The Reaper smashed a fist down onto his bedside table. He was too much alone with his thoughts, or saddled with appetites he was currently unable to satiate. For the hundredth – thousandth? – time, he lurched up from his bed, grabbed his sword and staggered out onto the deck, hoping to find…something. Anything to alleviate his boredom and frustration. Sadly, the looked-for sea monsters were otherwise engaged, and the raging sea was not raging. He was not alone, though. A few of the crew could be seen in the rigging. The Fool was regaling the captain, aft, and the Historian and the Frog were in close counsel in the cog’s primitive forecastle. And where was Aoife? Mahnus-be-damned for making him wonder.
Gradually, the conversation between the Historian and the Frog caught his ear.
“But ‘ow can there be anything ‘cross the sea?” the boy asked the Ahklatian.
As he drew near, Vykers saw the Historian look up, catch his eye, and look away again sheepishly. To be seen merely speaking with the boy made the older man uncomfortable. So, the ancient guilt remained. Vykers let him stew in it for a moment, curious how the Ahklatian would proceed.
“Vast as the ocean is,” the Historian said, while seeming to study his hands, “it is not the end of the world, simply a desert of sorts between far-flung lands. Though it might take a man three months or more to cross our own land on horseback – and thrice that, riding north to south – it is still only a small part of a larger world. Our friend, here, Tarmun Vykers,” the older man said as he directed the boy’s attention to the Reaper’s presence, “is a legend in our land, but unknown across the sea, for all his might.”
But a moment earlier, Vykers had watched with interest as the Ahklatian struggled silently with his inner demons. Now, in a bit of clever turnabout, the Historian had invoked one of Vykers’ – the notion that, in spite of everything, the Reaper might be insignificant in the grand scheme of things, unknown and unimportant outside his homeland.
“Not for long,” Vykers said.
The Frog smiled at this, as if he’d been told there’d be pie with dinner.
Be careful with that one.
So, you’re still with me.
You’re alive, aren’t you? Arune quipped.
“I’ve noticed you carry an oddly-fashioned club with your pack,” the Historian said to Vykers. “If you don’t mind sharing, where did you happen to come by it?
“Morden’s Cairn,” Vykers answered. “It’s something called a ‘Ntambi war club.”
“You are well informed.”
Of course.
“Would you believe the men who carry such weapons are of skin so dark they cannot be seen at night, but for the whites of their eyes?”
Vykers grunted. “I’ve heard such things. Time was, I’da called ‘em fairy tales. But I used to say the same of magic swords.” He hefted his own. “Not any more.”
The Frog was much more impressed. “You sure they’re men?”
The Historian offered a wan smile. “As much as we.”
If an eight hundred year old cannibal counts as a man…Arune muttered.
“Good,” Vykers exclaimed. “Men can be killed, if they won’t cooperate.”
“Will they attack us when we land?” the Frog asked, his tone a mixture of fear and excitement.
“No,” the Historian replied. “Their realm is far, far to the south, a land as hot as a blast furnace, excepting the two month rainstorm they call winter.”
“And yet,” Vykers observed, “at least one of their number died in Morden’s Cairn, a world away from home.”
“I, too, have wondered about that,” the Ahklatian said.
“Any idea when we’ll make landfall?” the Reaper inquired. “I’m getting damned sick o’ this boat.”
“Sick of it? I love it!” the Frog declared. And it was true, Vykers had seen him chasing – and being chased by – the sailors, up and down the rigging on more occasions than he could count. The boy looked as if he’d been born to it.
Vykers shrugged indifferently. “Well, you c’n have it.” He realized, too late, that he might’ve hurt the lad’s feelings, but that was probably just as well. Couldn’t have the kid getting too attached, after all. Vykers was nobody’s hero, and the sooner the Frog figured that out, the better chance he’d have of seeing adulthood. Abruptly, he turned and walked back down to his cabin.
Burner, he thought.
Yes?
You know anything else about these dark men livin’ in a blast furnace?
She sighed. I do not. Just the same rumors, folktales and myths we’re all privy to. The Historian has a bit more…life experience…under his belt. You’re not worried, are you, Reaper?
Vykers didn’t reply. Instead, he retrieved his pack, untied the knots securing the Ntambi club, and walked back to his bed. He laid his sword down on the mattress’ far side and carefully reclined next to it, with the club held up before his eyes.
He did not hate these strange, dark men. But, oh, how he wanted to fight them.
*****
Kittins, House Gault
What was happening to him? Lord Darley had sent him out to intimidate an unappreciative merchant and Kittins had gotten carried away and beaten the man almost to death. He’d paid one of Lunessfor’s ubiquitous street urchins to inform the nearest A’Shea and made his escape before she arrived. Now, once again, he sought understanding in the bottom of a bottle of cheap wine in the Grotto. Which was exactly the wrong thing to do, he knew. Spirits never made anything better, although they sometimes provided fleeting moments of obliviousness. There was no denying it, though: ever since he’d come into Lord Darley’s service, he’d become more prone to bleak moods, mindless aggression and subsequent self-loathing. He told himself for the millionth time he was not like Tarmun Vykers, not a man who reveled in carnage for its own sake. But he was finding it increasingly difficult to convince himself.
It was usually around this time of an evening that Deda slithered into the Grotto and made his way to the bar and Kittins’ side. Then the captain remembered: he’d set Deda up and hadn’t seen him since.
“Barkeep,” Kittins called to the man serving drinks, “Have you seen my friend this evening?”
The bartender, a sleepy-eyed lug with protruding teeth, thought about it and then said “Heard he got stabbed in a fight. Heard he’s in the infirmary.”
Whilst the other man had been speaking, Kittins had been drinking. Now, he almost sneezed wine out his nose in an effort to stifle surprised laughter. “Stabbed, you say?”
“’S what I heard. Word is, he and a friend jumped one o’ the other guards, but their target was a mite too strong for ‘em. Dunno what happened to the second man.”
Kittins set his bottle down, wondered if there’d be an investigation and whether his name would come up. He’d had time to plan for such a contingency, but had been rather preoccupied with his latest assignment. “Thanks,” he told the barkeep and slapped a few extra shims on the counter. He had the funds to tip more generously, but most of the guards were notoriously cheap bastards and Kittins had a disguise to maintain.
Drunk, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting concerns, Kittins wandered the Grotto, only peripherally observing the various activities on offer, until he arrived – quite without forethought – at the side corridor that housed the Svarren cages. Several men were gathered around the open door to one of the cages and whooping and hollering at whatever was transpiring within. Kittins thought he knew and pushed his way through the small mob of men in order to see for himself. Sure enough, a couple of half-naked guards were doing unspeakable things to the lone attractive Svarren and beating her if she resisted.
Kittins erupted, his anger getting the best of him once again. He crashed past the last few guards blocking his path and thundered into the cell. At first, the two men inside thought perhaps Kittins had come to join in their fun, but there was no mistaking the look on the big man’s ravaged face: he’d come to kill them. The first man made the mistake of bending over to
pull up his breeches before defending himself. Kittins palmed his face like a small melon and smashed it into the nearby wall. He’d only intended to knock the man unconscious, but his rage was in complete control of him now, and he reduced the fellow’s head to a bloody, broken pulp instead. Outside the cell, the men who’d been watching stood dumbstruck, uncertain what it was they were witnessing or even what should be done about it. Kittins moved on the second man, who’d thrown the Svarren female to the floor and stepped back into a fighting stance – with his trousers still down around his ankles.
“Helluva way to die,” Kittins barked, “with your pecker hanging out.” He bull rushed the man without another thought and drove him into the back wall. This one was stronger than the first and sustained little or no damage after Kittins’ initial charge. In fact, he bashed his forehead into Kittins’ face once the captain’s momentum had carried him fully into the second guard. Kittins didn’t feel it. The only thought, the only impulse in his brain was to obliterate his opponent, to annihilate him completely. While his rival sought to push him away and perhaps clear some room for a series of blows, Kittins forced his hands up around the man’s throat and began tightening his grip like a vise. The other man quickly understood that he needed to break this grip or lose consciousness, so he pounded away at Kittins’ midsection with fists, elbows and knees. He might as well have assaulted a stone column. Next, he brought his fingers up to Kittins’ face, hoping to gouge at his eyes or tear at his lips. Having had half his face ripped off by thralls, Kittins laughed at the man’s efforts, with a bestial, snarling sound that further unmanned his opponent. Suddenly, there was a warm, wet sensation down Kittins’ legs, and he realized the man had pissed on him. With a last, monstrous wrench, Kittins crushed the guard’s windpipe and retreated a step to watch him die. All was quiet in the cell doorway. Too quiet. The other guards had fled, or gone to fetch reinforcements. It mattered little to Kittins. He looked over at the Svarren, who sat cowering in the corner.
“You’re coming with me,” he told her. Even if she understood not a word of the Queen’s tongue, she understood Kittins’ tone.
He walked over to the Svarren and extended his hand. When she failed to take it, he grabbed her wrist – not roughly, but firmly – and pulled her out of the cell in his wake.
*****
The women of the household staff scattered like chickens when they saw him come into the baths, dragging the Svarren creature behind him. “Stay!” he yelled at the two closest women. “Clean her up!”
It was a near thing, in their minds, which was worse: risking the wrath of this fearsome guard or complying with his wishes and attempting to bathe the savage thing he’d brought with him. In the end, they feared Kittins more.
“Stay calm,” he said to the Svarren. “No one’s going to hurt you. Stay calm.”
The sloe-eyed creature looked askance at her surroundings, as well as the women approaching her, but showed no sign of intent either to fight or to flee.
“You there,” Kittins called to the younger of the two women, “what’s your name?”
“Mopsa, an’ it please you,” the woman said, bowing her head a bit in deference. Kittins’ station in the household was no higher than her own, but he was a man – a big, horribly scarred man – who fought and killed for a living. Just about everyone short of His Lordship would defer to him when his ire was up.
“And you?” he asked the older woman.
“Dorcas, sir.” Less deference, but deference nonetheless.
“Well, ladies, you clean up my new friend, here, and make her presentable, and I’ll give you each a Merchant for your troubles.”
Seeing the big guard would not simply impose his will upon them, but was actually offering recompense relaxed both women considerably. With utmost care, they approached the Svarren and gingerly laid their hands upon her forearms, exerting the slightest pressure in the direction of the nearest bath.
Kittins nodded at the Svarren to indicate his approval and said “I’ll be back in an hour’s time,” to the ladies holding her.
*****
He sat, alone, in another bath in a different part of the estate. It had taken a good fifteen minutes in the bath’s scalding hot water for Kittins’ fury to subside and a measure of his sobriety to return. He was just beginning to ponder what he should do about the men he’d killed when the room’s only door slowly creaked open and His Lordship stepped through, carrying a loaded crossbow.
Before Kittins had a chance to react, Darley spoke. “You’re not an easy man to find.”
Kittins could think of nothing appropriate to say, so he remained silent.
“I’m seeing a pattern with you,” Darley said. “You’re dangerously short-tempered and given to overreact. You execute orders in the most literal way.” He stared down at Kittins in his usual, probing manner. “I suppose I ought to let you go. Indeed, an intelligent man would probably have you killed. The irony there, of course, is that you’re the very man I’d ask to handle such a job.”
Here it comes, Kittins thought.
“Almost everyone is frightened of you, excepting myself, naturally. And so I think instead of killing you, I’m going to promote you.”
Even Kittins’ inner-monologue was speechless.
“From now on, you’re Captain of the Guard and in charge of the Grotto, as well. It’s high time the guards, servants and lower family members took things a bit more seriously, and you’re the man to make them do so.”
This time, Kittins was able to cough out a response. “Your Lordship is most generous.’
“Yes, yes,” the other man returned blithely. Just as he was about to leave, he turned back and said “Do let me know how you find that Svarren wench when you’re done with her. A man does get curious, once in a while.” With that, he stepped back into the hall and was gone, closing the door behind himself.
Captain of the Guard. It was madness, clearly, but Kittins was beginning to like it.
*****
Spirk, House D’Escurzy
Lord Titus had not been disposed to leave his bed for days, despite Spirk’s best efforts to motivate him. Was he ailing? Spirk couldn’t tell. The little man had always been frail. Now, though, he was alternately hot or cold to the touch, seemingly never anywhere in between. Oh, he remained as impervious – was that the word? – and insulting as ever, but Spirk didn’t mind. His own father had been impervious and insulting, so, in a way, His Lordship’s chambers felt like home.
One afternoon while Titus slept, Faenia reappeared. Or rather, her perfume wafted into the room and Spirk knew she was not far behind. He considered waking His Lordship, but imagined the old man would not be pleased. No, this was one terror Spirk had to face by himself.
Faenia tread lightly as she walked into view, too lightly, in Spirk’s opinion. She was like a cat – sleek, dark and unknowable. “Oh,” she sighed, in almost convincing disappointment. “Is my uncle asleep then? Poor fellow. I hate to see him so tired all the time.”
Suddenly, Spirk became uncomfortably aware of Faenia’s dramatically heaving bosom and felt somehow enspelled by the woman’s cleavage, as if powerful but unseen magics emanated from thence. He struggled to look elsewhere.
“So…Long Pete,” Faenia breathed in a low, husky voice, “what is it exactly that you do for Lord Titus?”
“Oh, uh,” he stammered, “a little o’ this and some o’ t’other.” The breasts were getting too close. Spirk stared at his feet, hoping somehow he’d find salvation in them.
“I’d’ve thought a big, strong man like you capable of a good deal more than that, Long,” Faenia purred.
Spirk could avert his eyes, but what could he do about his nose? Faenia’s perfume hung thick in his nostrils, making him feel almost drunk with…something. And now he could feel the heat of her breath near his neck. He hoped to Mahnus he was imperious to her charms, but he feared this might be Mahnus’ will.
She put her hand on his chest.
Spirk
wanted to scream, to shriek like the Miller’s girl on Spirits Night. If only he could, he was sure he’d awaken His Lordship. But he had no breath left to shriek with. To his horror, Faenia’s hand began to slide down his chest towards…towards…In that fleeting infinity of time, that eternal instant, Spirk understood that what really frightened him was that he had no idea what to do with a woman and, worse still, what she might do to him.
The blood rushed to his head and his vision went black. Just as he was about to lose consciousness, Faenia pulled away from him and toppled onto the floor, herself. Was she mocking him? No, she had well and truly passed out. A wheezing sound he’d come to recognize as Titus’ laughter assailed him from the depths of the enormous bed.
“Nice trick, that. I hope you killed her.”
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 19
