Which thought brought Rem ‘round to his own fortunes. He missed his theater company, but he realized he missed Long and the rest of the boys more. It was a great thrill to entertain a large crowd – he’d even once thought it his calling in life -- but Rem had felt like he’d been doing something important under Long’s direction, something that mattered to the kingdom. He yearned to do something of importance again. But what? And how?
He might’ve been a spy, but he recently murdered – or at least grievously injured – the one man who tried to employ him in that regard.
No, Rem thought, I should go back to doing what I know. I should return to the theater.
That was when he spied the first group of refugees.
“See them?” he asked Kittins.
“Refugees.”
“If you’re right, things are getting bad up north.”
“Yup.”
“Could be another war.”
“Good.”
At first, Rem was shocked by this response, but he gradually came to agree with it: time to kill something.
*****
The False Reaper, In the Void
The boy was back in that dark space, that void, that place of nothingness which nevertheless had boundaries. On previous visits, he’d seen everyone else he’d ever been, including the End-of-All-Things. This time, he saw only tiny puffs of steam, wisps really, that moaned and sobbed in eternal torment, wandering aimlessly about the void. These, the boy realized, were all that was left of his other selves. The End had boasted of consuming them, and it appeared that he’d done just that.
But now, the boy still had shape and form. Why was that? And for how long? The End had overthrown him; that much was clear. But he had not completely finished the boy, and that fact alone gave the former False Reaper hope. There might be a way to reverse this defeat, or, at the very least, to undermine the End’s victory.
First, though, he had to find a way to communicate with these wailing wisps – if they were still capable of communicating, that is.
The boy tried moving towards them, but they seemed oblivious of his presence. He listened to their wailing more closely, in case there were any words amongst the noise: nothing. He then tried wailing himself. Perhaps he could attract their interest in the same way one can sometimes attract a cat by meowing. As foolish as he felt, he was eventually rewarded by their approach. A small group of them coalesced about the boy, and he whispered to them in response, still fearful of being overheard by the End.
“Is there nothing we can do to thwart the bastard?”
He thought the wisps might resume their moaning; instead, they hissed and rumbled.
“There’s still energy in you,” the boy observed, “still substance. If we could pool whatever we have left, we might manage one final throw of the die.”
“At the right time, the right time, the right time…” one or several of the little clouds responded.
“Yes,” the boy chuckled softly, “the readiness is all.”
He’d entombed the A’Shea in ice. When he’d been certain she was unconscious, he broke through her shell, tore off her clothing, and encased her in a frozen, crystalline egg. There she slept and would sleep until the stars winked out and the world blew away in ashes on the wind. Oh, someone or something would try to save her; of that, the End had no doubt. In fact, he was rather looking forward to finding out who or what this would-be savior turned out to be. It would not be an exaggeration to say he had his heart set on Tarmun Vykers, but there were any number of other potential heroes that the End would enjoy killing almost as much.
In time, he grew bored of staring at his prize, his bait, and turned his thoughts more specifically towards those enemies. The boy had been planning to lure Her Majesty north, where he’d hoped to ambush her with his horde of Svarren – not a bad idea in principle, if the End had to admit it. How had the boy been planning to lure the Queen? And what was the endgame? Clearly, he hadn’t understood the significance of Aoife, or he’d have tried to capture her sooner, himself. The End could retreat into his mind and query the boy, but it might be more satisfying to approach him once the End had a plan of his own.
Lure the Queen North using Aoife as bait…ambush her with Svarren…and then? Suppose Aoife meant nothing to Her Majesty. Would she still come if it was Vykers who’d been called to save the A’Shea? The End’s mind was still too chaotic from the trauma of returning to the flesh. He caught himself thinking the same thoughts over and over and making no progress.
He needed help, briefly, from someone loyal, someone who…
“Where is General Omeyo?” the End barked at some nearby Svarren. “Omeyo!” he yelled.
Something happened, and the next time the End was aware of himself and his surroundings, he was sitting on a stool near a burning brazier, inside his tent. He’d been scrutinizing his fingers and nails, when all of a sudden, he realized he’d lost a few minutes, or even several. He looked up in alarm and saw that his servants – both Svarren and human – behaved normally, without any sense of unease or disturbance.
A half-naked figure appeared at the opening to the End’s tent and then shuffled forward, closer to the light.
It was Omeyo, but a much changed Omeyo. His face and body were covered in blue and black tattoos of primitive design and more primitive execution. His hair was matted, his eyes were wild and bloodshot, and his mouth hung open, trailing a long strand of drool onto the master’s rug.
The End clapped his hands once and Omeyo’s posture improved immediately, as did his overall affect. Now, he seemed truly alert and awake.
“What have they done to you?”
“Nothing the boy didn’t encourage.”
“Ah,” the End sighed. “Whatever became of gratitude, eh? You raised that bastard out of the mud, and how did he repay you? Don’t answer! I can see well enough: with suffering and humiliation.”
Omeyo blinked: yes.
“We must help each other, General. Oh, don’t look surprised. Like you, I am struggling to recover from injury. Like you, I am struggling to find…equilibrium. But we’ll regain our strength, you and I,” the End winked. “And then we’ll smash all those who seek to do us harm!”
If the general had his doubts, he didn’t share them, nor were they visible on his face.
~ ELEVEN ~
Long & Company, the Circus Family Barr
The lone wagon stood off the right-hand side of the road, facing north. It was a large and ridiculous-looking thing, suitable for the business it advertised: the Circus Family Barr. Its sides were painted in garish colors and even more ludicrous designs, promising tumblers, jooglers (whatever these were), singers and clowns. A team of six – six! – oxen stood under heavy blankets at the front of the wagon, and a small, ineffectual fence had been erected around them, intended, perhaps, to forestall the predations of savage deer. Luckily, savage deer were in short supply in this part of the north. A stovepipe sprouted from the wagon’s roof, belching wood smoke into the evening air and beckoning to anyone or thing that recognized the odor of roast meat.
Yendor took in the scene with no little amount of incredulity. “How have they survived so long?”
Long held up his hands. “Don’t ask me. I’ve never seen so plain an invitation for plunder and pillage.”
“These folks magic?” Yendor asked Spirk.
The young Shaper thought a moment and then shook his head.
“Mayhap they’ve a mercenary or two in that wagon,” Ron suggested.
“I’d bloody well hope!” said Yendor. “Otherwise, them oxen won’t be long for this world. Speakin’ o’ which…I wouldn’t mind a good slab o’ beef.”
“I wonder if they’d sell us one…” Long mused aloud.
Without being asked or directed, Spirk crossed the road and walked right up to the wagon. “I hear music!” he beamed. “They’re playin’ music!”
“That we are!” called a voice from the wagon’s roof. “That a crime hereabouts?”
A tall, wiry fellow with wild blue eyes, bushy eyebrows, a crooked smile, and a slightly oversized head regarded the group from the happy end of a crossbow.
“Not a crime!” Long was quick to point out. “No crime at all, but a welcome diversion from this hard weather!”
“Gather yer party and stand ‘em all there,” the man pointed, “so’s I can see the lot.”
The captain complied, ushering everyone to the spot specified. “This is all of us.”
Meanwhile, another, shorter fellow with the same features emerged onto the wagon’s roof from an open hatch. He, too, held a crossbow.
“Is it, now?” the first man challenged. “What, the four of you just out for a stroll?”
“We’re on our way north!” Spirk shouted enthusiastically.
Long shot him an irritated look, but chimed in to support his claim, nonetheless. “That’s true.”
“Headin’ north in winter? That don’t seem likely,” the stranger said.
“And the sooner we see your buttocks, the better!” the smaller man added aggressively.
The first man rolled his eyes and turned to his companion, “Their buttocks, Keenan? Really? Their buttocks?”
Keenan shrugged. “Well, yeah. I meant their backsides, but it’s all one, ain’t it?”
“No,” the taller one snapped. “It ain’t. You’re suggestin’ some sort o’ sordid need to see their naked ass-flesh. Which I don’t wanna see now or ever!”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it!” Keenan argued.
“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. But them?”
“I don’t think you wanna see my naked ass-flesh!” Spirk called up helpfully.
Quick as a wink, the taller man wheeled on Spirk, his crossbow pointed right at the Shaper’s chest. “I din’t ask you!”
At this point, a third, even smaller version of the first two men appeared. This new arrival had the same features as the first two, though his hair was lighter and he seemed a little rounder, overall.
“What’s all the fuss about?” he inquired.
“Never you mind!” said the tallest of the three. “Git back to basting that roast!”
At the word ‘roast,’ Long’s stomach rumbled something terrible. He was just about to speak up when Yendor beat him to it.
“How much for some o’ your roast?”
“Ye cain’t have none!” the second man yelled.
“Wait!” the tallest said. “How much what? What are you offerin’?”
“Coin,” Long replied confidently.
“Coin! Bah! What good’s coin out here?”
“Drink!” said Spirk, holding out one of the group’s last pots of magic elixir.
“No!” Yendor complained. “That’s too valuable!”
This caught the stranger’s attention. “Drink, you say? What kind o’ drink?”
“Wondrous, magical drink!” Long replied, over Yendor’s continued protestations.
“I’ll be the judge o’ that!” the second man, Keenan, declared. “Gimme a swig!”
Long retrieved the pot from Spirk’s outstretched hands and walked over to the wagon. Keenan lay down on his stomach, grasped the pot, and lifted it up onto the roof.
Yendor scowled in disgust. “Mahnus’ balls. Now we’ll never see food or drink!”
Keenan stood and took an experimental sip of his new prize. Apparently pleased with the taste, he drank more.
“I’ll have some o’ that!” the smallest of the three bellowed, ripping the pot from Keenan’s hands.
The first man watched his brothers – for that is what they appeared to be – but kept his crossbow trained on the men below. When the pot was half gone, he shoved through his comrades and grabbed it for himself. “That’s enough for you lot!”
“Don’t see any beef, do you?” Yendor grumbled in Long’s ear.
Long held up a finger: wait. “You remember how that stuff works.”
Soon, the three brothers were sitting on the roof of their wagon, singing like idiots, their legs dangling down towards Long and his crew. Unexpectedly, a woman – a sister – popped her head out of the roof’s trap door and sneered at the brothers.
“I mighta known!” she howled. “I’m down here doin’ all the work, and you shiftless tosspots are up here drinkin’!”
This precipitated an outburst of raucous laughter from her brothers, accompanied by an astounding variety of foul noises from the middle one.
“Here now, Mads,” the tallest one said, “’Ave a sip o’ this, and it’ll set you right.”
Suddenly, Mads noticed the strangers waiting below. “And oo’s them?”
“Friends!” Keenan declared. “Sworn and proven this very day!”
Mads was about to object when the tallest brother forced the pot to her lips and made her drink. She wanted to resist, but succumbed to the drink’s magic as quickly as her brothers had. After another few gulps, she raced below, threw open a door in the back of the wagon, and invited Long and his friends to dinner.
The inside of the wagon was a miracle of engineering, fully three times as large as the exterior and so filled with odd trinkets, toys and gewgaws that Long felt as if he were in a different world.
“Food for one, food for all!” Mads giggled, whilst doling out still-smoking slabs of meat on skewers of varying size.
“Where’d you happen to come by such bounty?” Long asked.
“Did you see them oxen?” the youngest brother asked.
“Aye.”
“Used to be twice as many. We’ve learned over time to make our meat carry itself.”
Feeding that many beasts must have been a burden, though. “In that case,” said Long, “you want to sell or trade one of your remaining oxen?”
The brothers all laughed.
Long joined them. “I had to try,” he said.
The middle brother, Keenan, then stood on his hands and ate his meat off the floor. The youngest brother, whose name had yet to be uttered, pulled off his boots and ate with his feet. The tallest brother juggled his meal and several other objects, and Mads played a multi-necked instrument for accompaniment. Not being drunk -- or as drunk – as their hosts, Long and his friends were still awake when the members of the Circus Family Barr began nodding off to sleep, sometimes in the middle of an activity or sentence. At last, the four guests found themselves alone and unsupervised in their hosts’ abode, wondering what was proper in such circumstances.
“I say we rob ‘em blind!” Yendor declared.
“No, no,” Long said, “we’re not that sort anymore, are we?”
“I wouldn’t mind buyin’ one o’ these,” Spirk announced as he fiddled with one of the family’s toys.
Long urged him to put the thing down. “We’d better not. You never know what’s part of their show and what ain’t.”
“Surely we can pay for some more food,” said Ron.
“Aye,” Yendor agreed. “At least some o’ that beef and some bread.”
“Or…” Long interjected, “we could join them in sleep. We’re safe and warm in here, and we can negotiate for supplies on the morrow. I don’t much relish the idea of settin’ up tents tonight, anyhow.”
Everyone agreed this was the best course, although Yendor privately worried they’d be forced to part with more of his magic drink. Still, a night in the warm-and-dry with the promise of a hot breakfast was too hard to resist.
There was plenty of room for everyone and, aside from some rather remarkable snoring, all eight of the wagon’s inhabitants got in an exceptional night’s sleep. The only unusual occurrence happened sometime after midnight, when the tallest brother started talking in his sleep. Long wasn’t able to make much sense of it, but he did hear, “With up so floating many bells down,” which could only have been the result of the alcohol, for it didn’t sound like anything a sane or sober man would say.
When dawn came, Long was jostled awake by a foul-smelling foot in his face. The big toe, in fact, was
mere seconds from exploring his left nostril when the captain’s eyes opened and he escaped that fate. All around him, his friends and their hosts were rousing themselves and endeavoring to stand. The brothers and their sister were finding the process more challenging because they were still drunk and would be for days yet, if Long’s experience meant anything. Yet, the drink continued to inspire generosity and goodwill amongst the Circus Family Barr, and they set about making breakfast for everyone without the slightest hesitation or misgiving.
Every member of Long’s crew was delighted to be eating beef two meals in a row, to say nothing of continuing to enjoy the warmth of the wagon and its owners, for every member of Long’s crew was also aware that leaving the wagon would mean a return to the insufferable cold, the tedious walking and the same old conversations.
A time came, though, when Long could eat and drink no more, and he itched to get back on the road, in search of his daughter. He had a hard time convincing his mates of the necessity of leaving, but in the end their loyalty to him won out. By midday, the captain and his friends had extricated themselves from the wagon and the Circus Family Barr and returned to the road. Looking back, Long thought he saw tears in the tallest brother’s eyes, whilst the younger brothers commenced wrestling and thrashing about in the snow. Mads watched Long and his friends walk away, and then she went back inside the wagon.
An hour down the road, Spirk said “I miss those fellers.”
“Aye,” said Ron.
Long put his hands in his pockets and realized all his coin was gone. “Hey, Yendor,” he whispered, “have you got any coin left?”
The other man rifled through his pockets and came up empty. “Those bastards!” he exclaimed. “Spirk, ‘ave you still got them pots ‘o drink.”
The Shaper had magically safeguarded his pockets. “I do!” he smiled.
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 34
