Treachery of Kings ftlm-2 Read online

  Perhaps, he thought, such showmen took to balloons, once their acts had played too long on the ground. It was, he knew, a question he would keep to himself.

  There were balloons aground here from near and far, some from friendly lands, and some that clearly were not. Finn saw, in fact, three craft from Heldessia itself, loading wine and bolts of cloth, ready to catch the morning breeze.

  And, no doubt, there were balloons from Fyxedia over there, ready to return upon the night.

  “Ironic indeed,” Finn said aloud, to no one at all. “It's a sad and bitter thing that we hurl our cargoes of death at one another each and every day, as well as silk for ladies, and jars of thistle wine.”

  And I, he said only to himself, I am risking life and limb to carry a blessed clock to Heldessia's King, whose warriors would slaughter me at will without the blink of a witless eye.

  The world is a'tilt, I fear, and reason is spilling like syrup over its treacherous edge…

  “Human person,” Bucerius said, his blunt features a mirror of disdain, “dream on your own time, but be lookin’ alive on mine!”

  Finn had manaced to set his fears aside, put them out of sight, shove them in a corner in the attic of his mind. Now he faced a terrible moment of truth, for the sight before him was no mad fancy, but a real and awesome device. The instant he came near this horrid apparatus, he was sure he was looking at the instrument of his death.

  In essence, the thing was a great, swollen sphere, some sixty feet in height, its bulk enclosed in something akin to a net. Attached to the sphere was a tangle of ropes, shrouds, pulleys and lines. And, below that, tethered by stakes and heavy cords, was the most frightening part of all: a wickerwork basket, much like the one where folk tossed their laundry for the wash. This basket, though, seemed scarcely large enough to hold a child, much less the bulk of Bucerius and himself.

  “You are not serious, I presume,” Finn said. “You can't send us up in a crate like that.”

  For the first time since they'd met, the Bullie grinned, a grin that spread his vivid coral lips to the cratered nostrils of his nose, to the wrinkles on his lightly furred skull that led to the faint suggestion of latent horns.

  Finn prayed the Bullie would soon return to his grim demeanor, and never smile again.

  “You be findin’ joy in the skies,” Bucerius said, fingering the ring in his nose. “Even a human person be havin’ the sense to see that. There's free up'n there. There isn't be free down here. They is only little shits like princes, an’ folk thinkin’ Newlies not good as nobody else. Thinkin’ Bullie got a strong back and nothin’ in his head.”

  “I don't think that at all. Really, you mustn't feel I do.”

  “You don’ talk. I talkin’ to you.” Bucerius made his point with a finger to Finn's chest, a finger the size of Finn's hand.

  “You gots a nice Mycer girl. So you be smarter'n most human persons, I s'pose. You keeps bein’ smart, I be get-tin’ you over there an’ back. You acting dumb, like maybe you piss on yourself we gettin’ up there, you be dizzy or something, you maybe fallin’ out.”

  “Wait a minute,” Finn said, “that sounds a lot like a threat to me. I don't care for that.”

  “You think I gotta do a threat? Gotta scare you, little man?” Bucerius looked pained. “What I sayin’ is so. There be danger up there, you don't know what you doing. That's what I tellin’ you.

  “They's even more danger you gets to Heldessia Land, I be sayin’ that. Them human persons be crazier'n the ones you got here. Meaner, too. Make that prince an’ his mushin’ and skinnin’ look like a bunch of chil'ren pullin’ legs offa ants. You want to be a-climbin’ inna basket now, you wanna be whinin’ down here? Whichever you doin’, be doin’ it pretty damn quick…”

  ELEVEN

  As the sun, with a fierce and dogged sense of will, heaved itself over the rim once more, as indigo faded to a blushing pansy blue, Finn, Master Lizard-Maker, late of County Ploone, now, truly, shorn of any grip on the precious earth at all, peered down upon the most fearsome, breathtaking sight he'd ever seen.

  As if the day star had sounded a call, sent its brilliant heralds far and wide, the winds above the earth began to stir and come alive.

  At first, a gentle breeze, playful puffs of air, then, of a sudden, hearty gusts that swept the balloon up high, high and higher still.

  The wicker basket wobbled and the lines began to sing. Finn closed his eyes, thought of Letitia, thought of happy days that would never come again. Then, when he dared to face the world once more, he found he was mostly intact, though his stomach remained several hundred feet below.

  Bucerius, along with many other merchants, had loosed the tethers of their craft only moments before the Easterlies arrived. Now, Finn saw the wisdom of this move. As if some trumpet had surely blown, all the plump and hefty monsters, all the great balloons of war, began to rise at once

  “Great Socks and Rocks!” Finn said. “What a muddle, what a mess!”

  Why the military should choose disorder as a plan, as a ploy, Finn couldn't say. The Bullie, though, working his pulleys and his lines, noted Finn's words with a rumble of disgust, deep within his chest.

  The horde began to rise, swiftly now, upon the lofty winds. Ten, a dozen, twenty, fifty, more than Finn could count. Some like clumsy sausages, puffers, floaters, blind worms bobbing about. Some like swollen melons, ready to burst in the heat of the sun.

  Each, and all, seemed distended this way and that. None could claim a color more enticing than mud. Each was a hodgepodge, a muddle of canvas, linen, and sacks, patches of calico, patches of pants.

  And, ‘neath each of these behemoths, some a good hundred feet long, hung a tangle of webbing, a jumble of cords, a covey of baskets chock-full of pikemen, dragoons and fusiliers. Lancers, sappers, archers and doomed grenadiers.

  Some of these craft carried loads so heavy they were lashed together in sixes and fours. Still, many seemed scarcely able to rise above the ground.

  Even as Finn watched, two great bulbous creatures- seven gasbags in one, four in the other-collided some fifty feet above the ground. Lines tangled, baskets tipped, and spilled their hapless troopers about.

  Finn closed his eyes against the sight, but he could still hear the screams, hear the rips and the tears as the great crafts tore themselves apart.

  And this is the beginning, this is just the start. We've yet to even taste the war…

  And, as confusion reigned supreme, as disorder held sway, Finn had visions of these bloaters, these lunks bobbing against the sooty pall below. As much as he wished the picture would go away, it was hard to dispell the image of a great, airborne sewer, with a multitude of turds all about…

  Bucerius’ craft, which carried no carco at all, except for Finn's clock and a goodly stack of food, sailed well ahead of many of the merchants, and all of the cumbersome military craft.

  Below, the River Gleen quickly gave way to the awesome Swamp of Bleak Demise, which stretched all the way to the Prince's foes, Heldessia Land. The swamp, as every schoolchild in each of the warring nations knew, was the reason both combatants had turned to balloons.

  No army could cross the Swamp of Bleak Demise. If there was to be a war at all, it had to take place on reasonably solid ground. Thus, more than seven hundred years before, the lords of both domains had chosen the small, agricultural province of Melonius, an island of plenty surrounded by the swamp on every side, for their mutual battleground.

  It was no longer known as Melonius, for the folk there had long been driven from their homes. There were no trees there, and no trace of crops of any sort. Now, it was a barren plain of death, where nothing, not even the hardiest weed, dared to grow.

  Finn had little desire to peer over the side of the craft, for his stomach was yet to catch up with the rest of himself. And, when he chanced to look below, there was always the sight of tattered balloons that had not made it past the swamp or back. Many, Finn imagined, had rotted and disappeared into the darkne
ss years before.

  Toward noon, Bucerius brought out hard bread, a large wedge of odorous cheese, and a jar of stale beer. He offered to share with Finn. Finn was surprised, and grateful as well, for he had forgotten to bring the fatcakes and berry sandwiches Letitia had carefully prepared.

  Though the Bullie had scarcely said a word since they'd begun, he seemed more amiable after his belly was full.

  “I see you be lookin’ down there,” he said, shoving a whole pickled potato in his mouth. “It don't be a good idea to bother them what's down below.”

  “And who would that be?” Finn asked, for he couldn't imagine who the fellow could mean.

  “Coldies, what you think? There's seven hunnert years of the dead scattered round down there. Many a soldier's falled to his doom ‘tween here and where we be headed for.”

  “I hadn't thought of the dead, though you're right as you can be. I think, though, if I were a Coldie, I wouldn't stay there. I'd get out of the Bleak Demise as quickly as I could. Get to a town, a decent city somewhere.”

  Bucerius looked aghast. “You never been down there. Isn't no one be findin’ they way outta that. You dyin’ there, you stayin’ there. Even a human person ought to be knowin’ that.”

  “I, ah-suppose. Though I've always found the dead like their comforts as well as the living do. And they clearly have plenty of time to search about. They've nothing else to do.”

  Bucerius muttered under his breath, clearly not pleased with Finn's opinion on the matter. Finn had to remind himself that Bullies, by nature, found it offensive if others had opinions contrary to their own. Not unlike a great many beings of other races, as far as that was concerned.

  When the meal was done, Bucerius tossed a few bites of food over the side, and Finn did the same. If any of the dead were down there, they would surely enjoy the essence, the emanation of these remains.

  Finn knew it was likely better to leave things as they were, but there was little to do until they fell to their doom, and death was much upon his mind.

  “You think, then, there is such a thing as the afterlife? You think we go somewhere else?”

  Bucerius frowned. “What you be meaning? We just talkin’ ‘bout that.”

  “I mean after you're a Coldie. After that.”

  “Isn't no after that. You be dead, that's that.”

  “Some say different. There's churches tell you there's a hereafter place to go.”

  “Here after what?”

  “Somewhere different. Somewhere you go after you're dead for a while. I talked to a Coldie once said it's so. Fellow used to be a barrister, so he might know. Said there's seers tell you if you act right after you're dead for a time, you can do something else.”

  “Huh.” Bucerius spat in the wind, narrowly missing Finn.

  “That be what seers an’ magician folk is for, you livin’ or you're dead. Get you to buy somethin’ from ‘em, get you to spend your last pence on some stupid spell.”

  Finn gave the Bullie a curious look. “Your kind don't believe in magic, then? I never knew that before. Plenty of Newlies do.”

  “‘Course we believes in magic. What you think, you better'n me?”

  “Certainly not. As you have pointed out, friend, I'm united in bliss with a Mycer girl.”

  “Don't mean you got any concern for my folk-or any other creature what isn't humankind.”

  “You think what you will. My feeling, simply from being with you a very short while, is that it is you who have little affection for any but your own. And I'm not certain of that. I saw how those Bullies back at the Grounds looked at you. And how you looked at them.”

  For an instant, the cords in Bucerius’ massive neck tightened, and his broad nostrils flared. Then, turning away, he began to busy himself with the shrouds of his balloon.

  “Don't be botherin’ me, human person. You be wavin’ at the dead down there. Preach at ‘em all you like. I got work to do…”

  By late afternoon, the war balloons began to catch up a bit, though none passed the fleeter merchant ships. If any of the military craft had collided or fallen in the swamp, Finn couldn't tell.

  Closer, he could see crewmen swarming about the dizzy heights of the portly craft, loosing this, possibly tightening that. Many, he noted, were Yowlies, Newlies with flat, ugly faces, pumpkin-seed eyes, and mean dispositions. Still, their great agility was valued on ships at sea, as well as those in the air.

  Before the Change, before the erring seers had brought them up from beasts, the ancestors of the Yowlies had viciously hunted down the ancestors of Letitia's kind. Finn could scarcely blame Letitia for her fear and dislike of such beings. Their fierce appearance and disturbing cries were enough to set anyone's nerves on edge. If any creature changed from beasts lived up to its name, Yowlies took second place to none.

  The afternoon sun caught the big balloons in its glare, and Finn noted their swollen flanks were no longer entirely bare. Now, magic symbols in garish shades of yellow, violet and green were smeared on every side.

  This rite, he had heard before, was performed only when the craft were in the air. From the distance of Garpenny Street on the far side of Ulster-East, Finn had often seen vessels returning from the west with such markings, but never on any as they rose into the skies. “Not too surprising,” he muttered to himself, “for the more disaster, mortal fear and death are involved in a spell, the more effective they seem to be…”

  Many of the merchant vessels bore runic markings too, but Bucerius’ balloon showed nothing but an archaic B, a letter in the common tongue.

  “You credit the magical arts to some extent,” Finn said, “though I see no signs upon your craft. Would I be out of line if I were to ask why?”

  “Out of line's not even be a start,” the Bullie answered, without turning from his tasks. “Human persons be pokin’ they ugly heads into ever'thing they got no business in at all.

  “No, I got no signs or symbols on my craft, an’ don't intend to.”

  He stopped, and abruptly faced Finn, the late sun narrowing his eyes. “That thing up there be snappin’ a line or rippin’ a hole, you try chantin’ a spell while we be drop-pin’ like a barrel of lead. What I believe is curses an’ hexes can send this thing to the ground. I doubts there's a charm can hold ‘er up.”

  Words, Finn thought, that made a strange kind of sense. Perhaps he, and this great-often smelly and disagreeable creature-shared a belief in kind: that he who depended on the strengths within himself possessed a power greater than magic spells.

  “At least,” Finn added, “I'd like to think it's so…”

  TWELVE

  "You must promise me you will take care of yourself, my dear. I know you are a fine, capable, and courageous man, and responsible in every respect. Still, I urge you to take extra caution at all times. You will be alone in an alien land, and have no one to depend upon but yourself.”

  “I promise, Letitia. And I will, indeed, make every effort to keep myself wholly intact, and return as quickly as I can.”

  “Oh, Finn, I have no doubt you will.”

  “And I must tell you, love, and I mean this in the highest regard, you are showing a braver face at my departure than anyone could truly expect. You know I am embarking on a voyage that is rife with hazard, and danger of every sort. Yet, you do not falter, you do not yield to the fear, the dread, the torment that is tearing you up inside. I think no other could show such mettle as you are showing now.”

  “I know you will come back, Finn. You have faced adversity before, but you always come through.”

  “Yes, that's true. But this venture, you understand, is somewhat more treacherous than any I've faced before.”

  “Ah, you'll persevere. I have no doubt of that.”

  “You don't?”

  “You are skillful, deft, cunning to a fault, my Finn.”

  “I suppose I am, that's true, but anything could happen, you know. I don't wish you to worry, but-”

  “I won't, really.” />
  “Won't? Won't what?”

  “Worry. Not truly, I mean.”

  “Well, you should, if I may say so, Letitia. It may be you are taking this all too lightly. As a fact, it would not be unseemly if you were-greatly concerned. Certainly, more than you seem to be now!”

  “Give us a kiss here in the hallway, love, where no one can see and turn us in for lust between Man and the spawn of the beast, and be on your way to your balloon. The sooner begun, the sooner done, as some wise sage has said. Or if he hasn't, he very likely will…”

  THIRTEEN

  "It isn't as if I want her wailing and thrash ing about,” Finn mumbled to himself, noting that the sun had dropped farther behind a crimson veil. “But I do feel she could have shown a bit more fervor, anguish and remorse. I don't think that's too much to ask”

  “What now? What you be mumbling over there? A human person's got such a weaky little voice, they might's well not be talkin’ at all.”

  “I was talking to myself, Bucerius. I would have spoken louder if my words were meant for you.”

  Finn was surprised he'd let his attention wander so long. The war balloons were closer now-much too close for his liking, and too many of them to boot. Was there any reason they had to huddle together like a school of bloated fish? There was plenty of room to move about, a whole bloody sky.

  Some, he noted, had vented their balloons, letting their craft sink rapidly down. Others tossed over bags of sand to rise higher still. The skies were near smothered with clumsy craft, rising up and sinking down. Through sheer dumb luck, most seemed to pass each other with room to spare.

  “Fate is truly kind,” Finn said, “or we should see a dozen dire disasters before our very eyes “Kites and Mites,” he suddenly shouted, squeezing the wicker rail, “ look out, you damn fool! ”

  No one heard him above the constant shriek of air. Bucerius saw it too, and cursed beneath his breath, jerking a line that sent his vessel swooping dizzily away.