As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)

by Allan Batchelder

  “For you and the others,” Mardine said. Funny thing about men, the more threatened they felt, the more primitive their language became. Long was infinitely more articulate than the grunt he sometimes pretended to be.

  Bailis accepted his mug with effusive praise and took a long, deep pull. “Bloody brilliant!” he declared afterwards, before immediately feeling he might’ve expressed himself differently.

  Long cleared his throat, made his best effort. “Like I said, Colonel: I’m guessing you’re not here for apples.”

  Bailis cast about for somewhere to sit, realized he hadn’t been invited and decided he might as well come clean. “Her Majesty requires your services again.”

  Which explained the extra horse.

  “Her Majesty wouldn’t know me from a hole in the ground,” Long retorted.

  “She gave you the gold for this little farm of yours.”

  “Because you requested it, and I’m grateful. Eternally grateful. But…”

  “She needs someone with your experience and skills.”

  Long laughed at this, startling his daughter in the next room. “What’s funny, dada?” He heard her call out. Mardine popped into the back room, leaving Long alone with the two men.

  “No offense, Colonel, but that sounds like a load if ever I’ve heard one.”

  The Colonel cast a sideways glance at his companion and spoke to Long in a near whisper. “The Queen’s gone missing, and we need an experienced man with no connections inside the city to investigate certain…less-than-savory parts of town, to see what kind of information he can turn up.”

  The Queen, missing? It hardly seemed possible. Long was speechless, so Bailis continued.

  “It’s likely one or more of the eight families are involved. Sure, we’ve got spies. But so has everyone else in Lunessfor. That’s why our man has to come from outside the city.

  Long went and retrieved a small keg and another mug. He refilled Bailis’ and the soldier’s mugs and poured one for himself. “Well, what do you think? She’s been kidnapped? Or do you believe she might have finally been assassinated?”

  Bailis downed the rest of his cider and helped himself to seconds. “Our Shapers tell us she’s not dead…yet,” he added portentously.

  Long rubbed at his jaw. “Won’t these spies see right through me if I ride into the city at your side?”

  “Got any more of those?” the colonel asked, pointing to the keg.

  “Yes…” Long replied, uncertain where this was going.

  “So, the boys and I pretend like we traded away our spare horse for some cider. We leave in an hour, you leave tomorrow. Meet your crew at Teshton.”

  Teshton was a small town a half day’s ride from the capital.

  Long wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “My crew?”

  “You didn’t think I’d toss you into the snake pit without a few allies, did you?”

  “Who’d you have in mind?”

  “I’m working on gathering some of the fellas from your old unit – the actor, that dense fellow with the odd birthmark, Sergeant Kittins, and that crazy Yendor. I reckon he knows his way around a dive or two.”

  “What do you mean, you’re ‘working on?” Long demanded. “You knew I would say yes, did you?” It was hard to have one’s anger taken seriously when one sounded like a sock puppet.

  “Look, you’re not a self-absorbed ass. You actually care. Lotta men would probably say ‘stuff the Queen.’ But I know you recognize what’s at stake, here.”

  Mardine chose that moment to creep back into the room. Apparently, their daughter had gone down for her nap. In no time, she sized up the situation and frowned mightily at her husband. Long fumbled to explain himself before Bailis came to his rescue.

  “The Queen’s missing,” he said. “We think Long can help find out how that happened, if not where she’s gone.”

  “Stuff the Queen!” Mardine said, causing her husband to blush furiously. “We’ve got a life, here, and a good one. We’ve got a beautiful child that needs her Da.”

  “Love, the Queen gave us this life, here.” Long reminded her.

  “You earned it! We earned it.”

  “And I’m sure Her Majesty will be equally if not even more appreciative of your services this time, too,” Bailis tossed in.

  Mardine began peppering the colonel with questions. “No combat, then?”

  “None. In fact, we’d prefer it that way.”

  “No extended service?”

  “No, this is a one-time circumstance.”

  “You’ll give him whatever he needs for safety’s sake?”

  “Whatever he needs. This is the Queen we’re looking for, after all.”

  “And he’ll be fairly recompensed for his time and the danger?”

  “More than so.”

  “How long will he be gone, do you estimate?”

  “I’ll not lie to you, Mardine. There’s no way to know.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  At the end of an hour, Bailis had somehow managed to convince the giantess, a much harder sell than Long.

  “So, you’ve really got the old gang back together?”

  Bailis beamed. “Aye.” It wasn’t entirely true yet, but he had every expectation it would be soon, and if it helped to land Captain Long, he was comfortable with the small fib.

  “But no Shapers, no A’Shea?”

  “Hard as it is to believe, you’re better off without them. Everyone can smell their magics a mile away. You walk into a strange tavern reeking of arcane energies, you’ll raise suspicions in no time.”

  It made sense, but Long didn’t like it. “But the other side will have Shapers.”

  “Maybe. Probably. And they’ll underestimate you as a result.”

  “That’s your plan?” Mardine asked, incredulous. “He’s s’posed to succeed by being underestimated?”

  Bailis shrugged. “It’s worked before.”

  “I don’t like it! And how am I supposed to get by without my husband’s help?”

  The colonel extended his right hand, from which a small but heavy-looking purse dangled. “Hire on a couple of stout hands. Those former thralls are always looking for work. And Long here’ll be back before you know it, most likely before harvest!”

  Long was a little taken aback by how easily Mardine accepted the money and passed him off into Bailis’ hands. At the same time, a small part of him was excited at the prospect of returning to action and seeing his old mates again. Or most of them, anyway. As Mardine and the colonel continued to work out the details, Long wondered how his old friends had changed over the last three years.

  *****

  “I might have a drinking problem,” Yendor Plotz said to himself, upon waking yet again in a pool of his own vomit. “Or, belike it’s a vomit problem, ‘cause I got no trouble drinking. Contrariwise, I got no trouble barfing, neither.” Where was he, he wondered for a long moment. Grainy wooden floor with islands of straw to soak up the likes of…well, what he’d just done. So, he was indoors. In an inn, tavern or pub.

  A filthy, wet mop landed on his face – foh! Yendor gagged, coughed and pushed the thing away.

  “Awake yet, Princess?” The barman was a merciless son-of-a-bitch. “’Cause you need to be cleaning that mess off the floor, ‘fore we open again for business.”

  Yendor used the mop as a crutch, in order to rise to his feet. “I hear ya, man, I hear ya.”

  “Hell of a bouncer you are, Plotz! If I’da known what a drunkard you are, I’da never hired ya!”

  “I fought in the big one, ‘gainst the End-of-All-Things,” Yendor whined, defensively.

  “Aye, aye, so you say,” the bartender quipped.

  Yendor fished something out of his collar. “I got this here medal from General Branch!”

  The bartender yawned. “I seen it, I seen it a thousand times. But what’ve ya done since then but drink yourself stupid? Not that ya weren’t stupid to begin with…”

  Ouch. Yendor
took stock: his legs shivered and shook, his stomach rumbled and gurgled most unpleasantly, and his head raged like a demon’s forge. In other words, he felt as he normally did, first thing in the morning.

  The door banged open and the sound of heavy boots rang out on the floor. “We ain’t open, yet!” Yendor heard the bartender say.

  “You Yendor Plotz?” a rough voice asked him.

  “What’s the dumbshit done now?” the bartender yelled.

  Yendor struggled to focus his eyes on the stranger, a soldier of some sort. “Aye, I’m Plotz.”

  “Come with me,” the man ordered, taking him by the arm.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Who’s gonna clean up that puke?” the bartender asked.

  The soldier produced a silver Royal from somewhere, walked over to the vomit and dropped it in. “You are,” he told the bartender. “Let’s go,” he said to Yendor. “You’re done working here.”

  *****

  It had been days since anyone had come by his hovel for help. Must’ve been that new Shaper on t’other side o’ town. Spirk wasn’t a Shaper himself, understand, but somehow he’d discovered a trick or two since D’Kem’s sacrifice. In truth, he was fairly certain his recent skill with tricks had been the old Shaper’s last gift to him – D’Kem’s legacy, if that was the right word. So it was that he spent day after day, sitting and waiting for folks to come to him with little problems – a knot they couldn’t untie, a grain of sand they couldn’t dislodge from an eye, an item they’d lost and wished to find again. Always, they’d offer Spirk something in trade. Sometimes it was coin (usually a shim); other times it was food, drink or something else of use.

  He did nothing with such rewards in mind, however, but because he truly enjoyed helping, being a helpful person. Time was, he’d fancied himself a soldier of sorts. How wrong he’d been. He hated killing. Doing it, seeing it, being around it. It made him feel so worthless and afraid. He might have gone home, surely. His Da might finally have been proud of his son, the victorious soldier, coming home from war. But Spirk didn’t want his Da to be proud of him for killing, even in self-defense. Often, Spirk wished he’d been given the gifts of an A’Shea; whatever he’d gotten from D’Kem didn’t seem as useful when his visitor had a broken leg or serious burn. What did it matter if he could start a candle burning, if he could not extinguish the burning in an innocent child’s skin? And, just lately, fewer and fewer folk wanted what little he did have to offer.

  At last, a knock – a wonderful, beautiful knock! – came on his door. Rising from his cot, Spirk called out “How can I help you?” and unlatched the door. Stepping outside, he stopped in his tracks. Major Bailis and another man he’d never seen before stood waiting for him.

  “Nessno, isn’t it? Spurge Nessno?” Bailis asked.

  “Spirk.” Spirk corrected, as he had a hundred thousand times before.

  “Yes, yes, Spirk. Unusual name.” Bailis observed. “But then, you’re an unusual fellow, so I suppose it’s apt.”

  “Apt? Apt to what?”

  Bailis hemmed and hawed a moment before going on. “Young man…” He began.

  “Not so young, any more.”

  The Major seemed to be getting flustered. “Right. Spirk Nessno, the Queen requires your service.”

  Were those the most inspiring, delightful, magnificent words Spirk had ever heard? It certainly seemed so, to him. “The Queen? Her Majesty?”

  “Uh, yes, Her Majesty, the Queen.”

  Suddenly, Spirk became suspicious. He’d been fooled too often before. “I don’t believe you,” he exclaimed, petulantly.

  Bailis looked at the other soldier, as if seeking advice. “What?” he asked Spirk. “Why?”

  “Because,” Spirk explained wearily, as if talking to a very small child, “she’s never even met me, has she?”

  Again, Bailis struggled to find solid ground in this conversation. “I don’t…” He stammered. “I mean…how should I know? Has she?”

  “Well, I think I’d know if I’d met the Queen, wouldn’t I?”

  With a supreme effort at self control, Bailis tried again. “Listen, son, the Queen – the legendary Virgin Queen, the mightiest ruler in the land – has need of your services. Will you come willingly, or must we arrest you in her name?”

  “Arrest me?” Spirk squeaked at the top of his voice. “Arrest me? All I did was answer me door!”

  Bailis smacked him over the head with a small truncheon he’d pulled from his belt, and when Spirk collapsed to the ground, he and his partner hefted him onto their shoulders.

  “Thought I’d lose my mind if I let him go on another ten seconds!” Bailis told his companion.

  *****

  Drafting now-Captain Kittins was a simpler affair, as the man had remained in the Queen’s army and continued to work his way up the ranks.

  “Captain,” Bailis said to him one afternoon, “I’ve an assignment for you that requires the utmost discretion.”

  “Me, sir? Discretion?” the big man said. “You know that ain’t exactly my strong point, right?”

  “In this, I think it will be.” Bailis looked around to ensure no one else was within earshot and drew closer. “The Queen’s disappeared.”

  Kittins looked around, himself. “Disappeared? You mean, like, ‘wandered off,’ or ‘kidnapped?”

  “That is part of what we need you and your…teammates…to determine.”

  The Captain looked askance at his superior upon hearing the word ‘teammates.’ “Who’m I gonna be stuck with now?” he asked, with more than a hint of irritation in his voice.

  “Some old friends, actually.” Bailis replied. “Long Pete and some of his gang.”

  “That’s a problem, right there. That Long Pete and me are the same rank now. Who’s in charge?”

  Bailis paused, long enough for Kittins to take the hint.

  “All due respect, sir, I need to step away to do some cursing,” Kittins muttered through clenched teeth.

  The Colonel nodded, and the Captain walked about fifty yards away, where he began unleashing a torrent of the most heartfelt, filthy and imaginative profanity Bailis had heard in years. After some time, Kittins returned.

  “When and where do we start?” he asked.

  *****

  The actor, Remuel Wratch, was equally easy to find, but would like as not be harder to persuade, as, currently, he was starring in a dramatic production of the Vykers/End-of-All-Things clash, a hugely popular work entitled The Entirely True Account of the Mighty Reaper’s Heroic Victory Over the Heinous Tyrant, The-End-of-All-Things. Bailis hadn’t seen the show, but if its length was proportional to its title, he didn’t think he could bear to sit through it, no matter how exciting it was alleged to be.

  Now, whereas most companies of actors sought out patrons amongst the nobility, Wratch & Company did not, choosing instead to maintain its autonomy and, thus, ability to write about and/or say virtually anything onstage the actors damned-well pleased. Owing their allegiance to none (save Her Majesty, of course), they were in some ways the most honest company of actors to be found anywhere. And it was all made possible by Remuel Wratch’s completely coincidental presence at the heart of the Vykers/End-of-All-Things conflict, which had rendered him a hero and celebrity of sorts throughout the land.

  Which made gaining access to him after a show somewhat challenging, but the pair of soldiers muscled through the crowd of fans and pushed their way into Rem’s attention.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked, looking up from his conversation with an adoring and comely female admirer.

  “Yeah. We need you to come with us. Queen’s business,” the older of the two soldiers said.

  If Rem felt even a moment of apprehension, he hid it well, taking full advantage of a situation that might have been damaging to his career and turning it into something that lent him even further gravitas. “The Queen? Of course, of course!” Rem replied in a debonair manner, “I’m always available to help Her Majesty in any way
possible.”

  The old soldier was unimpressed. “Actors!” he groaned to his companion. “What in all hells was Mahnus thinking when he created them?” To Rem, he said, “Come along, then. Time’s a-wasting.”

  “A moment, please,” Rem pleaded. He turned to another of his company and whispered instructions in the man’s ear. The other actor, in turn, nodded and hurried away towards the wagons that housed the company’s costumes, props, stage and performers.