Insert random sword swallowers into his masterpiece? The indignities true artists were made to endure were beyond reason or reckoning. “Er, yes,” Rem muttered awkwardly, “I think we’ve got thome thord thwallowers about.” Damn it all, but Lord Henton’s speech was infectious!
*****
Vykers, In Pursuit
The stars were out. Were out? Were all. Vykers couldn’t remember ever having seen so many. He’d been unable to sleep, so he passed the time marveling at their numbers, wondering about their purpose. Eventually, he grew bored.
Arune?
Vykers.
You don’t sleep in there, huh?
Wish I could. You’ve no idea what it’s like being alone with your thoughts, day in and day out, with no body of your own to distract you.
Sometimes, the Shaper was a keg too easily tapped, and once she started flowing, it was hard to stop her again.
What news from Her Majesty’s Shaper?
Cindor? The same: the Queen and her captors continue to travel southeast, towards the coast.
That makes no sense, Vykers complained. The way you Burners blink in and out, she oughta be wherever-it -is they’re takin’ her by now.
Yes, that occurred to me, too.
Then, what’s going on here, really? They using her as bait to catch me?
Arune laughed. It’s always about you, isn’t it?
Vykers rolled onto his side, looked into the fire’s embers. And what’s your problem with the A’Shea, anyway? He asked, in retaliation.
Problems, plural, she corrected. In the first place, she’s a little too self-important. She’s only an A’Shea, after all…
Oh, Vykers scoffed, so it’s like that, is it?
Yes, Arune confirmed, it is ‘like that,’ as you say. A’Shea are less powerful, less versatile and far more pretentious than we Shapers. Before Vykers could get a word in edgewise, she hurried on. Secondly, I don’t want you two getting too close. That’s a distraction we don’t need, a distraction that could get you both killed. Third, she’s the reason that boy’s here. We don’t need another liability.
Who says he’s a liability?
He’s a boy! Arune shouted. What else could he be?
Anybody called me a liability when I was his age, I’d’ve killed the bastard.
This boy’s not you. There’s only one Tarmun Vykers.
I thought it wasn’t all about me! Vykers laughed.
As expected, Arune went away to pout. Or at least, that’s how Vykers always viewed it. Abruptly, she returned.
Trouble.
The Reaper sat up, felt an agonizing twinge in his gut, and immediately regretted it. What kind o’ trouble?
Why don’t you ask your pet…whatever he is?
For once, Number Three was fast asleep.
“I’ll be damned,” Vykers said out loud.
And, just like that, Three woke up. “Is there a…Oh! Yes, yes, there is.”
“Little feet, little feet!” Hoosh said, cheerfully, despite his bleary eyes and rumpled demeanor.
“The ‘fuck’s that supposed to…”
The ground under Vykers’ bedroll began vibrating rapidly, or, rather, say a rapid vibration faded into existence and grew in intensity as the seconds passed. The Reaper stood. “What is that?” he asked, of no one in particular. It was too shallow, too high in pitch to be an elk stampede. “Three?”
“The ground is moving across the entire western horizon. And there’s a stench…”
“If it’s Svarren, I shoulda seen ‘em by now.”
It’s not Svarren.
“Well, what the hell is it?” Vykers snapped.
Aoife and the Frog awoke, struggling to make sense of the situation.
Out at the edge of human vision, a dark wave surged towards the camp. Vykers thought he could make out thousands – millions – of tiny arms and legs, heads, weapons. And when he saw them, their owners saw him. A strange chittering sound erupted throughout the approaching wave. Vykers drew his sword. “This oughta be interesting,” he muttered. He glanced over at the A’Shea, thought he’d find her shielding the boy in a protective embrace. To his surprise, the Frog planted his legs wide and pulled a large knife from his trousers. Vykers could tell Aoife didn’t approve, but hadn’t the time to argue. “Interesting, indeed,” the warrior told himself.
The chittering rose to almost unbearable levels. It was a noise like all the birds in the world shrieking in unison. And it was made by…little grey men, or something man-like. As soon as they set eyes on Vykers and his companions, they charged. Perhaps he hadn’t been their initial target, but he definitely was now.
Good, Vykers thought. Killin’ makes the pain go away.
A bright flare burst from his chest and exploded amongst the enemy. Arune had struck first. Squeals of terror, rage and confusion shattered the night. The little man-things pushed closer, and Vykers could clearly see they were not human, nor any offshoot of humanity. About knee height, the creatures seemed almost to be made from clay, from mud and loam. Their features were but half-finished, though the malice in their eyes was very real, very complete. Each wielded a weapon of some type, proving the creatures had both the ability to use tools and to fabricate them. And there were millions of them. When they arrived within ten feet of Vykers, some leapt at him. Others lowered their shoulders and ran towards his legs. The Reaper felt a familiar rush of adrenaline and euphoria; his sword sang in excitement. In moments, it scythed through the little grey men, cutting them down by the hundreds, like wheat for the harvest.
A curious shimmer of sparks appeared here and there in the enemy’s ranks and the little men fell to the ground, giggling in frightening hysteria. Vykers had no time to wonder at this, though. Nearby, Aoife was shocking, burning and freezing as many of the creatures as her humble magics allowed, whilst the Frog was an absolute fiend with his knife, slashing to and fro, up and down and virtually every other direction humanly possible. Meanwhile, Number Three did what he did best, launching himself into the fray with deadly effect and becoming a bloody blur of destruction. There were so many of the damned things, even Vykers couldn’t keep them all at bay. He felt a constant stinging on his legs and lower arms as one or another of the little bastards (as he came to think of them) snuck past his attention and landed whatever tiny blow he could. Soon, a great bulwark of the dead ringed the encampment, and the attackers had to climb to nearly chest height to leap over and resume their efforts. Which of course was all the worse for them, making it so much easier for Vykers, the Frog, Number Three and the others to take off their heads with every blow. Throughout this action, Arune continued her arcane assaults and had somehow contrived to make the group’s mounts invisible to the creatures, perhaps the smartest move anyone had made thus far.
Sometime later, Vykers noticed the sky was brightening, and the little bastards were running wide of his camp on either side. Eventually, they stopped attacking altogether and just ran past, desperate to get wherever they were going before the sun climbed too much farther into the sky. Vykers thought of giving chase (and Three did), but realized he could never kill all of the things, even had he wanted to. It was like trying to kill all the gnats in the world: a worthy idea, but impractical. Finally, he lowered his sword and turned to his companions, to assess the damage. To his relief, they all stood, staring back at him with equal measures of fatigue and bewilderment. His adrenaline gone, the pain came rushing back and robbed his legs of strength. Carefully, with as much dignity as he could muster, Vykers sank to the ground. His old wound raged like wildfire.
“That was something, eh?” Vykers asked, as blithely as possible. “Never seen anything like it.” The fallen creatures were piled chest high, by the hundreds if not thousands, in a large semi-circle in front of the party.
“Really?” the Frog asked. “But you’re the…”
Vykers snorted. A real laugh would’ve been too painful. “’S a big world. You’ll never see it all, boy, no matter how hard you t
ry, or how badly you want to.”
Aoife looked at him reproachfully, as if to say he should keep his distance from the boy, in word and deed.
“What’s eatin’ you?” Vykers asked.
Instead of answering, she pulled the Frog aside and made sure he had no pressing injuries.
She’s just bursting with admiration, isn’t she? Arune quipped.
Yeah, Vykers replied, distractedly. Casually, he reached over and picked up one of the dead. It was a little under two feet in height, with a bulbous head that sported equally bulbous eyes, pointing in different directions. It had only the barest suggestion of a nose, over a wide slit of a mouth, full of needle-sharp teeth. A sickly yellow ichor oozed from a wound in the creature’s neck, where, the Reaper surmised, he’d been stabbed by the Frog. Vykers was amazed he’d never seen or heard of one of these before, given the numbers he’d just witnessed and fought.
They’re called ‘Grebbers,’ Arune offered.
So, you have heard o’ these?
Heard of them, yes. These are the first I’ve ever seen.
Where do they come from? What were they after?
They live underground, generally. Leastways, that’s what the stories say. As for what they were after, I’ve no idea. They weren’t after us, or they’d have focused their full force on us.
Vykers nodded. Makes sense. Grebbers. Still, you’d think they’d avoid the Queen’s Highway, even this far out. A snoring noise interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see the Fool asleep on the ground, using several dead grebbers as pillows. “I’ve half a mind to leave him here,” Vykers said in Aoife’s direction.
“You’ll do no such thing, Tarmun Vykers!” she scolded. “That was an exhausting and unexpected battle. I’m not surprised he’s asleep.”
The Frog stepped forward. “Well, I think it’s kinda weird, sleepin’ on dead things like that.”
Vykers winked at the boy. “Ya see, milady? The lad agrees with me!”
Again, Aoife flushed. “Don’t call me that, and don’t pander to the boy. The last thing he needs is to follow in your footsteps!”
“Oh ho!” Vykers responded. “So that’s it, is it? Don’t want him growin’ up like nasty old Vykers, eh?” Aoife said nothing. “In case you haven’t noticed, that ‘boy’ is quite the demon with that little knife o’ his! And what’s wrong with growing up like me, anyway? They say I saved the world a while back!” Vykers realized he was close to shouting, and the sounds of the retreating Grebbers no longer masked his excessive volume. He fell silent a moment and then said “We’ll wait for Three to get back and then continue on our journey.” He looked over at the horses and ponies. Like Hoosh, they were all somehow asleep. That your doing, Burn?
None but, she answered proudly.
Vykers was too irritated to thank her. Huh was all he could manage and nothing more than she’d expected.
*****
The Fretful Porpentine
Long Pete and Yendor had the look of hard, desperate men, hanging around the Fretful Porpentine because they were either looking for work or had nowhere else to go. As for Spirk, well, when anyone noticed him at all, he seemed like the other men’s lackey, which, given how eager he was to please, was not far from the truth. Miraculously, Yendor had both sobered and cleaned up considerably, to the point where he seemed almost plausibly human. Between the three men, they’d picked up enough gossip to learn that low level functionaries of Houses Radcliffe, Thornton, Fyne, Gault and sometimes even D’Escurzy dropped in on occasion, to sniff one another’s hind quarters and determine who was top dog in a given week. Of course, their betters would never be caught dead in such a place, lest they be caught dead in such a place. So, with Kittins off spying on House Gault and Rem and his mates working for House Hawsey (assuming they’d had luck executing their parts of the plan), there remained only Blackbyrne and Amberly unaccounted for.
“Have to do something about that,” Long said Yendor’s way in a gravelly whisper.
“Aye. Too many Houses, not enough men,” his friend replied.
“I can help!” Spirk offered cheerfully.
What in the hells had Bailis been thinking, sending Spirk along? “That you can,” Long croaked. “By staying close ‘til a need presents itself.”
The young man was clearly disappointed. It seemed everyone had a job, except for him: Long was in charge, Yendor drank, Kittins was off spying, Rem was putting on a play somewheres, leaving naught for Spirk to do. “I can magic my way into to one o’ them other two Houses.”
Long shook his head no.
“But I can. Just like I done with my magic stone!”
“Which,” Yendor chimed in, “You ain’t got anymore.”
Spirk shrugged. “Might be as I don’t need it now. Might be Pellas’ Legacy’s enough.”
“Pellas’ what, now? What are you on about?” Long rumbled.
“Pellas’ Legacy. When he disappeared in that burst o’ stars, he left me some o’ his magics.”
Yendor was grinning like the village idiot on Wildside mushrooms. “Did he, now?” He asked. “Then I suppose you’ll have no trouble witchin’ me up some more ale in my mug…”
Spirk dropped his head, planting his chin right onto his chest. “Can’t do that,” he admitted.
“How about you just move my mug, then?”
“Can’t do that, neither.”
“Oh, it’s that kind o’ magic, eh?” Yendor asked, rolling his eyes at Long.
“I…I don’t know what kind o’ magic it is!” Spirk protested. “I only know I didn’t used ta have it, and now I do!” With that, he pushed his chair back from the table, stood up and stalked off towards the privy.
“There’s no call to mock the fellow,” Long admonished his friend. “He can’t help what he is. Or isn’t. But you, now.”
Yendor pretended offense. “Me? I’m better’n I was, that’s certain, and as good as any man here.”
“You’re bored, is what you are. So’m I. Spirk gets back, we’ll settle on one o’ these targets,” he indicated a few minor nobles across the room, “and follow him for a while. See where he goes. Maybe stand him to a few drinks in some other part o’ town. Get ‘im drunk, see what he has to say when he’s away from his mates.”
At least, that’s what Long said as far as Yendor could make out. The captain’s voice was a nightmare of noises that set a man’s teeth on edge. “Well,” he sighed, “man’s gotta do more with his mouth than talkin’ and drinkin’. How about you bust open that bulging purse and get us some dinner?”
“Another dinner?” Long winced.
“What d’ya mean, ‘another dinner?”
“Can’t be an hour since we ate that cheese.”
Yendor scowled dismissively. “Cheese ain’t a dinner. Meat’s a dinner. Cheese is…I dunno. But it ain’t dinner.”
“Fine,” Long relented. He raised an arm and summoned a passing barmaid. Once he got her attention, he looked Yendor’s way, so his friend could do the talking.
“A goodly plate o’ meat, miss, and whatever goes with it.”
“Aye,” the woman replied demurely. Long imagined that boosted her tips, but the woman was well past demure in years. It was sad, really, that she felt she needed to act that way, which thought carried him home to Mardine. Now there was a woman!
Halfway through the meal, Long realized Spirk had not returned to the table. “The kid’s not back,” he growled (although Spirk was clearly no longer a boy).
Yendor shrugged. So?
“Go check the jakes.”
“Me?” Yendor whined. “Why don’t you?”
“Because I outrank you.”
“An’ you send me to the jakes when another man’s using ‘em, I’ll be far more rank than your rank, which means I’ll outrank you.”
“Clever,” Long smirked. “Now, go find the kid.”
But he could not find the kid; there was no Nessno anywhere on the premises.
“You don’t think…?”
Yendor trailed off.
Long laced his fingers behind his head, spread his elbows, put his feet up on the table and closed his eyes. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, I do: he’s gone to infiltrate one o’ the other Houses.”
*****
Vykers, In Pursuit
Vykers would like to have been first up, mornings, but he could never beat Number Three to it. Good thing the chimera was on his side. As he got to his feet and shook off the last of his sleep, though, he felt a brief moment of alarm: the Frog was missing. Vykers paced over to Aoife’s side, where the boy usually slept, and noticed an odd pattern to the grass, almost as if…
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 7
