“Uh-huh,” said Vykers skeptically. “And where can I find this monster?”
“Ain’t nobody knows.”
“Would it surprise you to know he was here last night? That it was him saved me?”
“Shit!” the kid spat. “I’m gonna have to find a new hole to hide in.”
“Thought you said he only hurts those who hurt others.”
“That’s what they say, but they might be wrong! That worth a Merchant to ya?”
“No,” said Vykers, “But I’ll pay you anyway. Might be, we’ll have other business in the future.” With that, he took a coin from the pouch on his belt and forced it through a crack in the door. He thought he’d hear it hit the floor on the opposite side, but it seemed the kid caught it before it could fall.
For the rest of the day, Vykers continued his exploration of the South Shore district, as well as his search for more information about the mysterious Dead ‘Un. It wasn’t hard to come by, since nearly everyone he encountered was already jabbering nervously about the previous night’s killings and (correctly) attributing them to the man in question. But who had discovered the bodies? Where had they gone? No one seemed to know or care; the Dead ‘Un was all that mattered.
Eventually, Vykers tired of the riddle and made his way back to the alchemist’s shop. As it was not quite sunset, he drew his dagger, leaned against the building, opposite, and pretended to trim his nails. Passersby – if any should happen along – would not mistake the meaning of the knife in the young woman’s hand: don’t fuck with me, in any sense of the word.
At last, Vykers heard the unmistakable sound of bolts being shot in the alchemist’s door. He waited another minute or so and then crossed the street and tried the handle: unlocked, as he’d suspected.
It was dark beyond the door, save for a small and discrete pool of light directed onto a workbench by means of a special lantern hanging from the rafters. In the middle of this light, the alchemist’s face hung like a gibbous moon, pale, pockmarked and round. His eyes lifted lazily to the door and showed no reaction to Igraine’s entrance.
“Here’s trouble,” he said in a voice that was little more than a whisper.
“You talkin’ about me?” Vykers asked.
“I don’t get many women in here and none as young and lovely as you.”
“Yeah, well, I ain’t what I seem.”
The alchemist’s chuckle was like the rustling of dry leaves. “Who is, though? Who is? Yet, beautiful young things have masters, keepers and patrons, do they not?”
“This one don’t.”
The leaves rustled again. The alchemist’s hands scuttled like spiders across the workbench, about an errand of unknown nature. “Convince me.”
“I have gold,” Vykers replied.
“Which makes me even more suspicious.”
“There’s a Shaper I want dead.”
The alchemist sat up straighter, spun his face sideways like an owl, and his eyes grew larger. “Ah. Tell me.”
Now, it was Vykers’ turn to laugh. “I don’t think so. You’ll have to make do with my coin.”
“Then you’ll have to make do without my services. Gold is nothing. Information is the most valuable commodity in Her Majesty’s realm.”
Vykers sighed. What could he tell the alchemist without compromising himself? He could lie, of course, but whatever he said would have to be close enough to the truth that the alchemist couldn’t tell the difference. “Very well,” he said. “I work for the Reaper.”
“Come closer,” the alchemist urged.
Vykers stepped to within arm’s reach.
The alchemist stared into his eyes, looked him up and down. “I believe you,” he said finally. “I knew you had a…master. If that’s what he is to you.”
“And you understand why I can’t share more ‘n I’m allowed.”
“Certainly. Still, I’d very much like to meet this Reaper.”
“No, you wouldn’t. He ain’t a man cares for small talk and games.”
“So they say,” the alchemist agreed. He then settled back on his stool, slid his hands into his robe and closed his eyes. “Now, what is it you need in order to accomplish this Shaper’s death?”
~ TWO ~
Omeyo and the Boy, In Camp
The Svarren’s Skargreit, or meet, happened at intervals only the boy and the Svarren seemed to understand. It was just as well Omeyo hadn’t been forewarned. He hated these occasions more than anything else in his empty, meaningless life. If two Svarren were bad, an entire camp full of them was an affront to nature itself. The loathsome brutes gathered in staggering numbers outside the boy’s cave, boisterously arguing over proximity to the Master, fighting over scraps of meat, rutting furiously and indiscriminately, swallowing Skent until they were half blind, flinging their shit at each other and otherwise behaving like the accursed accidents they were. Their visit promised to be nothing more or less than a tour through the infinite hells.
Omeyo’s challenge was to make himself as innocuous as possible; to be noticed by these Svarren was to become their toy, and that could never be allowed to happen.
“You stink of fear,” the boy called out from the back of the cave.
Omeyo turned immediately, bowed. “Would you not have me fear you, master?”
“But it’s not me you fear at the moment, is it, old man?”
“You are in the forefront of my fears, Master, but these Svarren do worry me; that is true.”
The boy snorted. “You’re a clever one. I suppose that is why you’ve survived as long as you have.” After a moment’s pause, he continued. “Come, dress me. If I am to be a god to these Svarren, I must look the part.”
“As you say, Master,” said Omeyo, making his way deeper into the cave. It was strange to hear such eloquence coming from the changeling, but the general well understood that it was no mere boy who spoke thusly.
“And while you’re dressing me, you can tell me another of your stories.”
“Of course, Master.”
“Tell me of the Reaper,” the boy said. “No, no…tell me again of my battle with the Reaper. I would know how he bested me, to make certain it does not happen again.”
Omeyo had recounted the tale many times, but there was nothing to gain and much to lose in pointing this out. He began by rote. “Your host had engaged the Queen’s army, and you had chosen to survey the scene from above, attacking with magic whenever…” He went on without needing to concentrate on doing so. His mind wandered, and his eyes followed. Outside, the great mob of Svarren continued to sully the snow with their every action. What in the endless hells were they even doing here?
“I sense you’re not giving this tale your full attention,” the boy interrupted, in a voice as cold as the weather outside.
There was no point in denying it. “My deepest apologies, Master,” Omeyo answered in his most remorseful voice. “I haven’t been sleeping well of late.”
“And you think I care?”
“Of course not, Master. Nor should you. You have other, more important concerns, I am sure.”
The boy pointed a taut finger in his direction, and Omeyo suddenly felt as if he were on fire. He’d seen men boiled alive in oil; now, he had some understanding of their pain. Tears gushed from his eyes, but he feared to cry out, lest he attract the Svarren’s attention.
“The little you do know is as nothing compared to what I’ve forgotten. When I have fully reclaimed my memories and my powers…” With a wave of his master’s hand, Omeyo’s agony subsided, disappeared, as if it had never existed. The boy continued, “But that may be some time, yet. For the nonce, content yourself with the knowledge that, yes, I do have a plan – involving those same Svarren that you study with such apprehension.”
“Perhaps if I knew what your plan was, I might serve you better,” Omeyo ventured.
“Ha!” the boy snorted. “I doubt that. But you will have your chance, believe me. And I will have my revenge upon this Reaper, and w
hen he’s out of the way, we’ll try the old Queen in her castle.”
Omeyo could imagine no scenario in which his death was not a foregone conclusion. Strangely, this did not bother him as much as he might have expected.
*****
Aoife, the North
She’d been fretting and stewing too long, agonizing over the meaning of that strange “He lives” until she’d become paralyzed with indecision. Had she imagined the message? Had it come from Alheria? Or was this another of Vykers’ Shaper’s sendings? No matter how she looked at the question – or how long – she was no closer to an answer.
She took an extended moment to study her breathing and release whatever tensions she held in her body. Allowing her thoughts to drift, she surveyed the small clearing around her makeshift home. Beyond her little fire, the hoarfrost occupied every inch of exposed ground, and the leaves of the nearby underbrush were rimed with delicate crystals that made them seem both precious and brittle. Aoife’s breath plumed in the frigid air.
Then she heard the frost crack off to her left and her breath stopped completely. There, not twenty paces away, in the shadow of a great hemlock stood Tarmun Vykers himself.
She was euphorically angry and furiously delighted. How dare he? And thank the gods he had! And yet the turmoil within her told Aoife she was nowhere near ready to deal with the Reaper. Not now, and maybe not ever again.
“How did you find me?” she demanded in a voice as devoid of welcome as she could make it.
Vykers took his time in answering. “How could I not?”
A cryptic response that was too clever by half, as far as the A’Shea was concerned. She stood from the stump she’d been sitting on, stretched out her hands to the fire. “Fine, then. Why have you found me?”
The Reaper stayed where he was, apparently wise enough to recognize Aoife’s conflicted feelings. “I owe you an apology,” he said quietly. “For this and…other things.”
This so astounded the A’Shea that she wondered if she wasn’t hallucinating, hadn’t created this vision out of her loneliness and unease. The Reaper apologize? When the sun travelled backwards and the rain fell upwards.
For a hundred heartbeats, the two stood staring at one another, and finally Vykers said, “I wouldn’t mind sharing your fire for a minute or two. It’s damned cold in these trees.”
Aoife waved him on, but kept the fire between herself and her former lover. “You were saying?”
Vykers rubbed his knuckles and flexed his fingers in the fire’s warmth. “Yes? Oh, yes: my apology.” He took a breath, his shoulders dropped noticeably, and he somehow seemed smaller to Aoife, despite the fact he was very much the Reaper. “Of course I should have listened to you when you wanted to take the boy back to Lunessfor. I was so anxious to find the Queen that I…lost sight, I suppose, of the needs of my party.”
The A’Shea could not believe what she was hearing. It was almost as if Vykers had planned and memorized these words in an appeal to the Mender’s nature. But…that was as unlike Vykers as if he’d painted his face, put on a gown and danced ‘round the fire singing songs about needlepoint. To apologize for anything was antithetical to the Reaper’s nature.
“I see you doubt me,” Vykers said softly. “And why wouldn’t you, when I’m famous for letting violence speak for me?” He lowered his head, gazed into the flames. “I’ll warrant you’ve never seen me like this, eh? I’ll warrant no one has.”
Aoife felt as if she were having an epiphany. Vykers was right: no one had ever seen him like this. That he would reveal himself to her like this suggested that, yes, perhaps he was a changed man. And perhaps she had been the agent of his change, his growth. “I imagine you’re hungry, too.”
Vykers laughed. “Of course. I’m like one of my old chimeras in that regard.”
“Well,” Aoife answered, “Let me bring you some bread and butter. I’ve that much to share at least.”
And at that, Arune knew she had won.
*****
Long & Company, In Camp
The snow kept falling, and Yendor noticed an odd correlation between the height of its drifts and the depth of Long’s moods. Indeed, his friend hardly seemed interested in leaving their shared tent anymore, except to relieve himself. And the man needed a bath, or, at the very least, to stay outdoors long enough to air out the tent. The stink of sweat, stale breath, wood smoke and old gas combined to create a fetor so pungent that it made Yendor’s lone eye burn whenever he crawled back inside.
“Gods, man!” he croaked. “Have mercy, will ya? Go and visit the fire so’s I can open these flaps and let some air in here!”
Long, wrapped tightly in his blanket and facing the tent wall, only grunted in response.
“Don’t make me drag you outta here, Captain. You know I will, if I have to.”
Long rolled over and glared at his friend with bleary, bloodshot eyes.
“You look like shit, too!” Yendor complained. “No one should look so bad ‘less he’s been at the Skent, and I know you haven’t done that!”
Long worked his way to a sitting position. “You planning to drive me out with all o’ this chatter?”
“You do need to get up and out, Captain. Lyin’ in here all day, every day ain’t healthy.”
“Healthy!” Long snorted. “What’s that to me?”
“If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for the rest of us. We ain’t come so far to see you pickled to death in your own stench.”
“A man scarcely ever goes out the way he plans, though, does he?”
“Still.”
“Very well,” Long groaned. “If it’ll get you off my back.”
The instant he finally emerged from his tent, the captain found himself in a new predicament.
“You the one in charge ‘o these tents hard by?” a gruff voice queried.
Shielding his eyes from the snow, Long looked up into the well-weathered face of a man wrapped in heavy furs. At his side stood another who might’ve passed for kin.
“Might be. Who’s asking?”
The gruff one hit Long right in the teeth, sending him staggering backwards, perilously close to falling onto his tent. Fortunately, Yendor had been following him outside and was thus able to catch his friend under the arms before he collapsed their shelter.
“What’s this all about, then?” he bellowed.
The gruff one looked at Yendor. “You the leader o’ this group?”
Before Long could interrupt, Yendor responded. “I am. Why’d you hit my man?”
Long wanted to massage is jaw, check his lips for blood, but he wouldn’t give his assailant the satisfaction.
“Me n’ Sutch here is Gorivar’s men. We’s here for the rent.”
“The rent…?” Yendor echoed, confused.
“’S right, the rent. You wanna stay, you gotta pay.”
“We’ve been here over a week. Nobody’s said anything to us about rent,” said Yendor.
“Yeah, well, we all just pulled in afore this storm.”
Long and Yendor exchanged glances. “Is this Gorivar’s camp?” Long asked.
“It is now,” said Gruff.
“Well, maybe we’re the ones chargin’ your friend Gorivar rent. Ever think o’ that?” Yendor asked smugly.
“Gorivar don’t pay. He gets paid. You pay.”
The “or” was implicit, but damned if Yendor didn’t ask, anyway. “Or what?”
Gruff shrugged. “We kill ya.”
Yendor nodded, as if this was perfectly reasonable. “And, uh, what are we getting for this rent we’re paying.”
“We don’t kill ya,” Gruff responded.
“So, you’re highwaymen, that it?” Long couldn’t help asking.
Gruff and his friend looked at one another, and then Gruff answered, “We collect what Gorivar’s due fer not killin’ ya.”
“Which is how much?” Long demanded, rapidly losing patience.
“Two Merchants a man each week.”
Y
endor whistled. “Two Merchants! That’s a bit steep, eh?”
“Cheaper’n bein’ dead,” said Gruff.
“Fine!” Long cut in. “But we’ll deliver it in person. Where can we find this Gorivar?”
“He’ll be in the hunter’s cabin, soon as he moves the hunter out.”
Long nodded brusquely. “We’ll be there straightaway.”
“You better be. I don’t wanna hafta come back.”
Gruff and his silent companion headed off into the storm, leaving Long and Yendor to fume in silence. At last, Yendor spoke.
“What’re you thinkin’?”
“I’m thinkin’ I don’t care for bullies,” Long said, belatedly rubbing at his lips and chin.
*****
Vykers, In Lunessfor
The worst part of Vykers’ day was that time when his errands were done and he had to retreat to his rented room in the back of a home for war widows. The widows and their incessant prying were bad enough, but being alone with his new body tested the limits of his patience in ways he’d never before experienced. Taking a piss, for example, was suddenly complicated. Oh, he could still stand and piss, but it was a lot messier. He understood now why women preferred to squat. But that, too, made things more difficult. After all, a man could go almost anywhere. Not so, for women. And there was the other thing, the bleeding. The cramps weren’t so bad, and Vykers was used to bleeding. But never from…down there. It was a nuisance, a ludicrous inconvenience. And it annoyed him.
He consoled himself with the knowledge that the first part of his plan was complete: the alchemist had given him an elixir that, once consumed, would make him invisible to the searching magics of Shapers. The alchemist had warned Vykers of the elixir’s wretched flavor and possible side effects, but the Reaper had downed it in one massive gulp. Pain, dizziness and vomiting were nothing to a man who’d once had his hands and feet chopped off.
So, Arune could not track Vykers, would not know where he was or what he might be up to – assuming the alchemist was not lying. The elixir had been obscenely expensive, but the alchemist had known it was Vykers’ money he was taking from the girl. The stuff either worked, or the man had a death wish.
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 4
