“Can’t a man have a little fun?” His Lordship asked the newcomer.
“Men do not have fun,” the woman retorted sourly. “At least real men don’t. Fun is the province of rascals and fools, the sort of fellows who dither away their time in fruitless pastimes whilst their families starve.”
“We’re hardly starving, mother,” Lennard observed.
“And you may thank your late father for that, and his before him. If it’s fun you’re after, you should have been born a Gault or a D’Escurzy. As it is, you’re an Amberly, and you will behave like one or find your fortunes very much reversed.”
Yendor heard rather than saw most of this exchange, having only the one eye, and that diverted so as to allow his visitors as much privacy as possible for their awkward exchange. Sadly, he was pulled into the fray just the same.
“You! One eye!” the woman shouted.
Yendor rolled his eye her way.
“What has the boy told you?”
“Nothin’, milady, save that he’s Lord of the House.”
“Lord, but not ruler,” the woman scoffed. “And if he’s not more careful,” she warned, “he never will rule.”
Nothing was worse than being caught in the middle of a family spat, Yendor reflected, unless it was being caught in a family spat without access to spirits.
“You have my leave to go,” Lennard’s mother informed him. “I will represent our House in this business from here on out.”
This business? That had an inauspicious quality to it.
Lennard pursed his lips, clasped his hands behind his back and departed, flushed and breathing heavier than the circumstances seemed to merit.
“Now then,” the woman began, “I am Raisa, the young fool’s mother – much to my frequent embarrassment – and true ruler of House Amberly.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Yendor said, as gallantly as possible.
“I doubt it. Your name, as I have been informed, is Yendor Plotz…”
Gods, did he have to go through all this again?
“A ridiculous name for an assassin, but there you have it.”
Ah, yes, he was supposed to have killed someone.
“Let me get to the point, assassin: I am not the sort of woman who goes for torture, truth serums or painful magics. I prefer the direct approach: you will tell me what I wish to know, or I will take your other eye with these very nails.”
They were, according to Yendor’s admittedly cursory inspection, more than long and sharp enough for the job. “I’ll tell you whatever you wanna know!” he cried bravely.
“I rather thought you might.”
Yendor dared a closer look at his newest tormentor. She wore the whiteface that had lately come into fashion amongst Lunessfor’s wealthiest women (and more than a few men), with rouged checks, blood red lips and garishly painted eyebrows. Her hair was pulled back into a net that appeared, from Yendor’s limited vantage point, to be studded with pearls. An ornate and heavily starched lace collar spread out under her chin, making it look almost as if her head were on a fanciful platter. Her dress was of red so deep it was but a half-step from black, and it, too, held more than its share of pearls. He would have continued to stare, but Her Ladyship cut in.
“What I wish to know is who hired you to kill young Fyne.”
“Nobody,” Yendor replied quickly. It was the truth, and he hoped she could see that.
“Nobody. Was there some animosity between you? Had you known him previously?”
“No, neither.” He realized a moment too late that he ought to have added, “Your Ladyship” or some such, but she didn’t react, so he counted himself lucky.
“Had he done something to you during the riots?”
“No.”
“Did you know who he was when you killed him?”
“No.”
“Tell me you remember killing him?”
Yendor nodded. “I do. More or less.”
“Why did you kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
Raisa scowled, looked down at her lap. When she looked up again, she said, “You seem a rather weak-minded fellow. Perhaps you were ensorcelled. But that begs the question of who has the power to do such things…”
“A Shaper?” Yendor offered.
Her Ladyship spat in contempt. “Of course a Shaper, you clodpole! I’ve heard it’s not easy to manipulate humans, but if they’re stupid enough…”
“Stupid?” Yendor objected. “I was smart enough to survive the last war.”
“And so did countless thousands of rats,” Raisa countered. “Still, even if you’re nothing but a pawn in this affair, you’re still a pawn. Someone’s pawn. I wonder who’ll come calling if we leave you dangling out there in the middle of the board without protection…”
“Your Ladyship?”
“I’m setting you free, one-eye.”
“But…Fyne’s people may come after me.”
“Mmmm,” Raisa agreed. “They might. Doubtless will. And how will you handle that?”
*****
Vykers, the Lake Bed
The next champion in line was about Vykers’ age, decked out in armor that must once have been magnificent, but had seen a few too many skirmishes. His grey-blonde hair was pulled back in a topknot, and he sported a long mustache that trailed off either side of his bare chin. The most interesting thing about him, though, were the tattoos of tears that ran from the outer corners of his eyes and down his cheeks to his jaw line. He watched Vykers’ approach with an expression of ineffable sadness, a fact the Reaper found more than unsettling, as no one had ever regarded him thusly before.
“If you would not fight me, your army must have others who’ll take up the challenge,” Vykers told the knight.
As usual, the Historian translated. Within his aura, however, the other man’s words were easily understood.
“Alas, it is my duty,” he said flatly. “And more, it is my curse.”
“And I am the Reaper,” Vykers said.
“So I have been told,” the knight responded.
Vykers raised his sword. “Let us see whose curse is greater.”
Always aware he was being studied by the surrounding throng, Vykers again varied his tactics. This time, he planted the tip of his sword in the ground at his feet and rested his hands on its pommel. The tattooed knight raised his shield and sword and calmly walked within reach of Vykers’ blade. Without haste or tension, he assumed a defensive stance and waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
The sun crept across the lake bed; many in the crowd sat, others laid down. Just when it seemed the two adversaries had turned to stone, the tattooed knight leapt at Vykers, testing every part of the Reaper’s defenses with a dazzling array of blows from every conceivable angle. It seemed impossible that anyone mortal could withstand such an assault, and yet…Vykers did, without returning fire. Eventually, the knight stepped back out of range, tossed his shield aside and leaned on his own sword. He looked down at Vykers’ feet, studied his ankles and knees, considered the orientation of his hips and shoulders, and attacked again, in a barrage of blows that was even more spectacular than the last. Now and again, Vykers clearly winced in pain, but he never gave an inch of ground or went on the offensive. The knight came soaring in with another combination, whirling his sword in great, looping figure-eights, and then reversing his grip in the blink of an eye, spinning completely and chopping at Vykers’ left shoulder. Which was no longer where it was supposed to be, so the knight found nothing but air. Undeterred by this development, he faked, feinted, tried to goad his challenger into making a mistake, or overconfidence. None of it worked. Again, the tattooed knight stepped back. There was no sign of panic on his face or in his posture; instead, he looked merely perplexed.
When the Reaper finally came at him, the knight was almost surprised. Vykers was like a violent wind, everywhere and nowhere. Impossible to block, impossible to hit. But the knight a
cquitted himself well, proving himself Vykers’ far greatest opponent to date and worthy of the title of champion. At one point, the knight even achieved the unthinkable: a palpable hit on the Reaper’s upper chest, carving a shallow trench from shoulder to shoulder. Vykers got angry and bashed away at the knight’s defenses, smashing his parries down or aside until the beleaguered fellow could barely stand. Vykers was moments from victory.
And then a funny thing happened: the knight began to laugh. And it was not the lunatic laugh of a warrior in full blood lust, no. It was a laugh of joy, the laugh of a man relieved of a longstanding, crushing burden. The laugh of a man set free after years of cruel durance.
Irritated at this unexpected response, Vykers disengaged. “Why do you laugh?” He demanded. “You’re spent and could die at any moment.”
The Historian explained Vykers’ comments to the knight, who regained his composure enough to reduce his laugher to a broad smile.
“I laugh, my friend,” the knight answered, “because I am the Weeping Knight.” He indicated his tattoos. “That is my name, because I have never been beaten in arms and thus am destined to kill any man who faces me. It has been my curse to see untold hundreds – thousands, even – fall under my blade. That makes me weep in sooth. And often, I know the outcome before the first blow is struck. But you…” His voice trailed off, thick with emotion. “You, I cannot kill! Your death will never be laid at my feet!”
Vykers considered the man’s words for a long time and finally decreed, “And you, I will not kill. Will you accept defeat and allow me to pass?”
“I must,” the Weeping Knight said. “And am honored to do so.”
The mass of soldiers and warriors around Vykers’ crew cheered heartily, as if a holiday had been declared, and followed the Reaper’s every step towards the next and final gate. From there, even at ground level, Vykers could see the obelisk sat atop a small hill, perhaps twice the height of a man. He could also see Her Majesty leaning against the stone, still alive, against all logic. Behind the hill, the land sank away into the promised salt lake.
One more challenge and Vykers could go home.
*****
Kittins, House Gault
Kittins had to frighten and bully a few peasants, travelers and even a merchant or two along his trip back to Lunessfor in order to secure the clothing and food he needed, but he told himself these little acts of evil were as nothing compared to what he’d already done and was in fact still planning to do when he reached the city. What were a few more petty crimes to man like him?
And, really, the important thing was vengeance. He would punish Lord Darley for his role in transforming Kittins into a monster, and if that wouldn’t satisfy Mahnus and Alheria, then perhaps they’d accept Darley’s death as payment for His Lordship’s cruelty to others. Kittins could only imagine how many folks the callus bastard had damaged or killed. Well, now it was his turn to die.
When he arrived at the gates of Lunessfor, he was dressed in pauper’s rags and carried nothing with him except for the charm Croonbasket had given him. The guards were reluctant to allow him into the city, but as he wasn’t armed, they supposed him incapable of causing much harm.
They were mistaken.
Kittins walked right past the Fretful Porpentine and almost went in, for old time’s sake, but reckoned he no longer fit in with the team, if he ever had. Its members were bumbling but well-meaning, whereas he was neither.
It was late afternoon when Kittins reached the Gault estate. A couple of greenhorns he had never seen before stood outside the gates, fidgeting nervously with their weapons. The former Captain of the Guards walked right up and saluted them; they simply stared at him in return.
“What are you about then?” the one on the left asked belligerently.
Kittins punched him in the face so hard that the man flew backwards, collided with the wall and crumpled to the ground, unconscious, or worse. The other guard saw this and immediately lost all pretense of courage or competence.
“Wh…wh…what do you want?” He whined.
“Tell His Lordship that Captain Janks has returned and is here to collect the promised reward.” Kittins didn’t care three shims for the reward, but he wanted to confirm his suspicions about Darley.
“Yessir, right away, sir,” the guard stammered. He then rapped out a particular sequence on this side of the gate and waited for a response. When it came, he rapped out another sequence and the doors opened.
That was new, Kittins thought, as he watched the man slip inside. He might’ve forced his way in himself, but he had no interest in killing anyone other than His Lordship. Of course, he’d probably die, too, in the effort, but Kittins was at peace with the possibility. You can’t be a bastard forever and expect there to be no consequences. Unless you were Tarmun Vykers.
The door creaked open again and Lord Darley appeared in the gap, backed by a number of heavily armed men. “You do have a disastrous effect on my guards,” His Lordship remarked sardonically. “I understand you’ve come for a reward of some sort?”
Suspicions confirmed. “Just the one you promised for eliminating a certain…target.”
His Lordship pulled a melodramatic expression of surprise. “Oh? But you failed, you know. Haven’t you heard?”
He’d failed? Kendell had survived? He was about to dismiss the notion when he realized that he, himself, was proof of the impossible. “So Kendell’s alive?”
Suddenly, it dawned on Darley that this probably wasn’t a conversation to be had outside the walls of House Gault, so he stepped aside and beckoned Kittins to enter. “This is, perhaps, best discussed in private,” he said.
Ambushes were also best conducted in private, Kittins knew, but he went inside, anyway. He made eye contact with every one of His Lordship’s bodyguards, to let them know he was watching and prepared for anything they might attempt. The door swept closed behind him, and Darley’s men barred the gates.
“You look like you’ve been on a tour of the infinite hells. I’ll wager you could use a drink, eh?”
“I wouldn’t refuse one,” Kittins replied.
Darley was a bold son-of-a-whore; he fell in right beside Kittins and continued chatting as they walked along. “How did you manage to escape the Radcliffes?” he asked.
“Turns out, they’re not great lovers of fire.”
“Aha!” Darley chuckled. “I’d forgotten about that. Yes, you may’ve failed in killing old Kendell, but you certainly damaged the Radcliffe fortunes. I’m told they lost half their buildings that night.”
“And a goodly number of their guards.”
They arrived at a room that was more elegant than any Kittins had seen in House Gault.
“Have a seat, Captain Janks,” His Lordship urged. “What’ll you have? Red? White? An ale, perhaps?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Kittins noticed Darley’s bodyguard – all six of them – had taken up positions around the room. “I’ll have whatever’s closest to hand.”
“Ever the pragmatist!” Darley exclaimed. “Here you go: it’s a red Penser, a favorite of mine, actually.”
Kittins accepted the goblet and waited until His Lordship had poured one for himself. The question was, would he drink it? Seeing that his former Captain of the Guard hadn’t yet tasted his wine, Darley knocked his own back with flair.
“You see? No poison. And, really, what reason have you to suspect treachery from me? After all I’ve put up with, all I’ve done for you?”
After all you’ve done to me, Kittins thought. “Old habits,” he said by way of apology, before draining his own wine.
“You look terrible,” Darley said.
“Yes, well, your map wasn’t entirely accurate, was it? I probably skirmished with half of Radcliffe House. And then I died, of course. That can be hard on anyone.”
Lord Darley perked up at that last bit, looked around at his bodyguards to be sure he’d heard correctly. “You say you…died?”
“So I hear.
But now, you tell me Kendell isn’t dead. I smashed his brains out and felt ‘em running down my arm.”
“And yet, everyone says he’s still alive.”
“Has anyone seen him alive?”
Darley said nothing.
“’S what I thought. And anyway, you said yourself I damaged the – how’d you put it? – Radcliffe fortunes. I’d say I’m due.”
His Lordship’s jaw muscles twitched in irritation. “Do you know why I chose to meet with you in this room?”
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 44
