Did she think Igraine a whore? Vykers supposed he should have taken offense, but couldn’t muster the emotion. “No,” he answered. “Just lookin’ for an alchemist. One that’s only open nights.”
“Och! What d’you want him for?”
“Then you do know ‘im?”
“Might be,” said the woman. “What’s it worth to ya?”
Vykers sighed, pulled his dagger. “I dunno. What’s your life worth to ya?”
The other woman deflated. “There’s no need to bring blades into it. I was havin’ a bit o’ fun.”
Vykers extended the knife ever so slightly and stepped closer. “So, where’s this alchemist, then?”
“Next street over, go to yer right, walk to the end, uh, go left. I think he’s about halfway down that new street, on the left. Little shop, black triangle ‘bove the door.” Out of nowhere, she added, “You ain’t lookin’ to buy an onion or two, are ya?”
“Do I look like I can cook?” Vykers asked, lowering Igraine’s weapon.
The woman smiled sheepishly. “Not so much, no.”
Vykers left her to her onions and walked off in the specified direction. Not three minutes later, he found the shop…on the wrong side of the street. But there was no mistaking the black triangle above the door. Vykers looked to his left and right, saw no one, and put his hand on the handle. Instantly, he felt a painful tingling and was uncharacteristically tempted to snatch his hand back.
I hate this Mahnus-cursed body.
Despite the discomfort, he tried the handle: locked. He let go. So, the alchemist was serious about his hours of business. For a moment or two, Vykers pondered breaking in, but realized he could no longer force a door – any door, in all likelihood – and attempting to pick the lock seemed equally unwise. As sunset was still many hours away, the Reaper decided to hunt down the identity of the mysterious basher. Absent other ideas, he thought first of locating the old and disused charnel house where he’d seen him last…
Which took him over an hour, trudging up and down streets he’d never have travelled the night before had he known what they looked like in daylight. The building itself looked somehow smaller than he’d remembered. Rather than retrace his steps, Vykers found the front door, which stood wide open, and carefully poked his head inside. There was that smell, again, of cremation long completed. Overlaying it was the much more powerful scent of blood and urine. But he heard not a sound, so in Vykers went.
*****
Eoman, On the Trail
He was sorely tempted to sleep the winter away like rest of the older giants, but feared that if he did so, he’d lose Mardine’s killers forever. No, best to gut it out and remain in pursuit. But Eoman Harkin Hainin was frustrated. Large as he was, the north was larger still, and a giant could wander for ages without finding the humans he was looking for. Of course, few humans were foolhardy enough to withhold information or aid from an angry giant, so Eoman received overeager cooperation wherever he went.
He arrived on the outskirts of the little hamlet of Winthrop around sunset. The almost instantaneous barking of dogs told him he’d been seen by the animals, and their masters would shortly be on alert. Up north, things got a good deal more dangerous after dark, and a dog’s warning was taken seriously every time, whether a threat eventually presented itself or not. Most of the time, the animals were right to be alarmed. It remained to be seen if that was the case this night.
By the time Eoman reached the village proper, a line of stout men with long pikes had formed across the main path. Behind them stood three or four men with bows and crossbows.
One brave fellow stepped forward unarmed, the setting sun bathing his face in yellows and oranges that made him look more like a pumpkin than a man.
“How can we help you, good giant?” the fellow called out.
Eoman hated conversing with humans. It was such labor, merely to be understood. “Those pikes don’t look like help’s intended,” he retorted, making a special effort to raise the pitch of his voice and articulate more carefully.
“That rather depends upon what you’re intendin’.”
Eoman inhaled, took his time in framing an answer. While thinking on it, he looked each of the villagers in the eyes, curious to see whether they’d look away or return his gaze. None looked away. “I’m searching for a small caravan. Might be slavers, or might be only kidnappers. But they killed one of my kin, and I mean to have justice.”
“And what makes you think they come this-a way?”
“It’s the first town I’ve seen in days. Folks have to eat, no? I reckon those I’m lookin’ for do, too.”
One of the dogs resumed barking, until its master silenced it with a firm rebuke.
“Well,” said the villager, “They ain’t been through here. I promise you that.”
“You object to me coming in and asking a few questions, anyway?” Eoman asked in the gathering dark.
“Don’t know as that’s wise. Your kind’s capable of a lot of destruction.”
“And your kind isn’t?” Eoman shot back.
“It’s a fair point,” the villager allowed. “But we like it peaceful here in Winthrop.”
“And it’s peaceful I’ll be.”
“Or we’ll do whatever needs doin’ to put you down.”
“I understand.”
“’Spose you’re hungry, eh?” the man asked.
“Always.”
That broke the ice, and a number of fellows in the line chuckled in response.
“All right, boys, lower yer weapons,” the leader called to the other men. “Let’s see if we can’t fill this hungry giant’s belly. But look you,” he said to Eoman, “No trouble!”
“None,” Eoman smiled. He didn’t trust these folk, but sometimes a good meal was worth the risk.
*****
Arune, Searching
Nobody knew anything, or so they claimed. Would A’Shea lie to her? Arune didn’t know, and the whole cloister was warded against scrying, so the Shaper was forced to accept what she’d been told: no one had seen Aoife in recent memory. No one had a clue where she might be found. It occurred to Arune that her current guise as a rather muscular farmer might be undermining her attempts to find Aoife, who was, after all, quite beautiful. Perhaps the other A’Shea were protecting their friend from unwanted and inappropriate advances.
If only they understood the real Aoife, that she felt lust, that she’d birthed countless creatures of fey origin…The sisters would doubtless have cast her out, in spite of their widely professed devotion to mercy and forgiveness.
Had they cast her out? Arune did not sense that the mention of Aoife’s name invoked concern or change in demeanor in any of those she’d questioned. Indeed, the other A’Shea genuinely seemed not to have heard from their friend of late, genuinely seemed unaware of her whereabouts.
It was aggravating, but Arune had other avenues of inquiry worth considering. There was, for instance, the town from which both Aoife and the Frog had come. As Arune understood things, the A’Shea had been – what? – helping rebuild a small village destroyed by the End-of-All-Things, when she’d made the acquaintance of the boy…back when he was a boy. It was entirely possible Aoife had returned to said village, either to continue her mission there, or to break the bad news about the Frog. There was also something about the Fey, if only the Shaper could remember it. When she’d first heard it, she hadn’t been particularly enamored of the A’Shea. Not like she was now, certainly.
Arune concluded her best course of action was to find an inn, rent a room, and send out a questing ear, for as long as it took to garner any news of such a village. Surely a woman of Aoife’s qualities and nature would arouse attention and interest wherever she went.
She would not evade Arune for long.
*****
Long, In Camp
He dreamed he was dancing with his wife – something he’d never actually done– and it was wonderful, evoking feelings of warmth, tenderness and belonging
he hadn’t known in some time. She held him to her chest with her massive arms, firmly but gently, and Long lost himself in the comfort they provided. He looked up at her face, to see her beaming at him, as happy as he’d ever seen her. Then it all went sideways. She made an odd mewling noise, and he fell away from her, as her arms dropped from her shoulders and crashed to the unseen floor below. A look of panic came into Mardine’s eyes then, panic and crippling bewilderment. It seemed she wanted to say something, to ask why this was happening. To Long’s terrible regret, he had no answers, but instead watched in horror as Mardine’s head canted to one side and slid right off her neck. Still, her eyes watched him, begging for help, for salvation, as her head tumbled out of sight. Long reached out for whatever remained of his wife, only to have it drip through his hands like thick mud. A weeping assailed him then. It came from everywhere at once and was filled with such unspeakable torment and loss that Long screamed himself awake to escape it.
He sat up immediately, shivering, not from the evident cold but the terrible nature of his dream, spouting clouds of steaming breath into the freezing air of the tent that he shared with Yendor. He didn’t need to look to know he’d awoken his friend.
Having been through this a number of times in the past several weeks, Yendor had run out of helpful things to say to the captain. Instead, he extended a hand, patted his old friend on the back and crawled outside to stoke the fire, or rebuild it if it had gone out.
“Think I might be able to convince one o’ them traders to let go of a bit o’ sausage, if you fancy a little meat for breakfast,” he offered after a few minutes.
Inside the tent, Long said nothing.
“A little meat always makes a man feel…I dunno…more himself. I’ll see what I can do.” And with that, Yendor trudged away through the snow, the sound of his footsteps rapidly fading to nothing.
There’s no meat in the wide world can make me feel better, Long thought. I’ve no right or reason to feel better. But self-pity wasn’t helping anyone, either. Least of all Esmine. With a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his feet, Long forced himself up and out of the tent.
Cold it was, to be sure. But the air was a damn sight fresher than that in his tent. Nobody bathed whilst on the road, and fewer still bathed in winter. It was a near thing whether he or Yendor smelled worse. It hardly mattered: neither was likely to be entertaining the Queen any time soon – though Long had recently been Lord of House D’Escurzy, albeit briefly.
“Just when you think it can’t possibly get colder, it does. I understand it’s winter, but this is unnatural.”
Rem.
“Share your fire?” the actor asked.
“I’ll share, but I doubt the fire will. It’s a miserly thing and keeps all its warmth to itself,” said Long.
“A miserly fire,” Rem marveled. “You certain you’re not a poet?”
“Don’t remember the last time I was certain about anything.”
A lengthy silence blossomed between the two men. Finally, Rem confessed, “There’s a chance – a small chance – I may get called away at some point in the coming weeks.”
Long looked up from the fire and shot his friend an inquisitive look.
“It’s to do with Her Majesty,” Rem floundered. “Believe me, the less you know, the happier you’ll be.”
The captain winced in response. Happier?
“Ah, yes…Not the best choice of words, I suppose. Forgive me.”
After another silence, Rem asked, “Where’s Yendor off to, then?”
“Lookin’ for meat, so he says. And I hope that’s all he’s lookin’ for.”
“You’re afraid he’ll start drinking again?”
“Can’t say I’d blame him, given the way things are,” Long replied. “Still, makes life easier when he ain’t drinkin’.” He was about to say more when he caught sight of Spirk and his friend Ron approaching. “What news?” he asked the pair.
“None good,” said Ron.
Long let loose a rueful chuckle. “No surprise, there. But let’s have it: what’s the problem this time?”
“Storm’s got the roads closed both north and south.”
“Oh, aye. I’d guessed as much.”
“Won’t be no travel for a least a sennight,” Spirk added.
Long sank into himself upon hearing this. Rem, ever the observant one, threw an arm ‘round his friend’s shoulder.
“Nobody’s going anywhere,” he said meaningfully.
“It’s what those nobodies’ll do to my girl when they start to get bored that worries me.”
“From a strictly business point of view,” said Rem, “she’ll fetch a lot less from the buyer if she’s hurt in any way.”
Long grimaced. “That’s cold comfort.”
“There’s no other kind in this weather, I’m afraid.”
Before the captain could get too lost in his black mood, Yendor reappeared, a handful of something bark-like in his grip.
“What have you got there?” Spirk wanted to know.
“Yes, what is that? Doesn’t much look like sausage to me,” Long added.
Yendor offered a sheepish smile, his one eye winking shut for the briefest of moments. “Squirrel jerky,” he responded. “And it’s nowhere near as foul as it sounds.”
Long shook his head in disbelief. “And just what’d that set us back?”
“Nothing!” Yendor beamed. “Or as close to nothing as makes no difference.”
“Uh-huh,” said Rem. “And what exactly is ‘close to nothing?”
“Well, I promised ole Spirk here would stop by the fur trader’s tent and do some magicking.”
“What?” Spirk gasped, his voice instantly shooting up two octaves. “I can’t just do whatever I want, whenever I wanna!”
*****
Vykers, In Lunessfor
Yes, the place looked a lot smaller in the shadowy grey gloom of daylight than it had felt in the obsidian darkness of the previous night. Now that he saw the actual dimensions of the room, Vykers was astounded he’d managed to escape death. The bloodstained floor told him clearly enough that others had not. But there was one great smear that seemed to head in the wrong direction, not out of the room, but towards the very mound of bones Vykers himself had used for cover. On the heels of that revelation, he realized he could hear breathing, ragged but faint, coming from somewhere beneath those same bones.
His feet flapped almost daintily on the floor as he crossed over towards the pile. It was hardly the impression he would have chosen to make on his former assailant, but he hoped to do better in the next few minutes. Without care or concern for the wounded man’s comfort, Vykers tossed bones left and right as he sought to reveal the fellow. Funny, he thought, that just a few hours earlier their positions had been reversed. A cry of agony came to his ears as he pulled a final armload of bones from the pile, revealing the bloody head and torso of a dying ruffian.
“Please,” the man groaned, “an A’Shea. In Alheria’s name, call an A’Shea.”
“Huh,” Vykers snorted. “You don’t know Alheria like I do.”
“A healer. Please.”
“No healer.”
The dying man sobbed in pain and fear.
“No healer,” Vykers repeated. “But I can offer you a quick and painless death…” He let the comment sink in before continuing. “In exchange for anything you can tell me about the man who butchered your gang.”
The brigand on the floor rolled a wide, feverish eye in Vykers’ direction. “Man?” He said, his voice cracking in near hysteria. “That weren’t no man. That ‘uz the Dead ‘Un.”
The froth of blood and phlegm at the fellow’s mouth made him difficult to understand.
“The what? The dead one?” Vykers asked.
The dying man coughed violently, whimpered in pain and then nodded his head without lifting it from the ground. “Aye. Dead. One. That ‘uz him.”
Vykers had fought the dead before, in the ruins beneath Morden’s Cairn
. “He didn’t look dead to me,” he said. After an unexpectedly long silence from the man at his feet, he added, “But you do.”
The Reaper turned away and walked through the building until he found the closet he’d shared with the unseen urchin. The door was again closed and locked. Vykers put his face against it and spoke. “Hey, kid. It’s the girl from last night. I was in there with you, remember?”
“So, you made it out, huh?” the kid’s voice responded. “I dint think you was gonna make it.”
“Yeah, well, I’m tricky that way. Listen, you don’t have to open the door, but I got a few questions I wanna ask you. Might be a Merchant in it for you, if I like what I hear.”
“How do I know you got a Merchant?”
“We could forget the whole thing,” Vykers replied. “Then you’d never know, would ya?”
“Ask yer questions,” the kid said.
Vykers did a quick visual check of the surrounding area, just to make sure no one else was listening. Damned charnel house was making him crazier’n normal. Or maybe his paranoia had something to do with Igraine, a lingering remnant of the girl’s personality. “You ever hear of a big fella called the ‘Dead One?”
“’Course I have! He’s been a-haunting the district for the last fortnight or so.”
“Just a fortnight?”
“Mighta been a while longer. What about ‘im?”
“That’s what I wanna know: all about ‘im: where’d he come from? Where’s he go? What’s he about?”
“They say he’ll kill anyone does somebody else wrong. You steal, he’ll kill ya. You cheat, he’ll kill ya. You hurt someone, he’ll chop yer head clean off.”
“Huh,” Vykers chuckled. “Sounds like my kinda guy.”
“Not hardly. Dead ‘Un’s a monster -- eight feet tall, an’ ‘is flesh is rottin’ right off ‘is body. He don’t have no face, and what there is of it’s naught but scars. And the worst part…”
“Yes?”
“He can’t be hurt.”
“What’s that mean?” Vykers demanded.
“Means just that: you c’n stab ‘im, burn ‘im, hack away with yer axe. It don’t bother him the least bit.”
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 3
