As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)

by Allan Batchelder

  Rude crab-walked backwards another three or four feet and then lurched upright. “I ever see you again,” he said, “I’ll kill ya. Whether you see me first or not.”

  Long continued to back away. “Something tells me you ain’t gonna live that long,” he retorted in his most gravelly voice. A moment later, he had backed out of range of any kind of charge, so he turned and walked as calmly as possible back in the direction he had come, listening with bated breath for any signs of movement behind him.

  “Yah, you’d best keep walkin’, old man!” Rude shouted from a safe distance.

  Long chuckled to himself, but it was sound advice, really. There was no way he could have defended himself if all four guards had attacked in unison. He wondered why they had not.

  ~THREE~

  Rem, House Hawsey

  As a reasonably handsome, dashing young actor, a war hero (according to his own plays) and, frankly, a new face on an estate too focused on all things Henton, Rem found himself in almost constant demand in House Hawsey. All in all, things were going quite swimmingly, Rem thought, as he lounged in a large bath with not one, not two, but three naked and wonderfully shameless chambermaids. Rem supposed there were those who might find three to be rather a lot of naked women for one man to handle, but, for himself, he didn’t feel there was any number too large. He was up for the job, in every sense of the word.

  And then he heard a familiar voice. He was about to panic, when His Lordship laid his fears to rest.

  “Oh, don’t trouble yourthelf!” Henton crooned. “I’ve done the thame, many a time and oft.”

  Sure you have, Rem thought.

  “With thothz thame three girlthz, as like as not!” His Lordship added.

  Suddenly, the ladies seemed somehow unsavory to Rem, as if rather than becoming clean in the bath, they were instead befouling it. He was no longer up, in any sense of the word.

  His Lordship loomed over the lip of the bath. “Ah, I thee the worm hath wilted.”

  Rem didn’t know what was worse, the fact Lord Hawsey was ogling his business or the mixed metaphor of a wilted worm. He looked up and noticed the chambermaids acting demure under His Lordship’s gaze, but they were not good actors. Nothing like. Rem let his torso sink deeper into the soapy water and went on the offensive.

  “How may I help your most esteemed Lordship?”

  “I’d like to thuggetht you continue your revelrieth, ath I’m thure they’d make a motht interethting dithplay. Thadly, I haven’t the time to enjoy them right now. I with to thpeak to you in private about an acting-related opportunity I have in mind for you.”

  Speech coaching, Rem didn’t doubt.

  Well versed in the subtleties of their Lord’s conversation and moods, the chambermaids helped one another out of the bath, bundled each other up and capered off, giggling, into the next room. His mood having soured considerably, Rem sank deeper still into the bath, ‘til the bubbles rose to his chin.

  His Lordship made a big show of peering left and right before speaking again. “Athz you are an actor,” he began, “I athume you’re adept at playing other people…”

  “Of course, my Lord. It is what I do.” Rem managed to say this with such nuance that it was deeply condescending without being perceived as such by his employer.

  “Indeed, indeed.” Henton mused. “I wonder if you would be interethted in taking on another contract, thith time athuming the role of a thervant, in order to thpy upon a rival.”

  Rem sat up straighter at this and watched as His Lordship’s eyes followed his progress. “It might be…arranged.” Rem said carefully.

  “But tell me, my friend, can you dithguise yourthelf, thuch that none would recognithze you? You are famouth, after all.”

  “I can so change myself that my own mother wouldn’t know me!”

  Lord Hawsey smiled. Or rather, he thmiled. “Then, in brief, here is the thituathion: no one hathz theen Her Majethty in many dayth. We’re told theeth thick. I would like to thee for mythelf, but no one can penetrate her inner thecurity. No one, exthept, perhapth, Lord Radcliffe. I with you to gain entranth to his ethtate and thnoop around. Thee if you can’t disthcover any newth.”

  Rem dipped his head to wash off the spittle shower he’d just received, courtesy of His Lordship. “Surely you must have other spies in House Radcliffe.”

  “Thertainly. But I can never be thure they haven’t been compromithzed. One can’t have too many ironth in the fire!”

  “As you say,” Rem agreed. “When shall I start?”

  “Immediately. Your performanthe at my ethtate ithn’t due for a week yet, tho that givth uth plenty of time. And bethides,” Henton said with a lascivious leer, “I can’t have you dethpoiling all my pretty chickenth, eh?”

  *****

  Kittins, House Gault

  He’d been living and working at House Gault for several days and hadn’t come close to making anything that remotely resembled a friend. Ironically, that is precisely why Lord Darley trusted him. Darley couldn’t stand the glad-handing type, the hail-fellow-well-mets who always seemed to have a secret agenda behind their twinkling eyes. Kittins, on the other hand, was as grim and quiet as the grave. Hells, he even looked like he might’ve just climbed out of one. Darley liked him, liked him well. He found the big merc eating alone, on a balcony off one of the more obscure wings of the house.

  “Ah, soldier,” he began, suddenly remembering he’d never asked the big man’s name. “Enjoying a bit of night air?”

  Kittins looked up, only the war ravaged half of his face visible in the moonlight. “Enjoying some solitude’s more like. Not from your lordship,” he hastened to add. “It’s just, them boys in the barracks can try a man’s nerves at times.”

  “Oh ho, yes!” Darley agreed. “So they can. And it wouldn’t do to have you killing the rest of the guards in your first week.” He paused, studied Kittins with his piercing blue eyes. “How are you enjoying House Gault, by the by?”

  Kittins set his platter aside, dusted the crumbs off his hands. “It’s nice enough, I suppose.”

  Darley’s eyebrows shot up.

  “But a little quiet.” Kittins explained. “I’m used to more…killin’.”

  The more he spoke, the more Darley liked him. “I neglected to ask your name when we met,” he confessed.

  “Esmun. Esmun Janks,” Kittins said without a second’s pause.

  Darley tested the name, as if tasting its veracity. “Janks. Janks.” Then a small grin came to his lips. “Listen, Janks: I’ve a good feeling about you. You do right by me and House Gault, and you could end up richer and more powerful than you ever dreamed.”

  Kittins stood. It seemed the thing to do. “That so?”

  “Absolutely.” Darley replied. “Does that sound appealing to you?”

  “I ain’t a man to spit on ‘rich and powerful.”

  “Good, good.” Darley looked around, made sure they were alone. “Of course, you must pass a test first, to demonstrate your...loyalty.”

  Somebody needed killing, was what Kittins figured.

  “You won’t be surprised to hear I have a mistress.” Darley said. “In fact, I have several. Great men have great appetites. One of them has given birth to a girl. I don’t mind leaving a few bastards behind, but I’ve no use for illegitimate daughters.” His Lordship ceased speaking for a moment, as if allowing suspense to build. “I need you to kill the child and bring me its corpse.”

  Baby killers were the worst kind ‘o scum, forever damned. “I’ll do it,” Kittins answered, more to reassure his new employer than out of any real interest in the job. He’d have to think on this, and no mistake. “Can I have a day to scout the target?”

  “Of course,” Darley said, with the darkest of smiles. “I’d expect no less.” With that, he proceeded to tell Kittins everything he needed to know.

  *****

  Vykers, In Pursuit

  She was as flustered, as rattled, as she had ever been. She’d just awoken from
a lengthy and uncomfortably detailed sex dream about Vykers and didn’t immediately know how to flush the images from her mind, or the excitement from her body. After some consideration, she incanted a brief spell and felt her pulse slow, her muscles relax. She took in a deep breath through her nose, let it out through her mouth. In through her nose, out through her mouth. The very same mouth she’d just…Oh, bother!

  She stole a quick peek in Vykers’ direction. Even sprawled out on the ground asleep, he possessed a powerful animal magnetism. Then, she remembered those claws, those canines, and how they’d…

  She had a problem.

  Aoife looked down at Frog. Frog? He was a boy, still her little Tadpole, no matter what that beast, that big, delicious beast of a man…

  She got up, walked over and kicked Vykers’ foot. He lurched into an upright position, growling at the pain from his wound.

  “What?” he demanded, bleary-eyed but improving rapidly.

  “You were snoring,” the A’Shea lied. “I thought it might attract predators.”

  Vykers fell back, stretched out, languidly. “You sure you’re not the one attracted?” he asked with a wolfish grin.

  “Ha!” Aoife snorted. Inwardly, she was terrified. It was as if he could see right through her. Or perhaps it was wishful thinking on his part, but it coincided with her own, treacherous thoughts. In desperation, she turned and headed for the nearby creek.

  “Little too close to the bone?” the Reaper called at her back.

  She decided to throw herself into icy waters with all her clothes on. The creek was too shallow to drown in, and she had no desire to do so, anyway. But spending the next few hours in cold, sodden clothing should keep her mind off…well, things it shouldn’t be entertaining.

  Vykers heard a loud splash and came running. Or nearly so. “You fall in, A’Shea?” he asked from some distance away.

  “I’m washing my clothing!” Aoife shouted back, defiantly.

  “While you’re still in ‘em?” Vykers asked, disbelieving. He pulled up when he reached the creek’s far shore. “Seems a touch crazy to me.”

  Aoife sat on the creek bottom, her robes billowing up around her like a great flower. “That,” she retorted, “is because you know nothing of the A’Shea.”

  She’s crazy, all right. Out of her mind! Arune offered.

  Vykers shrugged. That s’posed to scare me away? ‘Cause it don’t. “Can I help you outta there?” The Reaper asked aloud.

  “No, thank you,” Aoife responded. “I’m fine where I am. Why don’t you and your…friend…go and find us some breakfast?”

  With one last, lingering gaze, Vykers turned and headed back to camp. “I know what you want!” he sang out over his shoulder. “And you know I know!”

  The last thing Aoife heard was the man’s laughter as he vanished around a stand of trees. “Alheria,” she whispered, “where are you when I need you most?”

  *****

  Why won’t you listen to me? Arune nagged. I know where this is going, and it’s not good.

  Look, Burner, I know you think you’re smarter ‘n me. Belike you are. But I wanna remind you, when we first met you were dead. I was in bad shape, too, but I was gettin’ by. I think I can survive the A’Shea.

  That was, for Vykers, what amounted to a monologue. Clearly, Arune thought, he’d been pondering this for some time. And that was alarming in and of itself.

  And, Vykers continued, if this goes where I think it might, I don’t want you interfering like you did that one time.

  Once upon a time, he’d intended to visit a few of Lunessfor’s working women, but Arune had enspelled him, making him temporarily unable to perform.

  We might be sharing this body, the Reaper continued, but in the end, it’s my body. Always was, always will be. You don’t like it, you know what you can do about it.

  Arune fumed. There was no point in reminding him that he’d die if she left him now, while his wound remained unhealed. And there seemed no way to prevent her host -- her friend – from making a right mess of everything. And if it does go your way, what am I supposed to do while you’re uhhhh…? She asked, letting the question trail off before she had to get any more specific.

  I don’t care. Whatever you like. You can even watch, if that’s your sort of thing…

  Arune shrieked.

  Vykers laughed.

  *****

  The A’Shea was in an odd mood, the Shaper was in a foul mood, and Vykers was in a good mood, for the moment, despite his pain. It had turned out to be a beautiful spring afternoon. The whispering of the breeze as it swept across the rolling grasslands, combined with the scents of earth and air brought the Reaper a sense of peace he hadn’t known in some time. Butterflies floated amongst the wildflowers that grew here and there. A rabbit even appeared off to Vykers’ left, and before Three could race off and catch it, the Reaper waved him off: one less soul on his conscience. True, it was but a rabbit’s soul; still, he’d known men with less in their breasts.

  Vykers considered the boy, Frog, who rode alongside the A’Shea and stole covert glances at the Reaper whenever he thought the warrior wasn’t looking. Aoife was likely correct in thinking he’d get the boy killed, much as he hated to admit it for any number of reasons. At the same time, there seemed no practical way of seeing the boy to safety without losing vital time in pursuit of the Queen’s abductors – if that’s what they were. Too, Vykers might be able to teach the lad a few things, toughen him up, prepare him for whatever destiny had in store.

  Nonsense. Vykers was a self-absorbed force of nature, and he knew it. The only teaching he ever did was with a sword, the only lessons, lessons of blood, pain and death. Maybe the A’Shea was right: best to keep the boy as far away from him as possible.

  Vykers moved on to the Fool, Hoosh. He’d never had a real conversation with the fellow. Hoosh seemed incapable of saying anything that wasn’t childish gibberish. Even now, he could just hear the Fool mumbling some sing-song melody to himself, something reminiscent of a child’s nursery rhyme. For the life of him, Vykers couldn’t understand how that was meant to be amusing. Surely the Queen, that aged, world-weary and eternally sardonic creature, didn’t enjoy the Fool’s japes – if that’s what they were. Perhaps Hoosh was more of a lapdog, with limited speech. It didn’t matter what he said, the fact that a lapdog was speaking at all was the miracle.

  No, that made no sense. There was something else at work, here, if only the Reaper could put his finger on it. For instance, what had the Fool been doing during the group’s battle with the Grebbers? Nothing? Something. He’d seen inexplicable things. He’d have to ask Arune was she was in a better mood.

  Ahead of him, Three had pulled up and was again sniffing the air in every direction. He turned and looked directly into Vykers’ eyes, a sure sign he had something to say. Vykers couldn’t smell anything unusual, but he rode up next to his friend and leaned close.

  “What’ve you got?”

  “It’s that odor, again.”

  Vykers shrugged. It was a positively lovely afternoon. “I don’t smell it, and I don’t see anything out there, either.”

  “Yet, it is there. Something alive.”

  The A’Shea, Frog and the Fool were still a ways back, bringing the extra horses in tow. “You worried?”

  “Perplexed, my friend. I know this odor, but I cannot recall where or how.”

  “Well,” the Reaper sighed, “less you wanna go chasin’ after it, there’s not much we can do ‘til we can actually see the source.”

  Three nodded. “You are right. It will either reveal itself in time…or it will not.” He fell silent a moment and then changed the subject. “Does your…does Arune tell you how much farther it is to the coast? One thing I do not yet smell is this ocean I’ve heard of.”

  “Last time I asked, it was a week away. Should be only a few days, now.”

  Three leaned back in his saddle, inhaled deeply and smiled. “I am excited to see this ocean. I hear it is t
he mightiest thing in the world.” The chimera caught Vykers’ frown and immediately amended his statement, “The second mightiest, that is.”

  The Reaper shook his head and chuckled. If Three was teasing him now, they must be friends indeed.

  *****

  The Fretful Porpentine

  Yendor hadn’t had any luck in finding Spirk, either, which resulted in perhaps the only time in his life in which he entered an inn in a bad mood. In two seconds, his eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior and he spied Long already seated at their usual table. Yendor raised his eyebrows inquisitively; Long shook his head ‘no’ in reply.