gauntlet. Would have to hope he was all out of anima. Since he was either pooling at outrageous speeds or somehow holding back parts of his pool . . . and if he had anything else left for another blast of geo-anima at my feet . . .