Arune snorted. Hardly. The more you study, the more you realize you don’t know anything.
Then why study, if the results the same either way?
I didn’t say the result was the same. Only that there’s so much more to learn, to discover.
Think I’m gonna puke. You sound like a bleedin’ A’Shea.
We’re not so different.
Right, right. A’Shea are always runnin’ around settin’ shit on fire…
Arune went silent, as he knew she would, with the now-familiar sensation of a door being closed elsewhere in the building. Just as well. He needed time to think.
Oh, yes, their pursuers were going to love this place.
*****
Deda, In Lunessfor
The Queen’s castle had stymied Wims’ best efforts to sneak in. He’d tried for a fortnight and had gotten nowhere and learned nothing – except that Lunessfor’s upper crust was damned serious about its security. Between the city watch, the Queen’s Swords and various privately contracted entities, the castle was clamped shut tighter than the thighs of the newest A’Shea initiate. A man couldn’t even go for an innocent stroll in the city’s sewers without attracting unwelcome attention.
It was over a mug of cider one night that Wims finally caught a break. During his brief stay in Lunessfor, he’d developed a powerful appreciation for the city’s particular brand of pear cider, and of all the places he’d sampled it, the Farmer’s Daughter had by far his favorite vintage. By sheer coincidence, the Farmer’s Daughter was also the tavern of choice for members of House Radcliffe, one of the more aggressive families wheeling and dealing for the Queen’s throne after her hoped-for death.
Eavesdropping on the Radcliffes, Wims first thought of killing one and assuming his victim’s identity in order to gain entrance to the castle. He soon dismissed the idea as unlikely to deceive anyone. Listening to the Radcliffes’ venal and duplicitous chatter, he realized a more direct approach might be best. Perhaps some sort of deal could be struck between these vultures and the End-of-All-Things, an agreement of sorts – although he knew full well neither side would ever honor it. And he only needed it to hold long enough to get him inside. Wims’ ace-in-the-hole was that he knew these were Radcliffes, and they would think him unaware of that fact.
Without another thought, Wims jumped right in. He began muttering to himself in barely audible tones. Halfway through a third (or fourth?) mug of cider, his mutterings got louder and began to annoy those sitting at nearby tables. Success! One of the Radcliffes leaned towards him and said “Keep it down, old sot!”
“I won’t!” Wims replied. “If I don’t like Her Majesty, ain’t no one can make me speak well of her!”
Immediately, the other man’s gaze took on a furtive, conspiratorial quality. “Easy, then, easy,” he urged. “I’m just looking out for your safety and welfare. Not everyone is as understanding and open-minded as my fellows and I. Speak such thoughts too loudly in the wrong crowd and you’re minus one head!”
Wims made a big show of scanning the room for spies and continued under his breath, “Yes, well, it’s time the old hag went to it, is all I was saying. Her brains have turned to mush! Let someone younger and fitter take the reins.”
“Indeed,” the other man said, hushing his tablemates and sliding a fresh flagon of whatever he’d been drinking in front of Wims. “Trouble is, Her Majesty isn’t in a cooperative mood.” He sighed, “What’s to be done, eh?”
Taking an enormous swig of the proffered beverage – which turned out to be a surprisingly tasty brown ale – Wims belched, “I can think of a thing or two. Unfortunately, there’s no way in to the castle.” He pretended to lose himself in his drink long enough to give his new friend time to confer in urgent whispers with his cohorts.
“Well,” their leader said at last, “I think there may be a way we can get you in to the castle. But…er…what are you planning once you get inside? You’ll never be able to get near Her Majesty, and even if you did, her Swords’d cut you down before you laid a finger on her.”
“I s’pose you’re right,” Wims agreed, acting defeated. A moment later, he feigned epiphany. “But if I was to sow enough mischief around inside – foul the food stores, poison the wells, spread gossip, discreetly damage important items, that sort o’ thing – I’m guessing I could make hanging on a lot less appealing for the old bitch.” Of course, it was a stupid plan. The question was whether or not the Radcliffes would find it – and Wims – sufficiently stupid for their own plans.
Once more, the other man and his associates whispered amongst themselves. Wims made out the name of House Gault and quickly understood that, yes, his new friends had taken the bait: they would get him into the castle under the Gault name, and Wims, supposedly none-the-wiser, would seriously embarrass House Gault with everything he attempted. Plainly, the Radcliffes expected him to die, but in the process they believed he’d knock the Gaults down a peg or two.
Naturally, they were generous with the ale.
Come morning, Wims – who was nowhere near as hung over as he should have been – stood at the appointed rendezvous, just outside a tinker’s on Shale Street. The Radcliffe fellow sauntered up as arranged and pretended to ask directions to a local apothecary. During this charade, he successfully passed a small parcel Wims’ way without attracting a moment’s notice from passersby. That done, he thanked the “helpful citizen,” and wandered off in the direction Wims had pointed. Wims, then, spent half the morning meandering through various back alleys before returning to the inn he had called home for the past two weeks. He enjoyed a rather large meal and then headed up to his room, to sleep off the last of the previous evening’s alcohol. The truth was, he was simply putting as much space between himself and House Radcliffe as possible. The next morning, when he approached the castle with his newly acquired credentials in hand, no one would be able to connect him with the Gaults’ nemeses. At least, Wims had convinced the Radcliffes that was so; he had yet to decide for himself whom to damage and whom to spare; if he could contrive to bloody everyone’s nose, so much the better.
That evening, Wims concluded that he’d exercised enough patience and finally opened the parcel the Radcliffes had supplied him. Inside, he found a letter from House Gault, introducing him to the castle guards as one Merius Quendl, and requesting his admission in order to “Bring physic to our beloved uncle Konr, resting in hospice in Her Majesty’s east wing,” etc, etc, etc. Apparently, this Konr Gault had fallen ill some time ago during a feast in the castle and been deemed too ill to travel back to the Gault estates. Her Majesty would not hear of endangering his life further by letting him leave until he was fully recovered…which, as the ensuing months had proven, seemed less and less likely every day. It was a reasonably cunning ruse on the Radcliffe’s part, Wims thought, but the paperwork would be the deciding factor. Along with the letter – stamped with the official seal of House Gault (or something wickedly similar) – was a silver ring, boasting the Gault crest in miniature and another, sealed letter for Konr. That last was a nice touch, Wims felt, because it implied a desperate optimism, when in fact everyone knew Konr would never be able to read it.
The following day, Wims was actually excited to see how well this subterfuge would work. He was not disappointed. After only a few minutes’ interrogation, the guards ushered him right into the castle. Evidently, the easiest way to accomplish evil goals was by pretending to do good. In that regard, a little false concern for others was a much deadlier poison than open rancor. Wims determined to remember that for future reference.
*****
Janks, the Queen’s Camp
“That the best you got, Wanks?” Sergeant Kittins jeered. “My old nanna hit harder than that and she lost both arms to the plague!”
Another day, another beating disguised as sparring with Sergeant Kittins. Say one thing for the guy: he enjoyed his job. “Come on, ya simpering flower girl!” Kittins yelled again. “I’ve given you the bleedin’ mace,
and I’m unarmed! Ya need me to wear a blindfold, too?”
Not a blindfold, Janks thought. A gag would sure be nice, though. The inescapable truth, however, was that Janks would never score a solid hit on his sergeant. The other man lived to inflict pain – he even seemed to enjoy receiving it, on those rare occasions when someone else connected –but ever since Janks had lost Long, he just couldn’t bring himself to care anymore, about Kittins, the war or his squad mates. Part of him even hoped Kittins would kill him, hit him a touch too hard one day and stove his skull in. Janks just didn’t give a shit.
“Ah, you’re hopeless!” the sergeant roared. He then stepped into Janks, ripped the mace out of his hand and smashed himself on the head with it. “See that, girly? That’s how it’s done!”
If only he’d have hit himself harder.
“Yes sir,” Janks said.
Kittins threw the mace down in disgust. “You’ll never be a soldier, Wanks. How you’ve managed to live this long is beyond me.” After a long, uncomfortable silence, Kittins finally walked away.
Rem’s voice invaded Janks’ moment of peace. “He’s smarter than you take him for, you know.”
Janks said nothing, moved not a muscle.
“If you’re trying to get him to kill you, I mean.”
Janks looked over at his newest old friend. Was it that obvious?
“He’ll find a million trivial jobs for you, he’ll run you ragged and belittle you forever. But he’ll never let you win,” Rem concluded.
“I’ve made a right ruin o’ this squad,” Janks breathed. “Got my best friends killed. The fuck do I care what Kittins does or doesn’t do to me?”
“I believe you assume too much.”
Janks looked wearily over at the actor.
“We don’t know Long’s dead – or Spirk or Mardine or D’Kem, for that matter. Fears ain’t facts, as my old da used to say.”
A burst of raucous laughter caught both men’s attention, and Janks turned in time to see Kittins and Bash, blood streaming from their faces, arms thrown across one another’s shoulders, stagger back towards the tents.
“It appears Kittins has found a worthy playmate, at last.” Rem joked.
“Much joy may it bring him,” Janks murmured.
*****
Spirk and D’Kem, On the Trail
“D’Kem! D’Kem!” the young man yelled at him. “Wake up, will ya?”
The Shaper rolled over and cracked one eye to see Spirk standing over him, hopping from foot to foot. “Mmmm?” D’Kem groaned.
“I have to piss!”
D’Kem exhaled mightily and rolled back to his previous position, trying to recapture the warmth he’d felt only seconds ago.
“I’m serious, D’Kem! I have to piss.”
“So piss.”
“Yeah, but I need to know if it’s safe.”
“It’s never safe,” the old Shaper said.
“It’s not?” Spirk’s voice rose an octave, at least. If he’d had the presence of mind, he might’ve noticed the faint trace of a smile that graced the old man’s lips. “Really? What am I supposed to do? When will it be safe?”
D’Kem rolled onto his back and stared into the sky, his smile completely gone. “What’s all this about, anyway?” he asked, rather irritably.
“The End-of-the-World might have spies looking for us. I don’t wanna get killed taking a piss!”
“Is there a better way to die?” D’Kem asked.
“Well, that’s just it: I don’t wanna die!” A moment, and then, “Leastways, not right now and not right here.”
D’Kem sighed and sat up. Again, an astute observer might have suggested the old man looked less…old, less worn. There was a new clarity in his eyes and a sense of growing strength. Spirk saw none of this. D’Kem climbed to his feet, stretched, looked about. He and Spirk had slept amongst a small grove of Synlaeys bushes, their citrusy scent permeating everything in their vicinity and cloaking the men’s odors from predators and search parties. Without a word, the Shaper began picking leaves from the bushes and secreting them on his person. D’Kem was almost shocked when he turned and found Spirk still standing nearby.
“Can I piss now?”
D’Kem waved a hand and the boy’s bladder let loose, drenching his trousers and leaving him utterly gobsmacked.
“Better?” D’Kem asked, dryly.
“You! You…you made me piss m’self!”
“But I thought you wanted to piss! Isn’t that what you said, over and over?”
“Not in my own pants!” Spirk yelled, stamping his foot.
D’Kem said something under his breath, and the boy’s pants began to dry quite rapidly.
Spirk wasn’t quite mollified. “I’m still gonna stink to high Desnar!”
Gritting his teeth, D’Kem grabbed a handful of Synlaeys leaves, walked over to his companion and roughly shoved the lot down the kid’s trousers. “Now, let’s hear no more about your piss, your pants or your problems!” He told Spirk forcefully. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
“Well, I am kinda hungry, now you mention it.”
D’Kem stalked off.
“Hey! Where are you going?”
*****
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Spirk warned later, as D’Kem prepared to attract the attention of a scouting party.
Did you just use the words ‘think’ and ‘idea’ in the same sentence? The Shaper almost asked in irritation. The young man had been babbling since they’d awoken that morning, and his constant chatter was driving the older man to distraction. But there was nothing for it: the boy was what he was, whatever that was.
*****
“Look, Spirk,” he began. “Each of us has his role to play…I haven’t yet discovered what yours may be, although doubtless it’s of paramount importance. My role at the moment seems to be returning our host’s hospitality by stealing a few of his troops, just as he’s taken our sergeant and giant.”
Spirk stared at him, open-mouthed.
D’Kem shook his head. The scouting party drew nearer. The Shaper tried again, “Spirk.”
“Yes?”
“The End-of-All-Things captured us, did he not?”
“’Course he did! You was there.”
“Yes. And now I’m going to return the favor and capture a few of his men.”
Instantly, the younger man grew anxious. “We gonna torture ‘em?”
“That’s for the Major Bailis to decide.”
Spirk nodded. “But what about Long Pete and Mardine?”
D’Kem put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure they’re being held in or near the command tent—where the End-of-All-Things spends most of his time. In a host that large, there’s simply no way we could locate and free them without getting them both – and ourselves – killed. Better to trust in Mahnus and accomplish what good we may from the outside.”
“I don’t like it,” Spirk concluded after a lengthy pause.
“No,” D’Kem agreed, “nor do I. But there it is, nonetheless.” There being nothing more he could say to the boy by way of reassurance, the Shaper turned his attentions to the approaching scouts. There were five of them, lightly armored for speed and distance of travel. They were looking for signs of the Queen’s army, not two lone men on foot, so it was entirely possible they would ride right on past, unless…
D’Kem cupped his hands on either side of his mouth. He felt a moment’s uncertainty as to how best to draw them in, through flattery, an appeal for help or outright belligerence. Since he was past pretending anything other than contempt for anyone working for the End-of-All-Things, he decided upon insults.
“Cowards!” he yelled lustily. “Cutthroat dogs! Filthy, inbred, mercenary scum!”
In his peripheral vision, he could see that Spirk was becoming alarmed, so he hissed “Stay back!” with all the intensity he could muster. To his relief, the younger man obeyed.
The scouts came on, confident in their numbers, ability and mou
nted advantage. They spent not a moment pondering the peculiarities of the situation but silently agreed that whatever the old bumpkin’s motives in abusing them might be, he indisputably needed to suffer for such disrespect. At one hundred paces, their confidence bloomed, and they spurred their horses into a gallop.
D’Kem felt Spirk’s hand on his upper arm. “Not now!” he yelled at the boy.
At twenty-five paces, D’Kem did a quick, almost furtive series of gestures. By fifteen paces, the horses had slowed to a trot, their riders equally slow in reacting to this development. Spirk let out a startled yelp, but the Shaper remained focused on his adversaries. When they finally came to within arm’s reach, mounts and riders alike seemed barely awake. One man listed sideways, and gravity pulled him to the ground with a thump. He didn’t even wake up.
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 31
