She continued to fret and fume about the Frog’s absence, as well. She lacked the Shaper’s gift of remote sight and vision, but she believed – had to believe – that the boy had rejoined the Reaper’s company and was even now travelling south with the man in search of the missing Queen. Anyway, this was the story she told herself to stave off brutal self-recriminations; it was not as convincing or effective as she might have liked.
Worst of all, she could not get the damned Reaper out of her head. It was almost as if something was pulling at her, summoning her, commanding her to come, to follow. Late one night, as she lay in her bed listening to the footsteps of the sailors up and down the deck, fearing their approach, it came to her: Vykers’ Shaper was calling her. It could be none other. Why, though? Aoife had always believed Vykers’ resident ghost disliked her, hated her, even. Why would she attempt to communicate…unless the Reaper was in danger, or perhaps great pain?
Carefully and with as much calm as possible, Aoife cleared her mind and sank into herself. For reasons she could not articulate if challenged, the A’Shea rarely took advantage of her training and skills on her own behalf, rarely took the time to meditate and alleviate her own grief and anxiety. She did so now and rapidly sensed a growing peace and receptivity she hadn’t known in years, since the last of her birthings.
With remarkable ease she formulated a plan: she would tell the captain that she needed to go ashore to gather some herbs for healing and such, and then she would enspell her escort and escape to follow the Reaper and his party. She had been able to fight off would-be assailants in the past, and she felt confident in her ability to follow through on her scheme.
Vykers would be furious with her at first, but she hoped - no, she knew - he would be pleased to see her as well. And anyway she was her own person, beholden to no one and taking orders from none. When it came down to it she could go where she would and do as she liked. At least she hoped that was the case. Her spirits buoyed by a plan at last, she fell into a restful slumber.
*****
Normally, Aoife had no trouble sticking to a plan, but as Arune continued to pull on the A’Shea with greater and greater insistence Aoife found it more and more difficult to think and act in a deliberate manner. Thus, when she woke around midnight to fetch a drink of water, she impulsively threw herself overboard. Thrashing about in the darkness, she was greeted by a chorus of panicked voices, the voices of the crew who understood that someone had gone over the railing, but not yet determined who or where. Aoife had her own concerns.
Although the water was definitely warmer than Aoife had been used to back home, it was nevertheless deep and black and everywhere. The A'Shea felt a moment of fear, but again extended her senses, applied her powers and was able to calm herself amidst the waves. In doing so she was able to determine the direction of the waves and by extension, the distant shore. The only question in her mind was whether she had the stamina to make the swim in full clothing, but as she had little choice, she was forced to attempt it. Behind her, the ship’s crew used lanterns to search the water around the ship and one or two even threw blazing torches into the salty brine. Their efforts were for naught. In time, Aoife was able to make out the dark shape of the distant shore. With simple incantations she extended her strength and kept herself sufficiently warm so that drowning posed no real threat. In the distance she heard the shouting aboard the cog temporarily grow louder as its captain and crew discovered whom they had lost. Eventually, the A'Shea could hear them no more, and the sound of surf crashing onshore swallowed all other noises. Because she knew they would come looking for her at first light, Aoife could not afford to simply drag herself onto the beach; she had to make distance and find a suitable place to hide until she was rested enough to continue her journey. This was easier said than done of course, because as she slowly emerged from the surf, she was no longer buoyed by the water around her but instead carried it with her in the heavy, sodden layers of her clothing. She worried, too, that she had no means of following Vykers’ party, so that no matter how fast she walked, she would fall further and further behind every day, assuming she was even able to follow in the first place. They would not likely leave signs to aid her. But that was a concern for the morrow; now she needed a place to hide and dry herself.
*****
Spirk, House D’Escurzy
He had never felt so alone in his life, but he had had that feeling so often that he began to believe that loneliness was his life. The constable, the notary, the doctor, and the others had left Spirk only one man as protection-a tall, skinny, blonde fellow who walked with an obvious limp. Spirk noticed that the other men, particularly the constable, called this fellow Death Bow, at which appellation the man blushed a furious crimson. When at last the constable and the others had gone, leaving Spirk alone with his new companion, Spirk said "That's a pretty scary name you got there."
"Yeah, well, that ain't my name," the man said defensively. "My real name’s ‘Ron."
"Then why did they call you Death Bow?" Spirk asked.
"It's nothing. It's stupid." said Ron.
Spirk giggled. "I been told I'm the king o’ stupid."
"Ain't no big story," Ron shrugged. "We was takin’ target practice with crossbows, and I sneezed and shot myself in the foot."
"That musta hurt something awful."
Ron regarded Spirk with a look that was a mixture of suspicion and hostility. When it was clear that the other man, this new Lord of House D’Escurzy, was not mocking him, Ron relaxed considerably and a foolish grin came to his face. "You really are as thick as they say, ain't you?"
Now, although Spirk was accustomed to such abuse, it still rankled him. But there was something about this Ron or Death Blow or Ron Deathblow that Spirk could not help but embrace. The fellow was just inherently likable, charismatic.
For his part, Ron seemed to have decided that his new employer was relatively benign, for he continued, "Hurt like a bitch, to be honest. Worst part was, I nailed my foot to the ground and couldn't move or sit down till help arrived to pull the damn thing out. And everyone who came by was laughing so hard nobody even tried to help for a good quarter hour. Oh, they brought an A'Shea by at some point and she did some good, but my foot's never been the same. But you know what they say: ‘Man can't run, can't run away."
Spirk stared at his own feet awkwardly, uncertain what was expected of him or how to proceed "Don't rightly know how it happened, but it looks like His Lordship has put me in charge of this place."
"Yes," agreed Ron. "They say you’re the new Lord D’Escurzy. I expect it’s time you came out of this bed room, don't you?"
"I would like to see sunlight again," Spirk replied. "But I ain't… I'm not sure what to do first, where to go. I'm not used to being in charge and all."
"There is usually a big room, like a throne room, sort of. Like these lords and ladies wish they was Queen. If there’s such a room here, that's where we should go."
Spirk sighed. "I think I know where there’s such a room, but I've always been too scared to go in there."
"I reckon I'd be scared to in your place, but you are the new Lord here: you've got to take control."
Spirk must have been palpably terrified at this prospect for the other man reached out and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm here to help you, your Lordship,” said Ron. “That's my job.”
As it turned out, the two men had no difficulty in finding the room they sought. The murmuring of agitated voices that came from within could be heard a long ways off. A few minutes’ walking brought them to their destination, a spacious chamber with an enormous dark wood table at its center, around which sat or stood the largest assembly of D’Escurzy's that Spirk had ever seen. He recognized them at once for the features they all shared, low foreheads, dark eyes, a bit of a pout in the lips. They recognized him, as well; if not by sight, then by demeanor. One or two of Spirk's new family members made as if to stand, but were quickly discouraged from doing so by the rest of t
he group, which was odd because so many were already on their feet. They seemed as conflicted in how to respond to this unforeseen upheaval in the family fortunes as Spirk was himself. Indeed, Spirk had never seen so many expressions of absolute befuddlement since he had walked through the house of mirrors at a traveling carnival. A long, awkward silence ensued, during which each and every person in the room seemed to be weighing his options and calculating outcomes. Out of the corner of his eye Spirk noticed his new friend Ron had become considerably tenser. Spirk was spared the indignity of having to prove he could not resolve this standoff by the abrupt movement of an old nemesis. In a few short, sharp steps, Faenia propelled herself to within striking distance, and all but dared Spirk to fully enter the chamber.
Again, Spirk could smell her perfume, a heavy, floral aroma that rose from her prominently displayed cleavage. He found it difficult to tear his gaze away from the woman's bosom, especially since her eyes blazed with defiance and resentment. But there was also a dark, seductive mischief to be found there as well, and the new Lord D’Escurzy was afraid.
"It is so kind of your Lordship to join us at last," said Faenia, over-enunciating her words as if there were some toxic substance on her tongue that she feared to swallow.
“Um…yes,” was the best Spirk could muster.
"Stand aside, cousin," a large, thick-shouldered man said to the woman. He had longer hair than the other men in the room and an extremely impressive mustache, the ends of which trailed right off his block-like jaw. "I don't know how you did it, nor do I think it's right, but the city authorities have declared it to be so, and I'll not gainsay the decision. You are the new Lord of the House, the new Head of the Family. A few of us older folk have decided ‘tis meet we recognize your station and celebrate your arrival."
Spirk and Ron exchanged looks of discomfort and disbelief. Neither man trusted the apparent situation but neither man was willing to say so aloud, especially not in this company. Nor had Spirk forgotten the one time many years ago when he had been duped into entertaining brief delusions of grandeur, only to be sorely abused for it shortly thereafter. He would not make that mistake again. He was not a smart man but he was smart enough to know that he was not a smart man.
The D’Escurzy gentleman continued, "Accordingly, we're planning a tremendous feast, as befits someone of your magnificent stature.”
That, thought Spirk, sounds like trouble.
*****
Long, House Thornton
His new accommodations were an enormous improvement over the humid cell he had previously occupied. For one thing, he had a window. Yes, it was barred with a steel grating he could never remove, but during the day it nevertheless provided him with enough natural light that he no longer felt like a man in his own grave. He had also been given a mattress of sorts, nothing like a real bed but much better than he had enjoyed for weeks. Naturally, it was infested with vermin of every type imaginable, but now that he could finally see them he could either avoid them or attempt to kill them, two options that had been denied him in the dungeons. As if a window and a mattress were not luxury enough, the water he was given was actually clean, and the food had every semblance of being actual food. In short, he felt like the wealthiest pauper in the kingdom.
None of this, however, brought Long any closer to understanding the baffling, the maddening circumstances in which he now found himself. In searching for answers to one mystery – that of the Queen's disappearance – he had found only a series of evermore disturbing and perplexing mysteries: how had Janks come back to life? For it was Janks, Long was now convinced. Why did the man not remember him? Why had he become a torturer, a profession so antithetical to his nature? And perhaps most astonishing of all, how in Mahnus’ name had Long Pete become the next – or current – Lord D’Escurzy? Or was this simply just another elaborate ploy to break Long’s will? If so, it was the most original such attempt he'd ever experienced or encountered. He supposed the Lord of the house would explain himself in time.
In a strange way, Long was grateful for the mass of riddles that had been thrown his way, for they diverted his attention from other issues, other subjects too painful to contemplate. Early in his incarceration his mind sought out Mardine and Esmine the way a ship lost at sea will look for the beacon of a lighthouse, but too much time had passed, and his fear and loneliness threatened to overwhelm him when he thought in their direction. He perceived himself retreating emotionally from any and every thing that might cause him the slightest suffering. He now had some hope, however misguided, that he might achieve the impossible and survive this debacle; steeling himself against his own feelings, his own fears, longings, and desires was, he felt, a necessary step in ensuring his survival.
How then to pass the time? Initially, Long made lists of varieties of apples, types of martial weaponry, of brandies he'd enjoyed over the years, of card games he knew, the names of towns he’d visited, and the names of whorehouses, too. He remembered individual women, how good they’d all been to him. This led him, in turn, to thoughts of Mardine, the paragon of her sex. He stopped making lists.
Out of nowhere, it occurred to him that the House sigil was not, in fact, a “sunwheel,” but a sunflower. Why he’d never seen this before was beyond him, but the notion fell shy of providing the distraction he craved, so he moved on.
He tried to wrap his mind around the Queen's disappearance, but there was too much he did not know for him to make any headway in that regard. He then spent some time considering his impressions of the other men in his crew, his old friend Yendor, Rem, Spirk, and Captain Kittins. If he had to wager on the question, he judged Kittins most likely to achieve success in their common mission. The idiot, Spirk, was the obvious choice to fail most disastrously, but Long felt a right bastard for thinking such a thing, and after all hadn't he himself failed in about as thorough and catastrophic a manner as one could imagine? Who in the Infinite Hells was he to look down his nose at Spirk Nessno?
A key clicked in the lock, the door’s handle turned, and the door itself began to push inward. Long climbed to his feet. In a moment, the Lord of House Thornton appeared, accompanied by two rather belligerent looking guards. His Lordship stepped forward, about as un-threatened in Long's presence as a bear might feel standing before a rabbit.
“Still with us then, I see. Sometimes boredom is a man's worst enemy."
"Sometimes," Long agreed. "And sometimes it's other men."
Thornton – for that was the only name that Long had as yet been able to attach to His Lordship – gazed back at his prisoner with eyes that betrayed nothing. "You don't care much for the nobility, do you?" He said. "If you did, I imagine you'd behave in a much more – what is the word I'm looking for? – deferential manner. You've made a terrible mistake in sneaking into my home, but that doesn't necessarily mean you're stupid. Perhaps you are merely desperate, or you underestimated our security." Clasping his hands together behind his back the man began slowly pacing around the room’s perimeter, speaking more for his own benefit, his own understanding, than for Long's. "The thing of it is, the information you gave us under interrogation is unquestionably accurate: you were sent here by this Colonel Bailis, an agent of the throne, to spy upon us. I suppose that makes some sense, but all available evidence confirms what I said before, that you are the new Lord of House D’Escurzy, which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever." His Lordship paused a moment to run a hand through his hair in an act of obvious frustration. He looked over at the two guards who had accompanied him as if they had the answers he sought. "How am I to reconcile these disparate realities? Should I have you killed, or attempt to ransom you? If in fact you have been sent here by or as an agent of the throne, killing you would seem unwise. On the other hand, ransom is no easier a choice, for the question becomes: do I ransom you to this Colonel Bailis or do I ransom you to House D’Escurzy? And it's entirely possible that neither party will prove inclined to cooperate." Thornton concluded his pacing directly in front of captain L
ong and smiled at the man. "So, you can see my dilemma.”
Once again Long was visited by the unpredictable and therefore unreliable wellspring of courage that had somehow gotten him through the last war in spite of the impossible odds and overwhelming evil arrayed against him. Once again, he found the mettle to speak as if he were not afraid and no one's fate hung in the balance.
"Of course, if you're asking me, I prefer to live," said he.
"Without doubt," Thornton replied. "Without doubt. But I'm not concerned with your wishes, and you forfeited the right to an opinion when you snuck into my home uninvited. No, a Lord's first duty is to his House, and I must needs determine what will best benefit House Thornton." His Lordship turned and paced away again.
"I have every confidence that House D’Escurzy will offer a healthy pile of gold for my return," Long said.
His Lordship spun back to face the prisoner with a most wicked smile upon his lips. "There may be something in this more valuable than gold."
"And that is?"
"Chaos."
Without any further explanation the man nodded to his guards and left the room. As the door slammed shut Long realized he now had something to occupy his time: pondering and dreading the meaning of chaos.
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 28
