Vykers said nothing.
“Fair enough,” the big man said and faded into the hallway, beyond.
*****
Long & Company, In Camp
Crack! Yendor’s head snapped back, his split lips spewing blood as he reeled from Rem’s blow.
“You filthy, whoreson pustule!” the actor shouted, enraged. “I’ll smash your mazard!”
Yendor spun out of the way, just in time to avoid a follow-up knee to the stomach. Snow was falling so rapidly now, it was hard to keep his lone eye open, much less track Rem’s every move.
“You boil! You carbuncle!”
Give the man his due: the actor knew how to lay it on.
Without waiting another second, Yendor sprang at him, causing his old friend to stumble in the snow and fall backwards. Yendor seized his advantage and pummeled the actor about the head and shoulders.
“A carbuncle, am I? That’s rich, comin’ from a dandy, a fop!” Yendor roared.
Raising his hands to ward off the attack, Rem managed to poke Yendor’s eye, temporarily blinding him. Short of options, the older man searched about frantically with his fingers, until they found purchase in the actor’s hair. It was still short yet, but there was more than enough to pull on. With a great scream of rage, Yendor tore a prodigious clump free, eliciting a shriek from his opponent.
“Ha!” Yendor laughed. “You scream like a milk maid!”
Without warning, Rem shifted his weight and tossed Yendor to the ground, using his momentum to pull himself into the superior position. Now, it was his turn to rain blows and Yendor’s to receive them.
The crowd of men gathered ‘round to watch yelled encouragement, hurled insults and offered odds on a winner.
Yendor struggled to suppress a smile. Rem, being a professional, looked as serious as a public execution, which made Yendor want to smile all the more. With unlikely ease, he threw his tormentor and struggled to his feet. Before he could wipe the blood and snow from his beard, the actor was upon him again, howling a torrent of the most creative invective anyone listening had ever heard.
“Pull out my hair, will you, you rancid codpiece? You muffin-duster! You worthless, shiftless, faithless bastard!” On the last word, Rem ripped out a sizeable section of Yendor’s beard and held it aloft like a trophy, triumph evident on his face.
Until Yendor punched him in the balls. Immediately, Rem doubled over and vomited loudly into the snow. Yendor wound up to deliver the kick that would end the fight, slipped on his backswing and went down on his ass like a load of firewood. Seeing his chance, Rem spun and delivered a kick of his own. And a second. And yet a third.
Yendor turned on his side, hacked up a mouthful of blood and passed out.
The crowd grew silent, waiting for more. When it was clear the fight had ended, the onlookers expressed their approval or contempt, collected or paid off their bets and dispersed, staggering off into the storm in search of their campfires, tents or wagons.
Once everyone had gone, Yendor chuckled and rolled into a sitting position.
“You alright?” Rem asked him.
“Oh, lad, I done far worse to meself than you could ever do.”
Rem stretched for a moment and then peeled his wig off. “Going to have to mend this soon. It’s starting to look too patchy. How’s that beard?”
Yendor, likewise, removed his beard and examined it. “Fine. Can’t even see where you pulled that lot from.”
Spirk and Ron, who’d been watching from a discrete distance, stepped forward timidly.
“You s’pose we fooled ‘em?” Spirk asked.
“We fooled ‘em!” Yendor replied confidently. “We fooled ‘em. And now they know we’re too batshit crazy to meddle with!”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Mmm,” Yendor agreed. “Say, what’s this ‘blood’ made of, anyway? Stuff tastes pretty good.”
“It’s got honey in it,” Rem responded. “But you’ll be sorry if you eat any. The red comes from teneise berries. You’ll have the squirts for days.”
“Too late,” Yendor sighed. “Seems I never learn nothin’ the easy way…”
Back at the group’s campsite, Long never looked up from the fire when his friends returned, so lost in his thoughts was he. Eventually, Yendor had to give him a poke in the ribs just to get his attention.
“Oh!” Long said. “You’re back, then?”
“Been back a good five minutes.”
“Five?”
“Or one. Time seems to drag when you’re sober. Leastways, that’s how it seems to me.”
“How’d the act go?” Long wanted to know.
“Excellent well,” Rem replied. “I believe we came across as suitably deranged.”
“We should have some peace and quiet, then.”
“That’s the plan,” said Rem.
Long got lost in the fire again, so Rem, Spirk and Ron went about their business. Only Yendor stayed to keep the old captain company. After a goodly silence, he spoke up.
“We’ll find her.”
“Yes,” Long answered. What he wondered but didn’t say was, Will she still be alive, though?
Yendor seemed to read his mind. “And she’ll be so happy to see you, you may never escape the next hug.”
Long offered a rueful smile. “That’d be fine with me. Better ‘n fine.” He pulled his collar higher around his neck.
In search of his daughter and her captors, Long and his crew had wandered further and further north, from autumn into winter. And winter in the north pulled no punches. The first storm had nearly buried the gang alive. When the second hit, they sought refuge in a traders’ camp. They’d have preferred almost any other arrangement, but the weather was relentless in its indifference to their desires. The hours stretched into days; the days became weeks.
“I’m afraid we’ll lose her, sittin’ idle like this,” Long confessed.
“Look,” said Yendor, “all we’ve got’s the ponies ‘n our packs. Them we’re chasing have wagons. They won’t be moving any faster through this stuff.” He waved an arm through the falling snow. “I’d be surprised if they don’t hunker down ‘til spring.”
Long shook his head, offered a crooked smile to his former drinking companion. “Seems like wishful thinkin’ to me, old friend, but I’m grateful for your efforts. I know it can’t be easy for you, travellin’ with me.”
“Are you kiddin’?” Yendor asked in mock astonishment. “Ass-deep in snow, more sober ‘n the beadle’s wife, and nary a wench to be found? What could be better than this?”
At last, Long smiled.
*****
Aoife, the North
Aoife was lost in the worst of ways. As an A’Shea, she’d spent years in the service of the goddess Alheria, only to learn that goddess reigned from the throne of Lunessfor, in the person of the arrogant, imperious and always irritable Virgin Queen. Of what possible value could Aoife’s endeavors be to the Queen? To make matters worse, Aoife had fallen in love with the Reaper – the worst choice a woman of peace and healing could have made. Finally, she’d done nothing to prevent what she’d known would be the inevitable ruination of the boy, Tadpole, through the Reaper’s pernicious influence, making her every bit as culpable for the thing that he’d become. She might have summoned the satyr Toomt’-La for company, but even that raised dilemmas she’d rather avoid.
Thus, she languished in an abandoned woodsman’s cottage, a half day’s travel into a nameless forest, tormented by questions she’d no power to answer. What am I, she wondered, if Alheria is not who or what I believed her to be? What is my faith? And what am I to the spirits of Nar, now that I’ve spawned so many forests and the End-of-All-Things is dead?
He lives, someone countered.
Aoife’s head snapped up, and she raised her hands in defense. “Who’s there?”
No one answered.
The A’Shea stood, slowly turned in a circle, searching the shadows of the little cottage. She let her senses w
ander beyond its walls and into the woods that surrounded them.
She was alone.
And yet, someone had spoken. The voice she’d heard was as real as the timeworn floor beneath her feet.
He lives.
The End-of-All-Things, alive?
Her reaction was equal parts terror and fury. The End-of-All-
Things was alive?
*****
Arune, Searching
It was not easy being Tarmun Vykers, especially if one was merely wearing his body. Arune found it hard to go anywhere without being approached by adoring peasants, either savoring a brush with greatness or looking for the Reaper’s assistance in resolving some petty dispute. What would the real Reaper have done? Arune guessed he’d have told them to sod off.
She told them to sod off.
And, really, she didn’t need the distraction. With Vykers’ body, she now had a singular opportunity to achieve what she’d wanted so badly for so long: Aoife’s love. Yes, the Shaper was aware that Vykers and the A’Shea had parted ways, but she sensed the other woman’s resolve what not as strong as she pretended. And Arune could offer something that Aoife would never expect: a penitent Reaper, a man well aware of the wrongs he’d done and determined to make amends…with the A’Shea’s help, of course.
As for the true Reaper, Arune knew him to be resourceful, but stranded as he was inside the body of a girl, bereft of strength and influence, it was inconceivable that he’d ever find the Shaper, much less exact revenge upon her. And, ultimately, there was no way to punish Arune without damaging Vykers’ true body. It was this conundrum, above all, that gave Arune peace of mind.
Except for the fact that she’d betrayed the Reaper. When the unexpected switch in bodies had occurred, the Shaper might have stayed by Vykers’ side. That she chose to flee with his body, his stolen body, was something she’d have to live with for the rest of her life; she’d have to come to terms with herself as a liar, a cheat, and a thief. Still, one night with Aoife would justify everything, make everything right and whole again.
Or so she hoped.
First, she had to find the A’Shea, which was proving harder than she’d expected, particularly with these crazed peasants mobbing her wherever she went. It was time and past time to alter her appearance. That done, she could make whatever inquiries she needed without drawing so much attention to herself.
She briefly contemplated reaching out to Aoife’s mind, as she’d done in the past, but feared she’d only make the A’Shea more wary. No, this had to be done the hard way: on foot and in person.
She only hoped the woman hadn’t jumped to one of her most distant groves. Arune couldn’t say why, but she felt time was of the essence.
*****
Kittins, In Lunessfor
Kittins stood in the corner of the Shaper’s study, his eyes taking everything in as he waited for Cindor to arrive. It was an odd room, not unlike the hut of the swamp witch, Croonbasket. There were strange, desiccated things hanging from the walls and ceilings; on the room’s many shelves, jars and boxes fought for space with more books than the captain had ever seen in one place. Various small animals found homes in the clutter – here a bird, there a cat, across the room, a snake. In nature, they would have been at each other, but not here. Most peculiar of all was the tiny, living gargoyle, resting atop a pallid bust of Pellas, just above the chamber door.
He was considering whether to toss something at the little creature when the Shaper appeared, as he often did, seemingly out of nowhere. The enmity both men held for each other was immediately apparent.
“Your report?” Cindor sneered.
“Stopped a couple o’ burglaries, saved a kid from getting raped and murdered.”
“I hope you don’t think this work redeems you.”
It was Kittins’ turn to sneer. “I’m just doing the job I was ordered to do.”
Cindor fetched a small object from one of the shelves and snorted. “That, I believe.” After a pause, he added, “My back is now turned, soldier. You may never get this chance again.”
“I’d prefer to kill you face-to-face.”
The Shaper turned, raised his eyebrows as if saying, “Well…?”
“But I’ll choose the time and place. Me, not you.”
“You do realize I could send you hurling into the middle of the sea, don’t you? Or an active volcano?”
Kittins’ grin was beyond unsettling. “But you haven’t, which means, as powerful as you claim to be, you’re afraid of Her Majesty…which means there’s more to her than meets the eye, don’t it?”
Cindor squinted at the big man. “You’re smarter than I thought. I won’t underestimate you again.”
“That’s a shame.”
Ignoring the barb, the Shaper changed the subject back to the business at hand. “Try the wealthier neighborhoods tonight, near the homes of the Eight. After the recent uproar, they’re likely to be prime targets for crime.”
Kittins bowed his head. “As you say,” he answered, with more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
*****
Vykers, In Lunessfor
His new name, the one belonging to his body, was Igraine. He’d been walking through the market square when a large, gangly man yelled something at him. Not recognizing the fellow or even remembering that he no longer looked like Tarmun Vykers, he ignored the man and kept walking. Suddenly, a powerful hand grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him painfully ‘round in the direction from which he’d come. The man snuffed and snorted, indignantly.
“’Ere, now, Igraine. I ain’t seen you in a fortnight. You wouldn’t be tryin’ to run out on old Deech, would ya? After all I done for ya?”
Vykers looked down at the man’s hand, still clutching the Reaper’s now thin and knobby elbow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man, but you’d best remove that hand o’ yours before I lose my temper.”
Deech cracked him one, right across the face, nearly knocking Vykers to the ground. Add slower reflexes to the list of things the Reaper didn’t love about this new body. Still, he pretended the blow had cowed him, and when Deech stepped closer to claim his prize, Vykers hit him twice in the windpipe, and the stranger staggered backwards, struggling for breath and rapidly turning purple. Vykers shrugged as Deech collapsed. He hadn’t been sure this Igraine was capable of defending herself. To Vykers’ relief, his brains and experience were still his own, even if his body was not.
“I did warn you.”
He looked around to ensure he hadn’t drawn too much attention and saw only one witness…a familiar figure in shabby red wooden armor – Vykers’ former slave. The knight stared back with the look of a man trying to remember where he’d left his sword. Vykers pretended not to see him, straightened his collar and walked, as blithely as possible, further into the crowded square. After a few minutes, he spied a glassmaker’s kiosk and approached, in hopes of finding a mirror or two. Despite the fact Igraine was dressed in costly and somewhat masculine clothing made especially for her by an oddly incurious tailor, the glassmaker barely gave Vykers a second glance. Fortunately, he had more than a few mirrors for sale. The Reaper picked up a handheld model.
“How much for this?” he asked, searching the crowd behind him in the glass’ reflection.
“Twelve merchants!” the vendor replied curtly.
Vykers took his time. He saw no one he recognized in the mirror. “I don’t know. “There’s a man in South Shore sells these things for nine.”
“Then go to him,” the glassmaker sniped, snatching the mirror out of Vyker’s grip and placing it back on the counter.
Vykers wanted to smash the man’s teeth in. He glared at him, instead. “You’re lucky I got other things to do just now,” he growled. “You’ll never know how lucky.”
As he turned around, he thought he glimpsed a flash of red through the mob of buyers, sellers and gawkers. Well, he wasn’t about to play at hide-and-seek with the fellow. If the knight wanted to talk, Vyk
ers would talk. He pushed himself into a small clearing and waited. And waited. And waited some more. Evidently, the knight was not going to show himself again, and Vykers had more pressing concerns to attend to, anyway. Pushing the knight from his mind, he set off for the South Shore district, to resume the search
He had unfinished business in South Shore. When he’d gone the previous night, he’d been looking for the shop of a particular alchemist who only did business after dark and, more importantly, was reputed to despise Shapers. Word was, he’d contrived all manner of potions, talismans and charms against the Burners’ prying; if it was so, Vykers thought he might have an ally in his efforts to reclaim his body from Arune. At the very least, if the man wasn’t a complete fraud, he might be able to conceal Vykers’ whereabouts from Arune.
But the Reaper was also curious about the nature and identity of the basher who’d saved him last night. Did the man have a name? Why had he intervened? And was he available for mercenary work? He might not have much muscle himself anymore, but Vykers certainly had the coin to buy muscle. If the big stranger was available, Vykers might just find a use for him. Oh, he hadn’t come up with any solid plans, yet – he’d been too busy grappling with his anger and struggling to adjust to his new body – but once he did have plans, he figured there’d be some bloodshed involved.
After he got his body back. This Igraine was strong enough, he supposed, for a young woman. But her balance was all wrong and the length of her stride, too constrictive. She possessed the quickness of youth certainly, but not the lethal speed of the predator. And Vykers was nothing, if not a predator.
Well, to business.
South Shore was surprisingly orderly during the day, as if the criminals who ran the place were averse to sunlight or perhaps busy planning the coming night’s escapades. Vykers had learned not to engage men when he could help it, so he asked his questions of the first woman he saw, a haggard-looking matron busily pushing an ancient wheelbarrow full of equally ancient onions.
“’Scuse me, mum. There an alchemist hereabouts?”
The woman huffed and lowered the rear end of her wheelbarrow to the cobbled street. “You with child, are you?” she snorted. “One you’re not wantin’?”
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 2
