Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3)

by Allan Batchelder

  “You ain’t but a little slip of a thing, are you?” a voice called out from behind the crossbow.

  “So everyone keeps tellin’ me,” said Vykers.

  “And you say the Reaper sent you?”

  “He did.”

  “What proof you got?” the voice challenged.

  “You get a lot o’ little girls claiming to represent the Reaper coming to your door?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t guess we do,” the man answered. “But even if the Reaper did send you, you still can’t see Kendell, ‘cause he’s dead.”

  This was too much. “You don’t open this door, friend,” said Vykers, “And you’ll be joining him in short order.”

  The door opened. A jowly man with sleepy eyes and a doughy complexion stood just inside, cradling the crossbow in his arms. “I s’pose you’ll want to speak with Kendell’s successor.” Without waiting for a response, he beckoned Vykers to follow him and shuffled off into the nearest building.

  There were a lot more guards around the place than Vykers remembered seeing on his previous visit. But then, that had been years ago, and clearly things had changed. To Vykers’ surprise, his guide led him into an empty room, barren of furniture, artwork or ornamentation of any kind. The only features of note were the six doors ringing the room.

  “I’ll be right back,” the jowly man said, before opening one of those doors and disappearing.

  Vykers was so surprised at having been left unattended that he crossed to the same door and yanked it open, only to find a stone wall. He reached out, touched it, just to make sure it was no trick.

  “Mahnus’ balls!” he grumbled. “Is there no end to Shapers’ deceit?”

  A door on the opposite wall opened and a short, round woman stepped through. As Vykers spun to face her, the remaining doors opened in concert, each revealing a bowman, ready to fire.

  Vykers looked them over and then calmly addressed the woman. “All this for one girl?”

  “Better to err on the side of paranoia than be taken unawares,” the woman replied. “You are familiar with the Harkness Spider, I assume?”

  Vykers was. The Harkness Spider was among the deadliest known to man, and especially so because it was small and easily overlooked. The Reaper laughed, temporarily forgetting his deceptive exterior. “First time I’ve ever been compared to a spider.”

  “What was it you wanted to speak to me about?”

  The Reaper let the moment hang whilst he studied the other woman. He figured her to be of middle years. Her drab brown hair was cut short, just below her ears, in a manner that seemed both hastily done and childlike, a fact that was not at all mitigated by her snub, turned-up nose and pronounced overbite. She looked by turns ridiculous and severe, and Vykers was curious to know which of the two extremes prevailed in practice.

  “You’re the Chief of Security?”

  “None else,” the woman said, “And you’re wasting my time. Get to the point.”

  Vykers cleared his throat, spared not a glance at the bowmen. “I was sent by the Reaper to gain information from the previous Chief of Security.” Now, he cast his eyes over the archers.

  The other woman caught his drift immediately. “They’ll abide where they are, until I’ve proof of your claim.”

  Yes, things had unquestionably changed at House Blackbyrne. Vykers sighed and launched into a lengthy recitation of the Reaper’s experiences when he’d visited Kendell, including his introduction to the chimeras, the gazebo they’d met in, the lunch they’d eaten and more. “If that won’t satisfy,” Vykers said when he’d finished, “I’m to offer you gold.”

  The Chief of Security frowned. “You’d be a fool to carry around enough gold to make a difference.”

  “And you’d be a fool to try and take it off me without my consent,” Vykers retorted, growing weary of the woman’s attitude. As Igraine, he wasn’t sure he could deliver on this boast, but, as Vykers, he couldn’t resist making it. Enough was enough, already.

  Unexpectedly, the woman smiled. “It’s good to see one of our sex with a bit of swagger. Might be, I could find work for you when you’re done running errands for the Reaper. If that’s all you do for him.”

  Vykers brushed aside the insinuation and gestured to the bowmen, still aiming in his direction. “What I’ve been sent to ask you can only be shared in private. It’s meant for your ears alone.”

  The Chief of Security nodded and waved her protectors off. Silently, they lowered their bows and closed their respective doors. “My name,” she said at last, “is Cedna. And yours is…?”

  “Igraine.”

  “Your message?”

  Vykers explained that in the Reaper’s first meeting with Kendell, the former Chief of Security had intimated that, because the Blackbyrnes had once been the city’s foremost stonemasons, the family possessed knowledge of a secret way into the Queen’s castle. If true, the Reaper was willing to pay generously for that knowledge.

  Cedna listened attentively and did not respond on the instant, but took her time, composing her thoughts. At length, she said, “You know, I am sure, of the troubles the Eight have endured of late…” She trailed off, awaiting confirmation or contradiction from Igraine.

  Vykers nodded. “I’ve heard some talk.”

  “Talk? If you’d been in town, you could hardly have escaped it,” Cedna quipped. “At any rate, there’s some thought that Her Majesty engineered the turmoil in order to weaken potential aspirants to her throne.”

  “But I was told Her Majesty favored House Blackbyrne.”

  It seemed Cedna thought nothing of Igraine’s stumble, for she went on. “So we believed. Now? Everything’s in question.”

  “And what’s this got to do with a way into the castle?”

  Cedna smiled a small, tight smile that made her overbite even more pronounced. “That’s the point, though, isn’t it? To divulge such a secret might be treason, depending upon your…master’s…intent.” Before Vykers could formulate a response, the other woman went on, “Given the Reaper’s reputation for violence and destruction, the odds certainly favor treason.”

  That sounded like a firm ‘no,’ if Vykers had ever heard one.

  “In which case,” Cedna concluded, “we’re happy to share.”

  *****

  Kittins, In Lunessfor

  He resented these little side missions, of course, but they’d given him the time he might not otherwise have taken to study his ultimate targets and to plan. The Queen and her Shaper were not ordinary adversaries. He understood that much, at least. Unless Kittins got very lucky, they’d see his attack coming, and Kittins did not believe in luck. Oh, he’d had a number of chances to bash the Shaper’s skull in or shove a blade in his gut, but the big captain had come to believe that Cindor was the key to getting at Her Majesty, that if anyone knew her vulnerabilities, it was he. So, as much as he might’ve enjoyed killing the Shaper immediately, he had to keep him around long enough to learn what he needed to know.

  Meantime, his current assignment might prove helpful in preparing him for his eventual move on Cindor, because of the nature of his target. Better still, the alchemist was known to do business only after sundown, which saved Kittins the trouble of trying to disguise his infamous and hysteria-inducing features. Still, nothing was ever as easy as it seemed, and the big man figured the same was true of this task. He would not, he suspected, be able to walk right in and kill the man; he’d have taken precautions, laid traps and the like against such an eventuality. Therefore, Kittins would have to pose as a customer until he’d learned enough to formulate a plan and then return when he was truly prepared.

  He already knew where the alchemist’s shop was located; he’d passed it on any number of occasions whilst hunting the district’s two-legged vermin. When he reached it this time, however, he found it on the opposite side of the street from what he’d remembered. He didn’t have long to ponder this conundrum, however, before a trio of drunken bravos entered the far end of the str
eet and began staggering in his direction, their arms intertwined like the branches of a tree in order to hold each other upright. For a moment, Kittins thought there might be trouble, but the strangers got one look at him and wisely opted to retrace their steps and find an alternate route towards their destination.

  When he was alone again, Kittins approached the door and banged upon it.

  “It’s open,” a voice yelled from within.

  He turned the knob and pushed the door inwards.

  And stepped from dark to darker. The interior of the shop was almost completely without light, and as soon as Kittins had come fully inside, even that disappeared. The captain put a hand on his sword.

  “What in the infinite hells…?”

  The shopkeeper – the alchemist, it could be none else – responded, “You’re the Dead One, unless I miss my guess.”

  Kittins nodded, realized he could not be seen and said, “So they say. But I’m not the one afraid o’ the light.”

  “Nor am I,” said the alchemist. “But darkness does offer certain…advantages. Now, you’re here to kill me, I suppose.”

  “I came here lookin’ for a remedy for my face,” Kittins lied, not in the least perturbed by the alchemist’s apparent prescience.

  “Just now? I don’t think so.”

  Kittins heard a sound like sand being sprinkled on parchment, and then a lamp suspended from the ceiling cast a fixed pool of light on the alchemist’s head. The captain moved to step closer to the other man, but found his feet fixed to the floor.

  “Nice trick,” said he.

  “I’ve better,” said the alchemist. “What I’d like to know is, which of those bastard Shapers sent you?”

  “I’d heard you’ve no love for Burners.”

  “And you have? The more fool, you!”

  “I got no love for ‘em. Or anyone.”

  “Yet you’re willing to do their dirty work.”

  “I never said that,” Kittins protested.

  The alchemist rolled his eyes in disgust. “Come now. D’you think I’ve managed to stay alive this long in a Shaper’s city by swallowing every lie I hear? You’ve come to kill me, and I’d like to know at whose behest.”

  Kittins let out a long breath, resigned. “I was told Her Majesty wanted you dead.”

  “By her Shaper, I don’t doubt.”

  Give the fellow his due: he was sharp. “Yes,” Kittins agreed.

  “By Cindor.”

  “Yes.”

  The alchemist placed his forearms on the counter and leaned over onto them, deep in thought. The light from the lantern, above, barely reached the top of his head now, but Kittins could still make out the man’s frown. After several minutes, the alchemist waved a hand and the lamp went out again.

  “Come back tomorrow and I’ll give you my corpse.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Nevermind. Just go.”

  Kittins went.

  *****

  The Boy and Omeyo, In Camp

  The boy did not know his real name. Omeyo once told him that his father had been one of the End’s generals, a man named Shere. But that seemed almost incidental; the boy felt no more connection to this Shere than he did to the birth parents of Anders Cestroenyn, his previous body. The truth was that he’d been many people over the years, his essence had occupied many bodies and developed many personalities, and all of them fought, bickered and squabbled for his attention. It was maddening, in every sense of the word. Still, the boy wondered who he had been at the outset, or what accident of birth or circumstance had set him on this endless and endlessly aggravating search for…definition.

  He needed a name, and if he could not recall his birth name, he would have to invent one. Again. He considered “The End-of-All-Things,” but the End had been a failure, an arrogant and deluded embarrassment. In his mind, the boy heard the End’s vehement denials, his impotent fury. The boy paid no heed. That which did not serve his purpose was irrelevant.

  What was his purpose, though? He did not seek the annihilation of all life, as had his predecessor. Surely there were some creatures – like the Svarren – whose savagery had the capacity to amuse. And humans had a gift for suffering that was sublime in its constancy and diversity. The boy had seen precious few men, it was true, but he had memories. Or the ghosts of memories. There were other creatures, too, whose darker natures the boy wished to study, and yet he apprehended that before he could indulge his curiosity, he’d have to engage and subjugate these various beings, which notion thrilled him.

  Omeyo reminded him often, in his fawning, sycophantic way, that any attempts at conquest would be opposed by the fabled Virgin Queen and her lapdog, Tarmun Vykers.

  Suddenly, the boy knew his name.

  ~ Three ~

  Vykers, In Lunessfor

  The Reaper was skeptical.

  “We lost a lot of good people the night of those riots,” Cedna explained. “And we’ve just about drained our treasury in repairing the damage and replacing our guards. We went from being second-lowest of the Great Eight to the verge of bankruptcy, dissolution and oblivion. It is easy to suspect the other seven houses of our undoing. Too easy. When I ask myself who profits most from the chaos sewn amongst this city’s nobility, Her Majesty is the only convincing answer I can find.”

  Igraine nodded, as if in agreement. But the notion made no sense to Vykers. Her Majesty was a goddess and possessed the power to erase the Eight from existence if she so desired. Why bother with such petty maneuvers when…Abruptly, Vykers recalled the many games of strategy he’d played with the Queen when he’d been bed-ridden. He’d never beaten her. Where he preferred the direct approach in most cases, she exulted in doing the unexpected, the inexplicable. She lived to confound.

  So: the Queen had crossed the sea in answer to an unknown summons and, in her absence, she’d set the Eight against one another to prevent them – any of them – from usurping her throne. But she did not destroy them outright, so clearly they served some purpose that Vykers was as yet unable to identify. He wondered if she’d anticipated attempts at retribution from the Eight.

  “Her Majesty’ll be expectin’ one or more o’ you houses to move against her.”

  Cedna shrugged. “Perhaps. But I very much doubt she’ll be expecting Tarmun Vykers to show up in her bedchamber.”

  The Reaper hoped she was kidding. He wanted to take Alheria down a peg or two himself, but he’d no interest in sneaking up on the old hag whilst she slept. If she slept.

  “It will be the Reaper who goes inside…?” Cedna asked rather forcefully.

  “None but,” said Vykers.

  “Good. The dark ways are no place for a young thing like yourself.”

  Vykers remained unconvinced. “You’ve told me why you’re willin’ to do this, but I still don’t see how it benefits your House.”

  The other woman chuckled softly. “I thought the Reaper wanted access to the castle. You sound like you’re trying to talk me out of it.”

  “I wanted…”Vykers began. “I was told to ask, yes, but also to make sure I got an accurate lay o’ the land.”

  “Here it is, then: the carrion fowl are circling House Blackbyrne. We’ll gladly embrace the opportunity the Reaper offers us to direct their attentions elsewhere.”

  That made sense, at least as much as anything ever did in this Mahnus-cursed city.

  “Do we have an agreement?” Cedna asked pointedly.

  “We do,” said Vykers.

  “Good. I like a healthy dose of paranoia as much as the next person, but not if it stands in the way of getting things done.”

  After making a brief circuit of the room to ensure the two women were alone together, Cedna detailed the location and operation of the door that led into the Queen’s castle. “And that,” she said when she’d finished explaining, “should conclude our business.”

  “Not quite,” Vykers replied.

  Instantly, Cedna became wary. “No?” She relaxed when Igraine he
ld forth a bank note. “What’s this?”

  “Ten thousand Monarchs.”

  The Chief of Security was agog. “But how…why?”

  “Vykers sent me here to buy this secret. He’s got more money than he can spend in a lifetime – ten lifetimes, if it comes to that. So he won’t miss this. And it might just save your House.”

  Cedna carefully took the proffered note and examined it. “Is this a loan or a gift?”

  “Gift.”

  “Until the day the Reaper comes around looking for another favor.”

  Igraine frowned. “You could have worse friends.”

  If the Chief of Security had an answer for that, she kept her mouth shut about it.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” said Vykers.

  “And you,” Cedna responded solemnly.

  *****

  Spirk, In Camp

  He’d been in scarier scrapes, he knew, but Spirk was no calmer for it. Attempting to sneak through knee-deep snow in the dark around a well-guarded cabin he’d only seen in daylight was not an especially comfortable activity. If only Ron had been allowed to come with him. Ah well, it seemed Spirk was forever destined to draw the short straw in life, no matter the situation.

  To his credit, he didn’t complain or seek to escape his assignment. And it was true that he’d always been able to walk in or out of wherever he’d a mind to go, without causing the slightest disturbance. In fact, he’d even walked right out of the End’s camp, once upon a time. ‘Course, he’d had his magic stone then. Now, he had Pellas’ legacy. He hoped it was good enough – he might’ve used the word ‘potent,’ except that he suffered under the misapprehension that ‘potent’ meant ‘penis’ and visa-versa, even after he’d once been roundly derided for quaffing some ale and proclaiming, “My, but this be penis beer!”

  Strong magic it was then and would have to be, if Spirk were to complete his task and return without arousing suspicion. As he plodded nearer the cabin, he chanced to look up and catch sight of the moon, playing at peek-a-boo behind diaphanous clouds that sailed in haste across the sky.