As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)

by Allan Batchelder

  “I am sorry, I…I do not know you,” the woman said, before shutting the door in Kittins’ face.

  Nor want to, the big man thought. He sighed, stepped back and looked at the door. No, it wouldn’t do to bash it in. He was here to save the woman, not terrify her. He knelt and studied the base of the door. Yes, there was a space just large enough for…Taking a Noble out of his purse, he forced it under the door. It was a tight fit, but he made it work with a little pounding.

  “Am I being…let go?” the woman asked through the door.

  This was silly, of course, but Kittins lay down on his stomach and spoke through the crack. “Would that you were,” he said. “It’s worse than that.”

  “Worse?” He could hear the rising anxiety in her voice.

  “You don’t wanna know. Just…take the money, the child and whatever else you’ve got and leave town as fast as ever you can.”

  “The child?” She knew.

  Kittins shoved another Noble – the very last he could spare – under the door. “Look,” he said, “that’s all I got, all I can afford. Now, you’d best be gone in five minutes. Three, if you can manage it. Leave Lunessfor and don’t come back.” He saw a flicker of movement through the crack and the sliver of a very fair face, resting itself against the floor.

  “I knew this day might come,” she said. “Damn him.”

  “This place have a back door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Use it.”

  The face was still a moment, and then the woman said, “Bless you, stranger” and disappeared.

  “Bless me? Fuck me.” Kittins said to himself.

  *****

  What he brought back to Lord Darley had required a bucket for transportation. Kittins was not the sort to be unsettled by gore – Mahnus knew he’d created enough in his time – but even he was shocked by what he’d been given for his money. The man who’d sold it him assured Kittins the child had never been born and like as not would never have survived long if it had. It changed little for Kittins: he would come back, burn the place down, and kill the man standing before him. Yet…he was complicit. How could he not be? He needed the contents of this bucket in order to save an already living child. The horrendous condition of the thing he held, Kittins hoped, was its proof against detection. Surely even Darley was not so inhuman as to root around in this stew, to scrutinize it too closely.

  But when he handed it to Darley, that is precisely what His Lordship did. “This is too much, man!” he complained, poking at the bucket with a knife. “I wanted a good look at the child, to put my mind at ease.”

  At ease? At ease? “That’s her, milord.” Kittins went on to describe the building, the doorway, and as many other details as he could add without ever having seen Darley’s mistress. “That’s her.”

  Darley paced, his hands clasped behind his back. “Yes, but why so much violence?” He asked, frustrated.

  Kittins caught his eye. “Beggin’ your pardon, milord, but you wanted killin’ done, and I’m a killer.”

  “Yes, yes,” His Lordship said, more to himself than to Kittins. “If you send a wolf to kill a lamb, you can’t be surprised when he eats it, I suppose.” He put a hand on the captain’s shoulder. “Next time, though, try a touch less…enthusiasm, eh?” With that, Darley turned to leave.

  “And what of this?” Kittins interjected, holding the bucket out at arm’s length.

  Darley chuckled, shrugged. “Damned if I know. Throw it down the sewer?”

  Kittins watched His Lordship walk away and exhaled slowly: his ruse had worked, but he felt none the better for it. After following His Lordship’s advice and tossing the remains into the city sewer, the captain wandered into the first tavern he could find and began to drink, heavily, in an effort to cleanse his mind of the mess in the bucket. As is often the way with such things, drink only made him feel worse and brood more. When he’d gotten himself close to blind drunk, Kittins staggered out into the night and made for the baby butcher’s home, or shop, or whatever-in-Mahnus’-name it was. He had a hard go of it, in his inebriated state, couldn’t remember if he was meant to take a right or a left at such and such a street, and the burning oil from the city’s lamps made him more than a little queasy. Finally, he found the place, almost by accident. This time he didn’t bother to knock or even bash on the door, but threw his whole weight into it, blasting it off its hinges and several feet into the small foyer beyond. From somewhere down the darkened hallway in front of him, Kittins heard murmurs of alarm and the sound of a metal weapon scraping on stone. Well, he’d figured there’d be a bodyguard of some sort. The baby butcher hadn’t seemed like the type who could handle anyone his own size. Or bigger. In seconds, a dark shape appeared at the end of the hall, backlit by candlelight or perhaps a small fire in the room behind him.

  “What’s this, then?” a rough, belligerent voice demanded.

  What a stupid fuckin’ question. Kittins just laughed.

  “Ya won’t be laughin’ when I shove this sword up yer ass!” the other man growled before charging.

  While it was still hard to see much of his opponent, the man’s blade flickered in the firelight, allowing Kittins to slap it aside at the last second and smash his fist into the fellow’s face, breaking his nose and, Kittins suspected, a few of his teeth as well. That kind of damage, though not fatal, almost always caused a brief moment of panic in the recipient. Kittins waded into that panic and put the man down with another blow to the head. Once he hit the floor, the captain stomped on the back of his neck, snapping it like well-cured kindling.

  A noise in the room beyond told Kittins his quarry had fled up an unseen staircase. Good. He might’ve run out another ground-level floor and into the city beyond. Instead, he had hemmed himself in.

  Stepping over the guard’s body, Kittins proceeded less than carefully into the next room, which turned out to be some sort of workshop, complete with a bench, several basins and countless tools. Oh, Kittins understood the place; he just chose not to dwell on it. He’d erase the entire mess soon enough. There was a door straight ahead and another to his left, but neither had been opened. To his right, a narrow stair spiraled up out of sight. He listened, might have heard a few faint, furtive sounds. He stomped slowly, heavily up the stairs. What did he care? The baby butcher knew he was coming and had to know why, too. This wouldn’t be no sneaky, underhanded death. This was coming straight at its intended victim like a forest fire. He could see it coming, but would be unable to avoid it.

  On the top step, Kittins paused, listened again. Nothing. The landing atop the stairs was poorly lit by a single candle and barely large enough for a man his size. As below, he found a door directly in front of him and another to his left. This second door was slightly ajar. Sensing a ruse, Kittins threw a mighty kick at the door in front, sending it crashing open into blackness. The big man grabbed the landing’s candle from its wall sconce and stepped into the room, a rather spartan bedchamber. There were a cot, a small table and a battered chest in the corner with an open hasp. Without a moment’s thought, Kittins strode to the chest and flung open the lid. Before he was even able to see inside, a terrified sobbing from within told him he’d found his prey. Extending the candle over the chest, Kittins saw that, yes, the baby butcher had folded himself inside and now cowered and shook with fear. There was an odor of fresh urine about the man, too.

  “Please,” he cried, “I gave you what you asked for. I’ll gladly return your money…”

  Kittins slammed the lid, fastened the hasp. The man inside the chest grew silent briefly before beginning to pound on its sides and top. Kittins turned to the nearby cot and dripped wax over its blankets. Finally, he tossed the still-burning candle onto them and stood, watching, until he was certain the fire would catch. When the bed was fully ablaze, he headed back downstairs, accompanied by the increasingly desperate and alarmed ravings of the man in the chest upstairs. In the workshop, Kittins used other candles and lamps to ignite the baby butcher’s v
arious papers and books, which, in turn, set fire to the surrounding surfaces. Overhead, the sounds of wooden walls cracking and the chest bouncing about the floor above were as nothing to the frantic pitch and frequency of the man’s screaming. Kittins turned in a complete circle, taking everything in. The room was well and truly burning. Satisfied – or as satisfied as he was ever like to be – he turned and walked out the way he’d come in.

  Five minutes later, he watched the inferno from the mouth of an alley down the street. Members of the city watch and scores of neighbors raced to evacuate the buildings on either side of the conflagration, and a bucket brigade was quickly formed. Inevitably, a Shaper would show up and contain the fire. The only question was how much damage it would do before he or she appeared.

  As Kittins was about to stagger off towards House Gault, he was brought back ‘round by an unexpected, horrifying sound: a baby’s wail could clearly be heard rising above the smoke and flames. The butcher had had one alive in there. Instinctively, Kittins sprinted towards the building, only to see it crumble and collapse in on itself. The baby’s cry had gone silent.

  Kittins was damned.

  *****

  Vykers, In Pursuit

  He was pissing in a stand of trees when Arune spoke up.

  There’s something watching us. It’s…oh!

  Vykers finished up. ‘Oh?’ What’s that mean?

  Before she could answer, he heard a muffled grunt and turned in the direction from which it came. There was a momentary scuffle in some nearby bushes and then, through a part in the branches, walked what could only have been a new chimera, albeit a smaller and frailer looking one than Vykers was accustomed to seeing. Gripping it by the scruff of its neck and its left arm was Three, wearing an expression that was at once bemused and triumphant.

  “Caught him at last!” Three beamed.

  “Him, who?” the Reaper asked.

  “One of my brothers, I’d say. I knew I recognized the odor.”

  Vykers guessed the new chimera was male, though it was a good third smaller than the other five he had known. Pale and emaciated, this new creature had a pained, weary look on its face – at least as far as the Reaper could read such things – and an overall affect of someone defeated and waiting for execution. As Three forced it closer, Vykers made out a musky, cinnamon-y scent.

  Well? The Reaper prodded Arune.

  Hush. I’m studying him.

  “Can you speak?”

  The creature lowered its head deferentially but lifted a melancholy eye in Vykers’ direction. “I can.”

  “You’ve obviously been following us for some time. What is it you want?”

  “I thought myself the last, believed I’d never see another of…my kind,” the chimera said quietly, as if to himself. “When your party travelled past my den and I spied a brother amongst your number…”

  “You reckoned you’d have to get a closer look, maybe make contact,” Vykers concluded. “And then?”

  He’s no threat, Arune offered. At the moment. I’m surprised he’s even able to stand under his own power.

  “I…do not know,” the chimera confessed.

  “What do you want to do with him?” Vykers asked Three.

  The bigger chimera pointed towards camp with his chin. “Take him back to the fire. Feed him something. Question him. I don’t believe he will choose to battle the group of us.”

  Vykers nodded his agreement, but placed a hand on his sword just in case and was reassured when the new chimera noticed the gesture. Good. Now we know where we stand.

  *****

  When three figures came out of the woods where only one had gone in, Aoife became instantly wary. There was Vykers, of course, and his odd companion, Number Three, whom Aoife hadn’t seen slip away. But who or what was this new arrival? She glanced over at the Frog, who was learning a trick or two about slight-of-hand from Hoosh, but as yet the boy remained immersed in his current business. Without so much as a “how do you do,” Vykers made straight for the fire and sat in his accustomed spot. Three glanced at Aoife as he ushered the new creature to another spot near the flames, but offered no explanation, either. At last, the Frog and the Fool looked over, whereupon their faces lit up with surprise and, in the Frog’s case, a bit of trepidation.

  “The circus grows!” Hoosh declared.

  “Perhaps,” Vykers sneered back. He directed his gaze to the newcomer. “So. You’ve found us. What have you learned?”

  The chimera glanced around the circle before speaking. “Of you? That you are a fierce warrior, that your companions are dangerous, as well, that you are headed to the sea. Beyond that? Nothing. Of myself? That I am not the last of my kind, nor the biggest or most fearsome, and that my fate depends upon your good will.”

  “Then you are doomed; I have none,” Vykers responded.

  “And yet, master,” Three said, “I would know more of my brother, here. And, for that to happen, he must live.”

  A long silence fell over the campsite as Vykers pondered his chimera’s words, staring into the flames all the while. Finally, he said, “As you wish, my friend.” Immediately, he stood up and surveyed their surroundings. “The day wears on. Let’s get back on the road.”

  There was no room for debate. There was never any room for debate with the Reaper, Aoife observed. He spoke and everyone else did as he commanded. No wonder Her Majesty had placed him in control of her armies against the End-of-All-Things. Still, Vykers’ way wasn’t necessarily always the best way for their little party. The A’Shea promised herself she’d speak to him about this when occasion permitted. For now, she began gathering her things and those of the Frog and making ready to depart.

  “Will we never reach the bloody coast?” Aoife overheard Vykers muttering to himself.

  He was in a foul mood. As ever. Aoife kept her distance and minded her own affairs.

  *****

  Long & Mardine’s Farm

  Purebred children were more docile, Mardine knew, than her spirited and overly inquisitive daughter. That was the human side of her. Without Long around to help, Mardine found running the orchard and raising Esmine rather more taxing than she’d expected. Ultimately, she could think of no alternative to hiring extra help, and, for better or worse, there was no shortage of folks looking for work. The “Hire a Thrall” campaign that had been pushed by the crown almost endlessly over the past three years was intended to give some of these displaced and desperate people the funds and purpose they needed to recover their lost lives. At the same time, former thralls encountered overwhelming prejudice almost everywhere they turned. Many people resented them for their role in the last war, whether or not they’d been willing and cognizant participants. Yet, Mardine possessed a good and an honest heart; she knew the same fate might have befallen her husband if things had gone differently. With that thought in mind, she decided to take on one of these unlucky, hopeless souls – a young woman, to help her around the cottage and to watch the child when Mardine had to work in the orchard.

  Nelby was a gaunt thing, with white blond hair and eyebrows, over blue-grey eyes and a small, turned-up nose. Her skin was impossibly pale, except for the occasional outbreaks of acne that spread pinkish blotches across her face. She was a quiet but nervous girl who bit her nails to the quick and always smelled vaguely and inexplicably of potato skins. But she was obedient, grateful to have work and eager to please. Nevertheless, Mardine was slow to trust her alone with Esmine, taking close to a fortnight to adjust to the young woman’s presence in her home and accept that she earnestly meant to help however she could.

  The orchard’s apple trees had long since blossomed; the current challenge was in ensuring the trees did not become infested with caterpillars, which might eat the nascent fruit before it developed. This turned out to be a painstaking process that involved visually inspecting every branch of every tree, every single day, or as near to it as one giantess could manage. Caterpillar season was vexingly long.

  And there was
no question of asking Nelby to search for caterpillars; Mardine’s height made her a natural for the job, whereas the smaller, frailer former thrall would have been hard-pressed to search even half the orchard in one day. Thus, inevitably and with great reluctance, Mardine asked Nelby to look after her daughter and home each day while she worked amongst the trees.

  But Esmine did not take to her new nanny with her customary enthusiasm, which both alarmed and embarrassed Mardine. She would have liked to think the open-mindedness she had modeled in hiring Nelby had made some kind of impression on her daughter; she was disappointed. Whenever Nelby was out of earshot – fetching firewood from the shed, milk from the cows or other suchlike duties – Esmine complained of the woman’s appearance, her manner and, above all, her odor.

  For her part, Nelby was never anything but unfailingly polite. Any and every request was met with a “yes, mum,” an “of course, mum,” or an “I’d be happy to.” Ah, if only Esmine had such manners. Mardine wondered if she and Long hadn’t spoiled the child. Perhaps she needed to interact with other children more. This was problematic, though, because, at a shade under four feet in height, she dwarfed other three year olds and would undoubtedly be tested and bullied by older children. And so, for the nonce, Esmine would have to learn to adapt and accept her new nanny. Mardine had too much work to do elsewhere. If only Long would return!