As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)

by Allan Batchelder

  “That’d be Frankus. He’s dead.” Jasper answered.

  “Ah,” Long sighed. Then, “Would you be interested in the job?”

  Jasper’s eyes went wide. “What, me?”

  “You, Jasper, or any of you three.”

  “I can do it,” said Jasper, clearly taking to the idea.

  “Yeah,” Tane agreed. “You’d be good at it.”

  “Let’s consider it done, then,” Long instructed. “Now, if you can gain access to the family vaults, I imagine a cash bonus to each surviving D’Escurzy should soothe tempers a bit. Don’t get carried away though,” he warned. “We’ll need funds aplenty to repair the damage done to our House and hire additional guards for increased security.”

  Dendul, Jasper and Tane nodded right along with Long’s directions, as if acknowledging their wisdom.

  “Dendul, my friend,” Long continued, placing special emphasis on ‘friend,’ “Is there a vacant office you fancy?” “And you, Tane?”

  “Well,” Dendul admitted, “Chief o’ Security’s dead. That’ll need to be filled, an' it please you.”

  “The office is yours, good Dendul.”

  The man beamed. It’s amazing what a little acknowledgement and praise can do for morale.

  “I’d like to be the Head Steward. Never did like the way the place was decorated. Looks too much like a damned museum.”

  “I couldn’t agree more!” Long proclaimed. “The office is yours, sir. But now, tell me, whom does the House normally employ to carry messages long distance?”

  “There’s a company in the city. They got a bunch o’ couriers’ll go anywhere you please.”

  “Good, good. Can anyone send for ‘em? I’d like to get word to my wife…”

  “I’ll go and fetch someone,” Tane offered and departed immediately.

  “And Jasper, I’d like something done with the fellows I came in with.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Well,” Long said, “I want the mad poet cleaned up, dressed, fed and confined to his room for the nonce. And I want the torturer moved from the room he currently occupies into a cell, until further notice.”

  “As you wish,” Jasper replied, bowing his head slightly and taking his leave.

  “And I’ll get on that money issue,” Dendul said, leaving as well.

  I could get to like this, Long thought.

  *****

  Rem, the Queen’s Castle

  The Shaper was about as intimidating a fellow as Rem had encountered in some time. There was not a trace of warmth or approval in the man’s demeanor as he spoke to the actor, and the last thing Rem wanted was to irritate an all-powerful magician.

  “The timing of your arrival,” Cindor said, “is rather suspicious, given the chaos that erupted between Houses Hawsey and Radcliffe shortly thereafter.”

  “I grant you, it looks bad,” Rem conceded, struggling to maintain a calm façade.

  “Hostilities continue between the families even now, and, in fact, noblemen and women continue to die throughout the city…though I can’t see how all of this can be laid at any one person’s feet – even those of a shameless narcissist like yourself.”

  Rem was on the verge of taking offense at the remark when he realized it was probably accurate, and there were, anyway, worse things one could be. At least the Shaper hadn’t questioned his acting ability. “What can I say to reassure you?”

  “I imagine the truth’s out of the question?” Cindor quipped. “Nevermind. Let’s try a different tack, shall we? What did you learn during your sojourn at House Hawsey?”

  “That’s a rather broad topic,” Rem pointed out. “Is there a particular subject you’re interested in?” He was close to pissing himself in fear of the wizard’s wrath, but he was nothing if not practiced in pretense.

  “I wonder,” Cindor mused, “if you are interested in the subject of your continued ability to feed yourself without help. I find you overly circumloquacious; that is to say you talk around the issue without ever saying anything of import. You will stop that behavior now or face severe consequences.”

  “As you say,” Rem agreed.

  “I know,” the Shaper continued in a world-weary manner, “that you were hired by Colonel Bailis of Her Majesty’s army to investigate the Great Eight’s possible involvement in the Queen’s disappearance.” He paused, gathered himself. “What have you learned in that regard?”

  Death by incineration did not seem to be imminent, so Rem said, “My associates and I split up and attempted to infiltrate different Houses. I ended up, as you already know, at the Hawsey estate, in service to His Lordship.”

  “And?”

  “And…while I can see how Henton might prove a dangerous man, he doesn’t seem an exceptionally clever one, certainly not clever enough to have masterminded the abduction of the Queen…if that’s what’s happened.”

  “Dangerous word to bandy about, ‘if.’ Do you have knowledge or suspicions to the contrary?” Cindor asked, his voice a deadly whisper.

  “No, no,” Rem replied quickly. “Just being…open-minded.”

  “Enough of this!” said the Shaper, abruptly. Purple-blue lightning flared from his fingertips and rattled the actor in its grip. Rem’s body spasmed uncontrollably, his teeth chattered, his lips pulled into a rictus of pain, and his eyes bulged desperately from their sockets. Just as suddenly, the ordeal was over.

  Rem slumped to the floor, breathing heavily and battling a bladder and bowels that threatened to betray him.

  “For the moment,” Cindor said, “I have a kingdom to manage and will not suffer fools gladly. When I ask a question, I expect a direct and immediate answer devoid of equivocation.”

  Through teeth gritted in lingering pain, Rem said, “You’ve not known many actors, then.”

  The Shaper blasted him into unconsciousness.

  *****

  Vykers, the Lake Bed

  It took almost until noon to reach the pickets outside the numerous encampments of the armies arrayed before them. Two short, stocky men in hide armor observed their approach with pronounced disinterest.

  Vykers reined his horse to a stop some twenty paces shy and eyed the Historian, the Ahklatian’s signal to speak and translate. The Shaper slid from his mount and walked closer. He made a small, subtle wave of his hand and greeted the soldiers in a language Vykers had never before understood, but now did.

  “All praise and honor to your leader,” he said.

  The two men seemed surprised to hear their tongue spoken by such obvious strangers. “What’s your business at the obelisk?”

  After a brief hesitation, the Historian replied, “Of the same nature as yours and everyone else’s who has come to visit.”

  “Where’s your army?” the nearest man asked. “Where are your troops?”

  “Whom do you represent?” the second man added.

  “We come on our own behalf,” the Ahklatian said. “And we have no need of additional men.”

  It was shaping up to be a hot day; Vykers felt sweat running in rivulets down his back as he sat, in diminishing patience, in his special saddle, and waited to hear something that made sense.

  “Are you a company of fools, then, that you come to the contest so ill-prepared?”

  Vykers tried to respond, but found that he could not form the right sounds. The words he spoke were in his own language. “What contest? Explain this to me.” He was forced to wait while the Historian translated.

  “What is this contest, and what is the prize?” the Shaper asked in words the Reaper again understood but could not frame by himself.

  The soldiers laughed at him. “You claim to come with the same purpose as those behind us, yet you know nothing of the contest? You are fools!” Suddenly, they seemed to notice the Frog for the first time. “And what in Skara’s name is that abomination?”

  Before Vykers could draw his sword, the Historian put both men to sleep. “No sense in alerting the rest of their army that we’re
coming,” he explained.

  The Reaper grudgingly admitted the wisdom in this, much as it pained him, because he knew his chance would come. There was no shortage of foes ahead of him, no shortage of candidates for carnage. The Historian climbed back atop his horse, and Vykers allowed him to lead the group forward. The Ahklatian would be doing the talking, so he might as well be on point.

  Several hundred yards later, the group came in sight of a line of tents and yet more pickets. This outer army was not concerned with attack from the north, evidently. As far as Vykers could see, there was little to stop him and his companions from strolling right into the center of the camp. It appeared, from Vykers’ perspective, that the bulk of this army’s men had gathered on their camp’s southern end, where another, sturdier fence had been erected. Beyond that, the Reaper could make out the troops of a different force entirely. Men in dirty crimson armor languished outside their dirty crimson tents; no matter, Vykers would roust them, once he made it through this first army.

  A number of men looked up or turned heads as Vykers’ crew came within hailing distance, and an older man in more decorative armor than the guards at the pickets had worn ventured near. He called out to the group, but Vykers found that he was only able to understand the man if he stayed close to the Historian.

  “I am Penarion. Who or what are you?”

  The Historian answered without consulting the Reaper, always a dangerous decision. Still, it saved time, and Vykers had no patience for prattle. “We are emissaries from across the Great Sea. We have reason to believe our Queen is amongst this gathering.”

  The old man perked up. “Your Queen, is it? There’s an old hag stuck to the obelisk, in the heart of yon flame. If that be your Queen, I’m afraid there’s little you can do for her.”

  Vykers turned to the Frog. “You see an old woman in those flames?” he asked.

  Like an acrobat, the Frog climbed to his feet atop the saddle, perfectly balanced. “There’s someone, aye. A woman? I can’t say.”

  “Anyway,” Penarion cut in, “Those closest to the obelisk fought their way in. That’s how it is, here. You want a better look, you’ll have to defeat every army between me and those flames.” Having said this, he laughed. “’Course, with an army of three men, two prisoners and whatever that is,” he pointed at the Frog, “I don’t think you’ll be getting much closer.”

  “Your sentries told us of a contest. Is this what you mean?”

  “Aye,” the old man confirmed. “The very same.” He turned to go, but the Historian stopped him.

  “I offer you gold,” the Ahklatian said. “Gold, for information.”

  “What gold?” Vykers whispered tensely. “Do you barter with my private stores?”

  The Historian looked at him with his dead, black eyes, and then swept his gaze over to the old soldier. He made a conspicuous move to put a hand into one of the external pockets of his robe and withdrew a small, shining ingot. The soldier’s eyes widened in surprise and avarice.

  “Information?” the man repeated, unable to take his eyes off the Historian’s treasure. “I’ve known men to kill for less gold.”

  Vykers drew his sword, and it came screeching out of its scabbard. “You’re welcome to try,” he suggested. “You and your whole army.”

  The old man didn’t understand the individual words Vykers spoke, but he definitely got the gist. “What is it you want to know?” he asked of the Historian.

  “What is the purpose of this gathering before us?”

  “Is is said, amongst the armies, that yon obelisk appeared only recently. No man could touch it without being burned alive in an instant. One day, the hag appeared and touched it. It has not consumed her, but neither can she let go of it. Folk of many nations take this as a sign, but of what, they cannot say. The armies you see here jockey for position, for proximity to the obelisk. They wish to be first to witness…”

  “First to witness what?”

  “Ah,” the man laughed. “No one knows.”

  “And you say these armies have fought to get closer. How is this done?”

  “When we first arrived, months ago now, it was a free-for-all. Armies attacking one another on sight, without cause, without quarter, without a plan. It has taken weeks, but we have fallen into a comfortable routine of sorts: when two armies fight, the one furthest from the obelisk offers a challenge, the inner accepts, and a battle is fought. The winner moves inward and earns the right to challenge the next army.”

  “It would appear your army has not been especially successful, if what you say is true.”

  “We have not, no.”

  “But, as you have observed, we have no army. Is it possible to challenge an army’s champion instead?”

  The old man cocked his head, astounded and intrigued by this idea. “What an interesting thought. I’ve not seen it done, but it might well save lives. Do you mean, then, to challenge our champion?”

  “Yes,” Vykers said, though the other man could not understand him.

  The Historian translated.

  Looking Vykers up and down, the old man said, “I suppose I would be the champion of my army, but I have no interest in fighting with that brute…or the monster, either, for that matter. You may pass right through my army, if you like and challenge the next.”

  “How many armies are here, would you say?”

  “There are representatives of every major power on the continent – eleven, twelve perhaps, if one counts the Tzuras city states.”

  “Is the depth of armies equal all the way ‘round the obelisk?”

  “No,” Penarion replied. “There’s nothing ‘round the back, but a little lake so salty that naught lives in or near it.”

  The Historian raised an eyebrow in Vykers’ direction. “Now we know what happened to the great lake; it’s shrunken and condensed into a poisoned pool.”

  And magic doesn’t travel over any quantity of salt, Arune added.

  “Enough of this,” Vykers declared. “Let’s accept the man’s offer and move on to the next army.”

  *****

  Yendor, House Amberly

  Yendor awoke on an uncomfortable cot in an unfamiliar room, sandwiched between other cots that held, respectively, an old woman with crackly breathing and a chubby young man with a great, filthy bandage atop his head. Ah. He was in an infirmary, a hospital of some sort. His right eye ached something horrible, and when he realized he couldn’t see out of it, he nearly screamed in fright. Against his better judgment – if he’d ever had such – he slowly reached up and explored the area with his right hand.

  His eye was gone.

  Every muscle in his body seemed to go slack at the discovery, and he sank, hopelessly, deeper into his bedding. He’d lost an eye! He’d lost a Mahnus-cursed eye! Damn his liquor-addled brains! He’d always known his drinking would end badly, but this!

  He closed his remaining eye and tried to recall how he’d lost its twin. He’d been part of a mob, House Fyne’s contribution to the vigilantism of the previous night – or whatever night it had been. Yendor had no way of knowing how long he’d lain here. But he’d seen the other men’s fury as his chance to escape the House and disappear into the night, before His Lordship got ‘round to questioning him about poor Moult. He remembered throwing rubbish at the gates of House Amberly and dodging the rubbish its members threw back in return. He remembered how the Amberlys had fired arrows, crossbow bolts and slung stones down into the press. And he remembered stabbing one of his comrades in the back, for reasons that now escaped him.

  And then he’d woken up in this place.

  He felt the warm softness of a gentle hand on his brow, and he opened his eye again. “Whuuu…” he croaked.

  The face of a plump A’Shea drifted into view. “Let me help you up, so you can take water more easily.”

  Yendor allowed himself to be hauled into a more-elevated position and found a ladle placed at his lips. He drank greedily. “Whuu…where…am I?”

  �
�You’re in the staff infirmary in House Amberly,” the A’Shea said in an unusually mellifluous voice.

  Yendor choked on his water, watched the ladle pull away for a moment. “How…?” he asked.

  “How did you get here?” The A’Shea’s expression grew sad. “I’m told you were involved in the riots yesterday outside the gates.”

  He’d guessed that much, so he sank back into a more restful position.

  “And…”

  His body became rigid with suspense. And?

  “Milord saw you do something he wished to know more about, so he had you brought inside.”

  “Whuu…what did I do?”

  The A’Shea regarded him, wondering whether she’d already said too much. Finally, she explained, “You murdered young Hadreus Fyne, son of Lord Fyne.”