As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)

by Allan Batchelder

  Mardine continued crawling. She felt feeble and foolish, but she knew she’d feel better as soon as she got inside. Coming over the last rise between her position and her home, she was stunned to see the front door standing wide open and no sign of light or life inside. Adrenaline did what willpower alone could not, yanking the big woman to her feet in an instant. And now she was running, albeit awkwardly, towards the cottage, calling out to her daughter and the child’s nanny. “Esmine! Esmine! Nelby!”

  No one answered.

  Without regard for her own safety, Mardine barreled into the cottage’s front room, still yelling her daughter’s name. In a rising panic, she raced through the other rooms and then checked them a second time. Esmine and Nelby were undeniably gone. Mardine wanted to run screaming into the orchard. Instead, she forced herself to sit down, calm her nerves and think things through. Hysteria, she knew, would get her nowhere.

  I must’ve been poisoned, the giantess thought. Nelby poisoned me and waited until I was unconscious, then she ran off with my daughter. On the heels of that, she thought I should never have taken on that thrall. Oh, they warned me. Did they ever. But stupid old me, I wanted to see the good in such folks…

  Struck by a thought, Mardine got up and went into Esmine’s room. It had not been ransacked; there was not the slightest trace of a struggle. Next, she poked her head into the loft she and Long had given Nelby. It, too, was as neat as you please…if bare of the woman’s belongings. Yes, this abduction had been carefully planned and executed. Perhaps from the moment Nelby had first laid eyes on Esmine.

  But why? There were plenty of reasons, if Mardine was honest: to the best of anyone’s knowledge, Esmine was unique in the world – at least that was so locally. The giantess dared not even allow herself to explore and enumerate the uses a cold world might find for such a child, as if merely thinking such thoughts made them facts. But these fears did galvanize her: she had to go find her child, before it was too late. And she might be gone for days, or even weeks. With Long unavailable to her, Mardine had no choice but to appeal to her neighbors for help. Pulling the door shut behind her, she headed off to the nearest farm. It was still early, but, if she remembered rightly, Old Cargon had cows to milk and chickens to feed.

  Halfway across the apple orchard, Mardine saw candles in the windows of Cargon’s cottage and knew he and his wife were awake and at work. Mardine worried about dealing with Cargon – he was a cantankerous and tight-fisted fellow at the best of times – but his farm was also the closest, and he’d have a much easier time watching her orchard than just about anyone else hereabouts. It was also possible that he and his wife had seen something the night before. Mardine was reluctant to hope, but the heart sometimes does what it will, reality be damned.

  Before she’d come within twenty-five paces of Cargon’s door, his wife peeked her little, white-haired head out and asked, “Mornin’, Mardine. Is somethin’ the matter, dearie?”

  The giantess nearly burst into tears at the sound of the old woman’s sweet, sympathetic voice. “The help’s stolen my babe in the night!”

  Cargon’s wife, Leetsa, threw wide the door and rushed out to take Mardine’s hands. “How’s that? Your baby’s been ta’en?” she cried. Old Cargon himself stepped into doorway his wife had only just vacated and stared suspiciously at the two women, though it was hard to tell what if anything he saw through his monstrously overgrown eyebrows.

  “Nelby’s made off with Esmine!” Mardine said again, adding the names for clarity.

  “And where’s that war hee-ro man o’ yourn?” Cargon snapped.

  Mardine struggled to maintain her composure. “Still away on business.”

  “Oh, dearie,” Leetsa said, attempting to take Mardine’s massive head onto her shoulder. “We’ll have to run fetch the constable.”

  “There’s no time for that,” Mardine said. “I’ve got to go after them.”

  “Well,” Cargon exclaimed, “Best o’ luck to you!” and started to shut his door, with his wife and Mardine still standing together in the yard.

  “You mind your manners!” Leetsa scolded him. “A baby’s in danger here, and…”

  Cargon snorted. “Some baby! She’s near up to me chin.”

  “Don’t be a beast, now,” Leetsa replied. “The girl’s still a babe, no matter her size. And we’re bound as good neighbors to help.”

  “Bound are we?” Cargon asked. “And what is it you’re wanting of us, giant?”

  “Her name’s Mardine,” Leetsa said.

  “I need someone to tend the orchard while I’m gone.”

  Cargon laughed long and loudly. “Oh, I’m sure!” he said at last. “I’m sure you do.”

  “I’ll make it worth you while,” Mardine responded.

  To Mardine, Leetsa said, “Don’t let the old skinflint steal you blind!” To Cargon, she chided, “’Tis a sin to take advantage of a woman in distress, Cargon!”

  “And an equal sin for a man ‘o business to let his wife talk him out of his profit!” The farmer looked up at his massive neighbor and continued. “What’s yer proposal?”

  Mardine had no time to waste bartering with the fellow, so she made the best offer she had. “You look after my apple trees, for as long as I’m gone, and I’ll give you one hundred percent of our take this year.”

  Leetsa’s mouth fell open in shock.

  Her husband made a brief show of pretending to consider the offer; in the end, it was too generous to pass up. Even if Cargon had to hire extra hands to help, he’d still make more money than he’d made in many and many a year.

  “But you’ll watch my cottage, into the bargain!” Mardine tossed in.

  Incredibly, it seemed the old farmer was about to object, when Leetsa came to the rescue. “I’ll do it, dearie. ‘Least I can do for you and yourn. But how’ll you make do if you give us the proceeds from this season?”

  “If I don’t find my daughter,” Mardine answered gravely, “there’ll be no point in even trying to make do; we’ll be done.”

  The remark resonated with Cargon somehow, as his aspect quickly softened, grew more sympathetic. “Don’t you worry none,” he said. “You’ll get her back, and we’ll keep your place safe ‘til you return.”

  The giantess choked up with gratitude. With a nod, she headed back to her cottage to pack the few things she might need to begin and sustain her search.

  *****

  Yendor, House Fyne

  It seemed to take forever for Yendor to earn his first day off, and he couldn’t remember having been so sober in his life. He burst into the Fretful Porpentine, hoping to drink himself stupid and catch up with his buddy Long and perhaps even Spirk, but neither was present. Frankly, the place felt kinda weird without ‘em. Might be Long had finally infiltrated one o’ the other Houses. His absence was no reason to forego a hard won drink or five, though, so Yendor plunked himself down in the nearest chair and signaled the barkeep to send someone over.

  He did his best, as he drank, to play ‘Hail fellow, well met,’ and he learned that the man he was looking for (the other patrons knew Long by sight only) hadn’t been ‘round in a few days. And nobody had seen the invisible idiot. Nobody ever saw him.

  With unexpected time on his hands and a bit more money in his purse than he’d been accustomed to, Yendor fancied a bit of the old slap-and-tickle before he was too inebriated to act upon his desires. And if a man had the coin, sexual companionship was not hard to find in a place like the Fretful Porpentine. In addition, Long had already paid several weeks’ worth of rent on a room upstairs, thus, completing the necessary troublemaker’s triumvirate of time, money and opportunity.

  Yendor couldn’t recall the last time he’d gone pearl diving, but he was fairly certain it was the sort of thing one remembered rather easily once the festivities got underway. And if the wench was good and sauced as well, he might be forgiven any awkwardness in the attempt.

  *****

  Somehow or other, he awoke on the floor, w
hilst a pair – a pair! – of plump, sweaty doxies slept off their stupor in the bed. Being well acquainted with the floor as a rule, Yendor took no especial umbrage at the sleeping arrangements. He was heartened, in fact, by an appropriate soreness in all the expected areas, which led him to believe he’d been quite the lady killer. Too bad he couldn’t remember the least detail. It seemed a pity, really: half the fun in experiencing pleasure, he felt, was in being able to recall it later. For all Yendor knew, in his drunken state, he’d gotten intimate with the nightstand, while the ladies went on without him. Alarmed by the notion, he turned his back to the bed and checked himself for splinters. Finding none, he spun again towards his sleeping companions. Or non-companions. He’d intended to say something at parting, but it hardly seemed important now. And he didn’t want to be late in returning to work.

  Not that work was particularly enthralling. At House Fyne, Yendor had been assigned to guard the garbage. At first, he’d found the situation preposterous. Then he got a look at the garbage and understood: the Fyne cast-offs were fine, indeed. In an enormous open-aired ‘room’ at the back of the estate, a huge pile, twice the height of a man contained fruit and vegetables that had barely perceptible or even imagined imperfections, along with clothing, dishes and flatware that had become unfashionable, books that had been read once, furniture made of rare materials that had been accidentally scratched or cracked by obese relatives and more, so much more than Yendor could even begin to describe or inventory. Once every few days, a large wagon drawn by a team of oxen came to haul much of the garbage away; much, but not all. The last foot-and-a-half to two feet of the pile never quite made it off the premises, congealing, instead, into a fetid stew, the mere odor of which had caused Yendor to lose his appetite often enough for the man to drop ten pounds. One of the other guards had assured him he’d grow used to the smell. He had not and did not foresee ever doing so. Still, there were many things near the top of the pile that seemed perfectly good to Yendor, things that might sustain a working family for days or weeks, and he saw no reason to throw such items away, save that some Fyne or other had deemed them garbage, and that, apparently, could not be gainsaid by anyone else in the House. Yet, the Fyne folk knew the value of their discards, else they would not have posted guards to keep watch over it all. Yendor was not a man to get angry, in general, but this infuriated him. Why commit to the city dump or the river things that might keep others alive? He felt powerless to change things, so he forced himself to think of other things.

  He had learned nothing, for instance, of House Fyne’s possible involvement in the Queen’s disappearance. Nor had he seen or heard anything of his missing comrade, Spirk, which made him reasonably confident the young man hadn’t come ‘round the estate. Yendor wondered which of the Houses Long might have infiltrated, but that was a fruitless exercise: he would only learn when Long told him.

  The next day off was mercifully quicker in coming than the last. Once again, Yendor dropped by the Fretful Porpentine to see if Long and/or Spirk were around. Once again, he was disappointed. His disappointment only grew when the two whores he’d hired last time appeared to have no recollection of ever having met him, much less…well, who could say what had transpired? Certainly not Yendor.

  There was still time, if he hurried, to make it to Teshton and inquire after his companions at Gangrene & Sons. Heading out to the Fretful Porpentine’s stables, Yendor was enraged to discover his horse – for which he’d paid a good month’s boarding – had been fed to the inn’s clientele the week previous. Yendor stormed back inside and raged at the innkeeper.

  “What in Mahnus’ name d’you think you’re doin’, eatin’ me horse?”

  “You didn’t read the lodger’s contract, then?” the innkeeper responded.

  “What lodger’s contract?”

  “Why, the one behind the bar!”

  Yendor craned his neck over the bar. There, tacked to the rear wall, was a scrap of paper no bigger across than an apricot. “What – that?” he asked in disbelief.

  The innkeeper nodded. “The same.”

  “I’d have to have the eyes of an eagle to see that thing from the common room, much less read it!”

  “Oh,” the innkeeper said, “You can read, then?”

  “Not much,” Yendor admitted.

  “Then what’s the difference?”

  Yendor was beside himself. “The difference? The difference is, I’da never boarded me horse wi’ you an’ I’d known you was gonna eat her!”

  The innkeeper spread his hands wide. “Ah, but we’re all eaten eventually, ain’t we?”

  “I demand – what’s the word – restimation!”

  There was no such word, of course, but the innkeeper seemed to understand, nonetheless. “I can let you borrow one o’ them others,” he suggested.

  “But,” Yendor protested, “Don’t those belong to the other patrons?”

  “For now,” the other man agreed.

  “I’ll take one.”

  “How long’ll you be needing it?” the innkeeper asked.

  “Dunno. ‘Til tonight, maybe. Why?”

  “Oh, just in case the butcher don’t come ‘round with our regular delivery o’ beef…”

  *****

  And no one had come by Gangrene & Son’s since the original meeting, with the exception of Rem, who’d been by “several days ago,” by the giant barkeep’s estimation. The whole thing had become an exercise in frustration and impotence – not that Yendor knew anything about impotence, of course. But…what to do? House Fyne seemed a dead end, as devoid of gossip as a graveyard at midnight. Could he, should he give the Fynes the slip and attempt to join one of the other Houses, in hopes of locating Long or Spirk? Or would he be better off staying where he was, hoping his patience was rewarded? Normally when Yendor had no direction, he drank himself into oblivion, until something presented itself. At the moment, however, he felt too much depended upon his remaining conscious. Unhappily, he rode back to the Fretful Porpentine, returned the nag they’d lent him, and made his way back to House Fyne.

  He hadn’t been back five minutes when the captain of the guard cornered him in the barracks.

  “What’s of interest in Teshton?”

  Ah. They’d had Yendor followed. Of course. Fortunately, he was an accomplished liar and missed not a beat in responding. “Best cider in the Queen’s realm.”

  The captain drew his dagger, began tossing it into the air and catching it. “We got plenty o’ cider in Lunessfor.”

  “That’s as may be,” Yendor countered. “But the fella in Teshton’s devoted to the stuff. He’s got a c’llection you wouldn’t believe.”

  The captain smirked at him. “Has he, now? Still, that’s a mighty long trip for a few mugs ‘o cider.”

  “That it would be, if that were all my interest in it. Truth is, I was thinkin’ o’ getting into the apple-growing business one day.”

  “That a fact?” the captain said flatly.

  “Oh, ‘tis that. Y’see, with a couple of acres o’ land, man can grow more ‘n one variety of apples – and that’s good proof against yer mildews, yer cankerblossoms, yer chaffing burr weevils. Why, time was…” He looked up and saw that the captain had departed. The speech had had the same effect on him as it had on Yendor, when Long first delivered it, though Long’s version had presumably been more rooted in reality.

  So, Yendor’s rather boring tenure at House Fyne had suddenly taken a turn for the worse, which was, to his way of thinking, paradoxically a turn for the better. If they were spying on him, it meant the Fynes suspected him of spying; if they were worried about spies, they must have something to hide; if they had something to hide, it could be found.

  Unless they killed him first.

  *****

  Vykers, at Sea

  Some men drank, some whored, some gambled. Vykers killed, people and things. And if he wasn’t killing, he was daydreaming about it. Killing was how he imposed his will on an otherwise indifferent world,
how he made his mark, how he defined himself. When he wasn’t engaged in slaughter, he felt lost and confused, as if his mind could entertain no other thoughts and his limbs knew no other function. And yet, for too long now, he had been lost – lying and dying in a bed, sitting on a horse, lounging in a ship’s cabin. Supposedly, he was chasing the Queen’s captors. But that was not what he’d been made for, he was certain, nor the best use of his talents.

  Vykers glanced over at the captain’s collection of liquor bottles. There was no salvation or even escape to be found there. His mind wandered to the A’Shea – a little too willingly, he felt. She, she could provide distraction. Some might even have said comfort, but he was not a man to ask or accept such a thing, wouldn’t know how to wear it in any case. Not like he wore his constant pain.