“Uncle,” she replied, in a smooth, silky alto. “I haven’t seen you at supper in ages.”
“Nor missed me, I’ll warrant.”
Faenia swept her big, expressive eyes over Spirk. Was she smiling at him? Her small, tight mouth made it hard to tell. “You have a new servant, I see.”
“Your grasp of the obvious is truly astounding. What do you want?” Titus spat.
“Really, uncle, we haven’t seen each other in so long. Must you be so combative? I merely came to visit, to…bring you comfort, if I might.”
Titus laughed his hacking laugh. “You? Comfort? When a dagger in the gut is comfort, I’m sure that will be true.”
“I’m told your servant’s name is Long Pete,” Faenia said. “What an odd name that is!” She followed up with a giggle that was meant to sound delighted; Spirk heard no mirth in it. Before he knew it, she was upon him, inches from his face. “Why ‘Long?” she breathed. “How long are you?”
Spirk had no idea what she was getting at, but he suddenly felt horribly uncomfortable in his own skin. “Dunno, mistress. It’s just a nickname, an’ it please you.”
Faenia got closer, still. Her night-black hair was pulled back behind her head, save for a meticulously staged lock that tumbled across her left eye. This had some meaning, Spirk knew, but it was lost on him. “You might please me, I’m sure, if indeed you are long,” Faenia whispered.
Spirk shrugged. “Well, I am,” was all he could say in his defense.
From his chair, Titus cackled again. “Ah, Faenia, you’re pathetic! Trying to seduce my simpleton? Are you really so desperate to undermine me?”
Faenia stepped back from Spirk as if she’d been slapped across the face. “I was only being sociable!” she protested. “There’s no call for such accusations, uncle.”
“You have scouted my new attendant. You may now leave. I’m sure the rest of your…pack…will be delighted to know I yet live.”
“Oh!” the woman responded, taking umbrage at her uncle’s dismissal. “You are impossible.” She spun on her heel and stalked, rather noisily this time, from Titus’ chambers.
His Lordship beckoned Spirk to his side. “Listen to me, cretin: do not let that woman within ten feet of you – further, if you can manage it. She and all of her kin are not to be trusted in anything but evil intent. You’ve been marked, now. Make one mistake, and that bitch’ll kill you.” Titus paused, drew in a deep, ragged breath. “Now fetch me some soup and be quick about it.”
All the way to His Lordship’s private kitchen and all the way back, Spirk fretted about this new threat, this Faenia, and wondered what he’d done to her that she wanted him dead. By the time he returned to His Lordship’s room, the man was asleep in his chair. For an ordinary person, this might present a conundrum: whether to wake him while his soup was still warm and risk punishment for disturbing him, or to let him sleep and risk punishment for letting his soup cool. Spirk, however, had never been ordinary and especially not since he’d received Pellas’ Legacy, which made it possible for him to keep Titus’ soup warm virtually indefinitely. With a few meaningless gestures but some very real energy, he did just that. Now, he had some time on his hands and so decided to continue his ongoing battle with dust.
Moving to a remote corner of Titus’ room to which he had never previously ventured, Spirk began chasing the dust along the walls and floor towards the room’s fireplace. From there, it was his practice to shoot it all up the chimney and from thence who-knew-where. The point, as Spirk saw it, was that it was no longer around to trouble His Lordship’s breathing or redden his already rheumy eyes. In the process of chasing this dust, however, Spirk happened upon a slightly sunken panel in the wall, just beneath the stuffed and mounted head of a large oursine. In the permanent gloom of the master’s chambers, such an imperfection might go unnoticed for, well, a very, very long time. But Spirk possessed – or rather believed he possessed – heightened senses, again as a result of Pellas’ Legacy, and so it was no trouble at all for him to spot the depression. As gently as he could, Spirk ran his fingers around the perimeter of the panel. He sensed nothing, other than the fact that the wall needed a good cleaning. Carefully, he pressed on the area; nothing happened. He pressed more forcefully with the same result. At last, he brushed it lightly with his arcane senses and found it was, as he suspected, a door. Yet, the absence of a handle or knob of any kind baffled him. Not wanting to admit defeat, he pulled a chair over and set it where he could watch both the door and his sleeping master and had a seat. It wasn’t long before he fell asleep, himself.
And was subsequently awakened by Titus’ bellowing. “Idiot! Where are you? Come here this instant or I’ll make you smart for it!”
Spirk fairly flew out of his chair and into His Lordship’s line of sight. “Apologies, milord. I was just inspecting…That is…Well…”
“Spit it out, addle-pated git!”
“It seems there’s a secret door over by the stuffed animal head.”
Titus smirked. “Of course there’s a secret door!” he snapped. “We’re a sneaky, skulking, treacherous folk, we D’Escurzys.” After a moment’s breath, he continued, “However…that particular one is news to me.”
“You mean there’s others?” Spirk asked, aghast.
“Did I not just admit as much? Alheria’s tits, man! What are you using for brains?”
So focused was he on the issue at hand that Spirk was completely unfazed by his master’s abusive manner. “Why would somebody wanna sneak in here?” he wondered aloud.
Titus heaved his most melodramatic sigh. “To kill me, of course!”
“I’m confused,” Spirk admitted.
“Do tell,” His Lordship retorted.
“You say Faenia wants to kill me and somebody else wants to kill you. Why’s all this killin’ necessary?”
“Because my worthless children and their children and their cousins want the title to this estate, along with all my money and the various seats I hold on numerous councils and committees around the city. Oh, they can’t wait to get their hands on it all.”
Spirk looked about to cry. “That’s terrible,” he said.
Titus’ beady little eyes opened a touch wider at that and his face relaxed a moment. “Yes,” he agreed. “’Tis that. Time was, I thought I’d raised my children to be better people than I’d been.” He glanced wistfully around his room, as if his children could be found stationed nearby, attentive and adoring. “I failed. As you can see.”
“Why?” Spirk asked, not knowing any better.
His Lordship reflected he might have had anyone else killed for such bluntness. In his idiotic companion, however, it was almost charming. “Might be I over indulged them, didn’t say ‘no’ often enough. Might be I was kind to them, but they saw me being cruel to outsiders, and that’s all they learned from me. Whatever the case, they’re bastards now, each and every one. Even the women.”
A single tear ran down Spirk’s left cheek, and before he could wipe it away, His Lordship reached out and stayed his hand. “You really are dumber than a stump, aren’t you lad?” he asked, not unlovingly. “Go and fetch some more firewood now. I’m feeling a chill in my bones, something awful.”
Even Spirk understood His Lordship had saved him the embarrassment of open sobbing for an old man he hardly knew. He was grateful for the chance to distract himself in the pursuit of firewood.
*****
Long, House Thornton
He was at a complete loss. He hadn’t seen Yendor in over a day and Spirk in longer than that. Who knew how Rem and Kittins were faring? In short, his entire team was off somewhere, carrying out the mission (he hoped), and he hadn’t been able to get past the front gate at any of Lunessfor’s Great Eight. Clearly, Bailis had been mistaken to place such trust in him. And unable to get anything of consequence done, Long Pete was sorely tempted to just chuck the whole hopeless exercise and run home to his wife and kid. Hells, even Spirk had gotten further than he. Unless he wa
s dead.
Long pulled his feet off the table and dropped the front two legs of his chair back onto the floor. If he accomplished nothing else, he had to make sure the young fool hadn’t gotten himself killed. Where to start, though? How to start? Spirk had always seemed easily distracted to Long, so it made sense to begin the search in Market Square. Lunessfor, being an enormous city, had several markets and market squares. There was only one Market Square, though, and Long judged it the best place to begin looking for his missing companion.
It often appeared to take longer to get there than he’d expected. The market was so enormous, so sprawling, it seemed it should be mere minutes away from anywhere else in town. But it was a goodly stretch o’ the leg from the Fretful Porpentine, and Long found he was eager for a loaf of fresh bread, a hunk of cheese or perhaps a bit of grilled meat. He could find all that and more in the market. He still wondered whether any of that “more” would be Spirk.
After three hours of fruitless searching, Long had all but given up and given in to despair. Who the fuck am I kidding? He asked himself. I’m an apple farmer. Sort of. He was just about to pack it in for the day when someone yelled at him.
“You there!” a nearby merchant called. “Help a fella out?”
Long spun in a circle in attempt to see if the man was speaking to someone behind him and saw nobody within ten paces. Me? He motioned to himself.
The merchant nodded. “Yes! Yes, you!”
Long looked left and right again, just to be certain this wasn’t some kind of set up. “Yes?” he finally croaked.
If the merchant was put off by Long’s voice, he showed no sign of it. “I’m in a fix. My delivery boy’s disappeared, and I need this crate delivered by sundown or I’m screwed.”
“That so?” Long asked, still uncertain what to make of the situation. “What’s in it?”
“Goose liver paste,” the man responded. “If I don’t get it to its destination on time, I may lose my sale and the customer’s business.”
“The market must be full of errand boys, though…” Long hedged.
“That crate’s thirty pounds, easy. Besides,” the merchant added, “most o’ these boys are like to try and steal it.”
“And what makes you think I won’t?”
“You don’t remember me, do you, sir?”
What in the hells was going on? Long blinked stupidly. “No, I, er…”
“I worked in the Officer’s Mess, when Vykers fought the End. I musta served you and your friends for three days after the battle was done.” The man had an amazing memory, and Long was embarrassed by his own. “You’re a Queen’s man; that’s why I trust you.”
“I’ll do it,” the captain said at last.
“I thought you might. Look, come back when you’re done, and there’s a Merchant in it for you. You know I’m good for it.”
Long nodded. “Where’s it going?”
“House Thornton.”
He’d been already, but maybe this goose liver was just important enough to whomever to get him past the guards this time. He had nothing to lose, when it came down to it. With a bob of his head, Long shouldered the crate and moved off into the city. It was funny what life on a farm did for a man. Three years ago, he couldn’t have carried his burden for five minutes, to say nothing of the half hour it would take him to reach House Thornton; now, the weight of the thing was little more than a mild irritant.
Luck was with him when he reached his destination, because the guards he’d spoken with earlier had been replaced by two men he’d never seen before. When he reached them, he set the crate down, arched and back and tried to be sociable.
“Nice evening to be out-o’-doors, eh? This House Thornton?” He decided to pretend ignorance, in hope of looking less suspicious.
“Can’tcha see the family crest on them walls?” asked the guard to his left, in a voice so deep it hardly seemed human. “That there’s the Thornton Sunwheel.”
What in Mahnus’ name’s a sunwheel? Long wondered.
“Whatcha got there?” the other guard asked, pointing his lengthy nose at the crate.
Long laid it on. “Fifty pounds o’ goose liver. Have fun carryin’ that into the master kitchen.” He turned to go, and, as he’d hoped, long-nose stopped him.
“Whoa, there! We ain’t carryin’ no fifty pound box o’ nothing, nowheres! We’s guards, Trank ‘n me. We can’t be leavin’ our posts, can we, Trank?”
Trank said nothing, which long-nose took as agreement. “Y’see? Now, why’nt you carry that into the kitchen?”
“Me?” Long cried. “I’m just paid to deliver it to House Thornton, I…”
“Well, it don’t look delivered to me!” Long-nose countered. “Behind me’s House Thornton; where you’re standing’s outside House Thornton.”
Trank pointed a mace at the crate. “Pick it up,” he told Long. “Take it in.”
Long complied. As he passed through the gates, he heard long-nose congratulating his associate on their fine work.
“That’s tellin’ ‘im, old boy! You let them common laborers push you ‘round, there’s no knowin’ what’ll come of it!”
But Long had finally gotten himself inside one of the Great Eight. He would either find Spirk or the information Bailis had requested. He might even do both! First, he had to find the kitchen.
Out of nowhere the House Steward came upon him and immediately upbraided him.
“What are you doing at this end of the house?” he barked. “All deliveries come in the servants’ gate!”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. I’m a fill-in for the man was meant to bring this.”
The Steward groaned in such a way that he was able to convey irritation, weariness and contempt all at once. Long looked at the man. He had a high forehead over carefully sculpted eyebrows, which in turn were perched over light brown eyes. His small mouth seemed permanently fixed in a pursed position and was framed by an ornate though tiny mustache and beard.
“And what is this, pray tell?” the man demanded.
“Goose liver.”
“Goose liver? At last! You’re late. Almost unforgivably so.”
“Well, as I said, I’m a fill-in for…”
“Excuses are unacceptable.”
“Right,” Long replied. He could feign weariness as well as the next man. “Where’s this servants’ gate, then?”
“Pshaw! There’s not time for that now. You’ll have to go through the house.”
As Long had intended all along.
“Follow me,” the man said.
Well, you can’t have everything. Long followed, as ordered. He’d expected a series of dark, winding hallways, but House Thornton was light and airy, with brightly colored artwork and floral arrangements throughout – hardly the shadowy, brooding warren he’d expected. And the master kitchen amazed him further. The place was as spacious and active as an outdoor bazaar, though admittedly it smelled a thousand times better. Armies of cooks raced back and forth from cupboards to counter tops to sinks and to ovens. Long would never have known who was in charge if not for the house Steward, who knifed right through the crowd and arrived at the person in question, a willowy raven-haired woman who looked as if she were made of cobwebs.
“The goose liver,” the Steward announced, “has arrived at last.”
The cook squinted at Long and barked “put it over there and then leave. There’s no room for gawkers nor folks lookin’ for scraps. We’re busier ‘n a rooster in a hen house.”
Long deposited the crate on the specified counter and looked back to the Steward, only to find he’d gone. Perfect. Long approached the cook again.
“Now I’m here, anything else you need done? Crates broken down? Garbage hauled? Dishes washed? Can’t have too much help!”
The cook turned and was clearly surprised to find him still standing before her. “What’s wrong with your voice?” Of course: the question was mandatory. “You one o’ them thralls?”
“Not a thrall,
no. Just a former soldier down on his luck.”
“Uh-huh,” the cook answered. “Y’ever shuck on oyster?”
Long lied. “Course I have. Who ain’t?”
“There’s a barrel by that back winder over there. Grab yourself a knife and get shucking.”
He didn’t have to be told twice. Without another moment’s delay, the old captain made his way to the oyster barrel and surveyed the task assigned him. He smiled. How hard could it be?
Very, very hard, as it turned out. At first, he broke more shells than he opened. Then, he stabbed himself in the palm a number of times. Once or twice, he pried a shell open, only to inadvertently flip the innards onto the floor with his knife. He looked around in embarrassment, but everyone else was too busy to pay him any mind, thank Mahnus. After some fifty oysters or so, he finally got into something of a rhythm. Indeed, he became so engrossed in getting it right that he temporarily forgot his actual purpose inside House Thornton. And there was some pleasure in doing a simple thing well, over and over. As he worked, he was able to bask in the myriad aromas – familiar and exotic – that were called into existence by the cooks swarming around him. He found he was hungry and more than so: his mouth was watering as if he hadn’t eaten in days. How anyone avoided obesity in such an environment was beyond Long.
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 15
