The Historian gestured to a table at the back of the room – the stern, Vykers was certain. “Shall we sit?”
The Reaper shook his head. “I’m good. What’s this all about?”
“Her Majesty the Queen is arguably the most powerful person on the continent. On this continent,” the Historian clarified. “When her well-being is threatened, it threatens everyone’s well-being. Even that of my fellow Ahklatians.”
Vykers stepped over to the captain’s collection of bottles, picked one up, uncorked it, sniffed and grinned. “Uh-huh,” he said. “So you didn’t intervene when the End was threatening Her Majesty, but now…”
“Threatening to attack Lunessfor and actually taking it are two entirely different things, as I’m sure you know,” the Ahklatian responded dryly. “Stealing the Queen from her elaborately warded bed chambers in the middle of the night, however…that is significantly more difficult. The person or people responsible for that are profoundly dangerous.”
Vykers sat down on the bed and took a long swig from the bottle. “And you know this because…”
“I laid some of those spell wards myself, ages ago. Their secrets, their provenance were beyond the ken of most mortals.”
“Most?” Swig.
“I do not presume to know everything, only a great deal more than most. There may be mortals of sufficient power across the southern sea. There may also be something worse. At any rate, I’ve done little but study in my long life; I know more of what lies ahead than anyone else in our land.”
Vykers had fallen asleep.
*****
He felt a touch on his forehead and, without even opening his eyes, shot a hand out and grabbed a fistful of fabric, pulling his unseen visitor closer. Of course, it was Aoife. By the time he actually looked at her, her face was a scant twelve inches from his own. His actions and proximity rattled her, and she stammered in explaining herself.
“I was…I mean, you…it’s still early…” Finally, she regained her equilibrium. “It’s not mid-day and you were sleeping. I was worried you’d taken a turn for the worse.” As Vykers said nothing in response, Aoife continued. “I’d appreciate it if you’d unhand me now.”
Instead, he pulled her slowly but firmly closer.
“What are you…Vykers. Tarmun, this isn’t…”
Closer, two inches from his face. She could smell alcohol on his breath and wood smoke in his hair.
“Tarmun, I am A’Shea. You cannot…”
I wouldn’t do this if I were you, Arune warned.
You ain’t me, Vykers retorted. And kissed Aoife.
Alheria’s tits! Arune cursed in the back of his mind. Vykers shut her out.
For the briefest of moments, Aoife resisted, then returned the kiss. His mouth tasted of rum. His beard stubble scratched not unpleasantly across her chin and cheeks. She realized her heart was pounding, and she was breathing more heavily. She had never felt such exhilaration, such an odd combination of fear mingled with jubilation in her life. She was dimly aware of things happening down below for the both of them and so pushed away so forcefully that she almost fell over backwards. She stared at Vykers in shock and noticed a hungry look in his eyes.
“Never do that again, Tarmun Vykers!” she yelled.
He sat up, wincing. “Never’s a long time, Aoife.” He rarely used her name; now, it seemed too intimate.
“Yes, exactly!” she countered. She felt it important to stand her ground; backing away would seem too weak. Vykers needed to know she meant what she’d said, that she had the force of will to resist and even fight back if necessary. “I am here as your healer, nothing more.”
Vykers stood, approached her.
Aoife felt her resolve wavering. She glanced at the door, wondering whether she ought to make a run for it. She did not.
The Reaper returned to within a foot of her and stood, unmoving, letting her senses take him in. His right hand reached up, and his fingers gently traced the outline of her face, as a blind man might do. He towered over her, and she found she could not maintain eye contact. For some reason, she could not even find the will to move. Vykers’ hand wandered into her hair, slowly, reverently.
In a quiet voice, he said “I don’t know why, I can’t say how, but you…get under a man’s skin, you…” He stopped himself. “You are a beauty,” he concluded.
And you are drunk, Aoife almost said in return. But of course, she could not. Her whole being was seized with miniature tremors of nervousness, fear, excitement…desire. She was a wreck, and it frightened her, no end.
Hoosh ambled into the room and had to pretend he was unaware of what been transpiring. “Rumor has it, there’s drink to be had hereabouts!”
Aoife took advantage of this distraction to step away from the Reaper and rearrange her hair.
“I’ve half a mind to put you in the drink,” Vykers told the man.
“You’re half right, anyhow.”
“How’s that?” Vykers asked belligerently.
“You’ve half a mind.”
“I’m only keeping…”
Aoife bolted from the room.
Vykers looked at Hoosh with a cold fury. “You’re looking at your death, old man,” he told the Fool. “Think on that. Live with it. Sooner or later, I will kill you.” With that, he headed out onto the deck.
*****
Spirk, House D’Escurzy
Spirk lived a strange existence on the D’Escurzy estate, a life of echoes and shadows, of cavernous, drafty rooms and an old man’s snoring. It was rare that he saw anyone other than His Lordship, and he often wondered if Mahnus had created House D’Escurzy as a world all its own and abandoned the two of them in it.
Spirk’s routine consisted of little more than keeping His Lordship warm, wheeling him to and fro, lifting him in and out of his bed and/or ringing the peculiar silent service bells that nevertheless always caused meals, fresh clothing and whatever else to appear nearby as if by magic. But it was not magic. Spirk knew a thing or two about magic, and though it was only a thing or two, he recognized it when he saw it. Or didn’t see it. No, these items were delivered by servants so stealthy and quick as to be virtually invisible. Servants…or boblins. He was thinking of goblins, of course, but he’d called them boblins his entire life and had no plans to change now. Especially not for cowardly boblins who refused to show themselves when he sought them out…
“Cretin!” Titus rasped. “I’ve done with my bedpan. Take it away this instant!”
Spirk snapped to attention; he’d been day-dreaming again – hard to avoid in an atmosphere so dreamlike – but His Lordship was not accustomed to waiting for anything, and Spirk knew he had precious little tolerance for dawdlers. Moving as quickly as he dared, the young man fetched the offending container and made for the nearest jakes. It wouldn’t do to be gone too long; he worried how His Lordship might fare alone with the boblins. Upon his return, he found his master as cheerful as ever.
“Clodpole!” the man wheezed. “Carry me to my chair.”
Without hesitation, Spirk complied. He rushed to Titus’ bedside and lifted the gnomish fellow into his arms. His Lordship weighed so little that Spirk worried constantly for his health. At first, he’d worried mostly for himself and what might befall him should Titus die in his care. Gradually, though, he came to feel for the man, isolated from his own kin by their fear of him, by their greed for his power and possessions.
“Endless hells,” Titus sighed, “I am too old for this shit.”
As usual, Spirk’s stupidity served him well. “Beggin’ your pardon, your Lordship, but you don’t seem so old to me.”
“Bullshit, lad. Don’t speak bullshit to me.”
“Well,” Spirk hedged, “you can’t be as old as Her Majesty.”
“And what o’ that? That bitch isn’t human!”
“She’s not?”
“Of course she is,” Titus spat irritably. “She just doesn’t seem to be.” And then, a bit of luck: “I do hear her hea
lth’s failing at last, though.” Titus grinned. “Maybe I’ll outlive her after all.”
There it was: Lord Titus himself seemed convinced the Queen was ill, and his conviction sounded genuine enough. If something had befallen Her Majesty, it had not been at Titus’ behest. This did not mean, however, that the rest of his family was innocent…
*****
Rem, House Hawsey
Unable to come up with a plan to escape the Radcliffe estate, Rem had been forced to hide under the sleeping man’s bed in order to avoid discovery. Providence intervened, however (on the actor’s side, anyhow), when the sleeper was found dead by his nephew. Between the time the monks were summoned to take the man’s body to temple and the time the same monks actually arrived, Rem managed to hide the corpse in a nearby armoire and substitute himself in its place. The monks, being somewhat credulous to begin with, bought Rem’s performance lock, stock and barrel. It was only when he wrestled free of their grasp some half mile from House Radcliffe and ran off into the morning’s crush that they began to suspect something was amiss.
Back in the safety of the barracks at House Hawsey – and after a lengthy bath – Rem spent a good hour perusing the diary he’d found. The handwriting within was both ornate and miniscule, making the pages annoyingly hard to read. On the positive side, smaller writing meant more room; more room meant more words, and more words meant more information. In the brief time he’d examined the diary, Rem learned of insanity, infanticide, incest, intemperance, incontinence, and impotence in abundance at House Radcliffe. But nothing of the Queen’s whereabouts. Yet. He was certain when he did discover something, it would undoubtedly start with the letter “i.” Before he could prove his theory, His Lordship arrived to welcome him home.
Now, Rem had a difficult time referring to Henton Hawsey as “your Lordship.” If he were casting a play about various midlands nobles, Henton would be the last person he’d consider for such a role. There is casting-against-type, after all, and there is casting-against-reason. Nonetheless, Rem somehow marshaled his acting talents and strove to maintain the façade of respect that was so necessary under his present circumstances.
“Ah, your Lordship!” he sang out, “I was just coming to see you after I finished my bath.”
Henton looked as if he understood completely. “I underthtand completely,” he replied, to underscore the point. “I wouldn’t want filthy dutht from Houth Radcliffe on my thkin, either.” He paused. “But what have you learned?”
Truth be told, Rem was loath to surrender the diary now that he’d finally begun reading it, but if it would please His Lordship, curry favor and buy a few days of peace from His Lordship’s attentions, he supposed it was worth the trade. “I found this,” he said, holding the diary in the light so His Lordship could see it better.
Henton reached out and snatched it in a most lascivious manner. “It-th a diary!” he exclaimed. “But whooth?”
“Someone named Gelter,” Rem offered helpfully.
His Lordship’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and his mouth formed a perfect ‘o.’ “Gelter Radcliffe?” He giggled. “Gelter Radcliffe?” He giggled more – longer, louder and harder. “Oh, very well done Mathter Wratch, very well done indeed!”
“You’ll forgive me, your Lordship, but I am not as familiar with the, er, Radcliffe family tree as perhaps I ought to be. I’m not sure who this Gelter…”
“Oh, heeth a fop!” Henton cut in, scornfully. “A fop and a dandy. One that thtyles himthelf the young bravo, but quailth at hith own thyadow. One that hathz all the words i’ the world, but none o’ the acthions. Would that I could meet thith good Thir Codpiethe in a duel; I’d thyow him the Hawthey ‘High and Low!”
That speech was a fruitcake, so packed with delectable absurdities that Rem wished he could slow it down, have it all over again and better attend its every sweet surprise. Henton calling another man ‘fop?’ Questioning another man’s courage? Accusing another man of being long on words, but short on action? For an instant, Rem wondered whether a meeting between these two peacocks might be arranged and, further, whether there was any betting action to be had on either side. Before he could work out the details – alas! – His Lordship interrupted.
“But! But! But! But! Now, we have hith diary. Thith fallth out better than I’d hoped. If thith ithz a thample of your work, Mathter Wratch, you may make Lord yourthelf ere long!” And in a whirl of lilac scented…something or other…His Lordship was off to pore over his ill-gotten gains.
Rem watched him go. He searched his thoughts for a metaphor, a simile that might adequately describe Lord Hawsey’s quality, in the event he ever decided to write the man into a play. Lord Hawsey was like…stumbling out of bed with one’s breeches half-on and then tumbling headlong down a flight of stairs. He was like sneezing in the face of a beautiful woman. He was accidentally sitting on a bee hive whilst eating honey-glazed almonds.
And he was the head of one of Lunessfor’s most powerful families and a suspect in the disappearance of the Queen. However precious, however outlandish the man might seem, there had to be more to him than he let on. Rem resolved to redouble his efforts to investigate His Lordship. And he knew just where to start.
*****
Yendor, House Fyne
Sometimes, one person succeeds where another has failed simply because he’s a different person – in bearing, tone of voice or overall demeanor. Such was the case for Yendor, who had little difficulty gaining entrance to House Fyne for an interview after flashing the medal he’d once been awarded by General Branch.
“So, you fought the End, eh?” the Captain of the House Guard asked him.
Yendor nodded. “That’s a fact.”
The other man worked his lower jaw side to side, squinted at Yendor. “You don’t look in fightin’ shape to me, though.”
“Ah, but you know it ain’t always about muscles or speed. It’s about guile!” Yendor boasted enthusiastically. “Guile and experience!”
The captain didn’t seem convinced. “Well,” he confessed, “I dunno. But you caught me at a good time. One o’ my guards got beaten up pretty bad by the other fellers for bein’ a prick at the front gate. He’s in the infirmary now, and I don’t see him gettin’ back on his feet for a spell. Guess I could give you a shot.”
“Thank you, sir,” Yendor replied.
“But you heard that, right? We run a tight outfit. ‘Round here, there’s no tolerance for stupidity or incompetence. You screw up, I’ll never have to kick your ass, ‘cause the rest o’ the boys’ll do it for me.”
Yendor nodded. “I hear you.”
The captain was not warming to him. “Right,” he said with palpable skepticism. “Let me show you to the bunk house.”
*****
Arune
She’d almost forgotten Brouton’s Bind, and now it roared back at her with a vengeance. The horrifying, unacceptable, but somehow darkly thrilling fact of the matter was that Arune had enjoyed that kiss almost more than Vykers – and she’d felt some evidence that he liked it very much, indeed. Oh, this was beyond mere quandary; this was a near-lethal dose of frustration and aggravation beyond anything Arune had known in ages. She had despised the prissy, self-righteous Mender, and now she lusted after the woman. The obvious solution was to keep Vykers away from Aoife – by force, if necessary. But the more she thought on it, the more she wanted the A’Shea. It was maddening. Ultimately, she’d withdrawn from Vykers’ surface consciousness; she knew he’d assume she’d gone off to sulk. In fact, she’d retreated in shock and confusion, desire consuming her energies like wildfire.
Arune was in peril.
*****
Spirk, House D’Escurzy
Spirk Nessno was in peril, as well, but he did not know it. Improbably, he grew closer and closer to his hard, diminutive master, making the man’s life imperceptibly easier through the careful use of Pellas’ Legacy – expelling the dust and the chill from Titus’ chambers, eradicating the bedbugs from his mattress, co
mpelling the candles to burn longer and brighter than they ought. But these acts of kindness did not go unnoticed by His Lordship’s next of kin. Though none of them could remember Spirk’s face when he wasn’t around, they absolutely remembered his impact on the patriarch, and they did not appreciate it in the least. To their minds, Spirk – or, as they knew him, Long Pete – was prolonging the old geezer’s life unnecessarily and providing him comfort they would just as soon he did not receive. Thus, amongst themselves, they had quietly decided that Spirk must die.
One afternoon, whilst Titus was regaling Spirk with tales of his youth – an act which bore an uncanny resemblance to telling the young man to go fuck himself – one of His Lordship’s relatives was finally bold enough to enter his presence and inquire after his health.
“Faenia,” His Lordship said flatly as she glided into his chambers.
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 14
