Treachery of Kings ftlm-2 Page 7

  Or, as it happened, grasp empty air, and wonder if his blade was on the roof of the fellow with the pumpkin-sized head, shattered in the basket, or possibly among the dead and wounded fowl…

  SIXTEEN

  "This can't be,” Finn shouted, standing his ground, staring at his foes. “Where is it written I shall be shot and skewered by Bowsers in a dark and fetid street? I can't accept this at all!”

  “Zhooot ‘im, zhooot ‘im in zuh haid! Zhoot dis perzon ded!”

  “No you don't, fellow. I'm not armed, can't you see that? It's simply not the thing to do-”

  An ancient weapon blossomed with a tongue of scarlet fire, with a stink of black powder, with a horrible din. For an instant, a dark plume of smoke obscured the Bowsers, sending them into choking fits.

  “Valor delayed is courage yet to come,” Finn said, and turned on his heels and ran. “Someone said that, I can't remember who.”

  He chose the first alley to his left, praying it went somewhere, anywhere at all. It did, but only to a narrow, twisted maze of sewers, sumps, garbage bins and dumps. Somehow, he'd stumbled on the septic tank of the city, found it all alone, without the aid of a map.

  Left, right, it didn't greatly matter. It was nearly pitch-black. He could barely see his hand in front of his face.

  “I could smell my way out, if I knew where one odor stopped and the other one began”

  Light, a pale reflection off a grimy brick wall. A torch, and the throaty yelp of Finn's foes.

  “Zere, zere ‘e izt! Komen vit ze Svord, Zhep!”

  “You getz ‘im, Mahx. Izt schmellin’ in zere.”

  “You gotz ze Svord. I beze shtayin’ here!”

  Finn searched about in the dark, setting the damnable clock aside. Soot, smut, broken bottles and pots. Things he hoped never to touch again. No fine blades, no weapon of any sort. His hand found something round, something short: the broken handle of a shovel or a hoe.

  A head appeared out of shadow. Finn could see very little, but the white straw boater floated like an apparition in the dark. The Bowser went down without a sound. The crown of his hat collapsed atop his head, while the brim formed a collar about his neck.

  “What a witless thing to do,” Finn said to himself, “blundering in without a torch. Why didn't the idiot wait for his friend?”

  No need to hang around for an answer. He scrambled about, looking for the fellow's blade — found it, hefted it in his hand. More like a bludgeon than a blade. Short, heavy, dull as the opera “Bob” Letitia had dragged him to.

  Still, a blade for all of that, one step up from a stick.

  And, found in the nick of time, as it were, for the Bowser with the torch stepped around the corner, a tall, solemn fellow with droopy jowls, checkered vest, red bow tie, and a blade very much like Finn's.

  “You be geshtoppen vere you izt, hooman. Dropen you veapon now!”

  “Huh-uh. You be dropen yours,” Finn said, lashing out with a jab that snipped a button off the fellow's vest.

  The Bowser didn't care for that at all. The button was imitation pearl, and difficult to find. He muttered an oath in the harsh, irritating tongue of his kind, slipping Finn's blade aside, going for the gut.

  Finn stepped deftly to the right, his left foot squashing something vile. Then, instead of pressing his adversary, the Bowser backed off, assuming a formal stance, designed for defense, rather than attack.

  Finn didn't stop to ask why. Feinting to the left, he whipped his blade high and came in swiftly from the right.

  Too late, he saw his mistake. He'd paid no attention to his enemy's torch, intent on the dangerous blade. Now, the Bowser ducked low, and with his left hand thrust the burning brand in Finn's face.

  Finn cried out as the heat scorched his brow. He heard his hair sizzle, felt his lashes curl.

  This time, the Bowser followed through, leaping in fast, flailing away with wicked strokes while Finn was still blinking from the light. He fought back blindly, shouting at the top of his lungs, fought with such anger at his own near-fatal blunder, that the Bowser was startled, stunned by such a sudden, mad assault.

  Finn cut him once across the chest, ripping the checkered vest. Cut him once more below the throat, a move that unraveled the red bow tie, and brought a gasp from his foe.

  The Bowser raised a hand to his neck and stared at Finn. A gold-rimmed monocle dropped from his eye and onto the sodden ground. Finn had ever thought the monocle an odd conceit among these folk, for it didn't seem likely all their people had defects in one eye.

  Once more, the Bowser leaped forward, whipping his weapon about. Finn moved in a blur, turned his blade around and struck the creature across his pointy nose with the heavy, weighted hilt.

  The Bowser sagged and went down atop his companion, still moaning on the ground. Finn took a breath, and had little time for that. The third of his foes, with a comrade at his back, was yipping for his blood, scraping through the narrow alleyway. Finn was grateful the passage was a very tight squeeze. Grateful, too, that both the Bowsers wanted through at once.

  And where, pray, was his large companion all this time? Had the Bullie found a jug of ale and settled down for the night?

  “Prinz, here! Ze hooman's kilt dem both! Getz in an’ zhoot ‘im now!”

  The Bowser in the rear crowded his companion aside, raised his enormous weapon and aimed it at Finn's head.

  Finn backed off, came up against a sodden wall with nowhere to go. The immense, flared barrel of the musket looked a quarter mile wide. There was little metal showing, as most of the aged device was covered in rust and soot.

  “If that is a Heinz-Erlichnok. 47 as I suspect,” Finn said, “I'd take a care if I were you. The trigger tends to stick on that model, especially in weather like this. If that lock you're using comes from the Sandow Works, which I believe it does, the weapon will likely freeze after two or three shots. From the noise you fellows made, I expect you're past that. If it truly fires, I'll wager it takes your head off instead of mine.”

  “Vhat?” Prinz, for that was the short, chunky Bowser's name, looked curiously at Finn, then back at his weapon again.

  “You zhink he bein’ a vizeass, Phydo? Nuttin’ zeems wrong to me.”

  “Zhoot ‘im, don’ talk vit ‘im, phool!” Phydo bared his teeth, snatched the weapon from his friend, blew a cloud of soot from the lock, and aimed the thing at Finn.

  “Hold it,” Finn said, his belly clenching up in a knot. “You look like reasonable fellows, let's talk about this.”

  “Lezz nhot. Be shtillen, hooman. Don’ be jerkin’ round- whuuuuk!”

  As if by sorcery, a strange, unnatural act of some kind, both of the Bowsers rose up off the ground and into the darkness above. They flailed, kicked, quivered and thrashed about. The musket went off and lit up the night.

  In its sudden glare, Finn saw Bucerius on the roof overhead. His legs, stout as young trees, were spread wide. With scarcely any effort at all, he hauled the two Bowsers up into the night, bits of strong line looped about their necks. He dangled them there for an instant, watching them kick hopelessly about, then dropped his lines, and let the pair sink limply to the ground.

  The Bullie jumped lightly to the alley floor, caught Finn's expression, and turned up his mouth as if something tasted bad.

  “They isn't dead, though it wouldn't trouble me none if they was… “

  Finn could scarcely fault the Bullie for his thoughts. Bucerius hadn't forgotten the merchant he'd found in the downed balloon, and those who'd likely perished in the flames they'd seen some blocks away.

  “There might be others out there. We'd best have a care.”

  “Isn't no one bein’ out there now,” Bucerius said, peering at Finn through the dark. “I haven't been takin’ no nap, in case you didn't know…”

  SEVENTEEN

  Through the alley and out in the open street again, Finn saw a Bowser sprawled on his back. And, farther down the block toward the square, they passed two more, moaning and
holding their heads. Finn understood why the Bullie had been delayed. He'd had things to do.

  Finn scraped dirt, soot and something soggy off the sacking wrapped tightly about his clock. Cleaned his trousers and his cape as best he could.

  “Still got the pretty, do you? You be hangin’ on to that thing. Don't be leavin’ it lying in a alley somewhere.”

  “Do you think I would indeed?” Finn answered, not a little annoyed by the Bullie's lofty attitude. “You think I embarked on this voyage, floating about in a deathtrap with a-with a giant that farts like a typhoon, you think I came here to fight a herd of yapping maniacs? No, Bucerius, don't tell me how to hang on to my goods. It is a coarse, vulgar, common piece of crap, but I can handle it very well.”

  “Thought you be makin’ the thing.”

  “I did. So what?”

  “So why you makin’ crap? You no good or what?”

  Finn stopped in the darkness and peered up at the Bullie.

  “I am good. I invented lizards in my head. No one else in the world even thought of that but me. I am the finest craftsman you'll ever meet. No, in all modesty, I am more than that. I'm an artist, friend. I'm the best.

  “And that's why I made this ugly, base, despicable clock. Because, if you live in a land that is governed by a tasteless Prince, you had best make a tasteless, golden lizard with a clock in its belly, if that's what he desires. If you do not, there is little chance you will be around to create finer things, things that people can use, things that people will admire because of their beauty and craftsmanship.

  “You think Aghen Aghenfleck is a greedy, worthless lout and so do I. Yet, you work for him as well. Now why do we suppose you do that?”

  Bucerius, in spite of himself, seemed taken aback.

  “He be what you sayin’, all right. But he also be sittin’ in a castle, not me.”

  “Exactly. I have never understood how such a thing happens, but it seems to be the same, everywhere one goes. There is always someone at the top of the heap, and, more often than not, they scarcely have the sense of the most witless fellow in town. Yet, we let them stay there, and tell us what to do.”

  “That's the way it always been,” Bucerius said. “I figure that's how the world's suppose’ to be.”

  “I can't believe we're all as ignorant as that. There must be something missing here. Something we simply fail to see… “

  There was no more time for idle thought. A howl and a clatter arose from down the street. Finn and Bucerius stepped into a shadowed entryway. The swinging sign above the door read GREENS.

  “Snouter runs the place,” Bucerius said. “I know him. This is farm country ‘round here. You be seeing a lot of grocers in Heldessia Town.”

  “You know a lot of folk here?”

  “Why you askin’ that?”

  “No reason at all.”

  “Don’ be askin’ me stuff you haven't got to know. Come on, them Bowsers has turned off the other way.”

  Finn had known Bullies here and there. Few of them, though, had risen to Bucerius’ status as a trader. Most seemed content to use their great strength to make their pay. None-laborer or no-were keen on manners or social grace. Maybe, he thought, it was some sort of cultural trait. Or perhaps if you were that big, you didn't have to be civil at all.

  Bucerius became more cautious as they left the side streets and approached the broader avenues. Even in the dark, one could see the houses and shops here were of a grander scale, some three and four stories tall. At the far end of the tree-lined boulevard was the gate of the palace itself.

  Finn felt a sense of relief at the sight. Three, maybe four more city blocks, and they would be off the streets, safe from the rabid Bowser bands.

  “Huh-uh, keep movin’,” Bucerius said, guessing Finn's thoughts. “You don't be seeing anyone, don't mean they isn't there.”

  Finn didn't answer. He followed the Bullie past the avenue into yet another side street, much like the ones they'd left only moments before.

  Finally, Bucerius stopped, looked about and sniffed the air. Finn smelled it too. Burned varnish, scorched fabric and smoking wood.

  “That balloon. The one that went down… “

  “On ahead,” Bucerius muttered. “We was east of it, passed it right by.”

  “I know the folk here fear the Bowsers, and rightly so, but I'd think the King's Guards or someone would stop this horror. Why, these ruffians could take the whole town, and no one would stand in their way”

  “Stop your gabbin’, human person. This way. Over there!”

  Bucerius broke into a run, moving faster than Finn would have imagined of a creature of his size. When he stopped, at last, Finn came to a halt as well, and saw the terrible sight.

  There was scarcely any way to tell the thing had been a ship of the air. Fabric, lines, and the wicker basket itself had completely disappeared. The fire had burned with such intense, unforgiving rage, that there was little left to see. Not even embers remained, only scattered mounds of ash.

  “It's a death pyre's, what it is,” Bucerius said, great fists clenched at his side. “Didn't no one be gettin’ out of this.”

  Finn guessed the gasbag had ignited somehow, then exploded, incinerating the craft and anyone inside in less than a blink. The thing had gone up so quickly it hardly charred the stone walls on either side of the street.

  “And no one bothered to help. Not a one of these worthy citizens came out to lend a hand.”

  “Lend a hand an’ do what, even if they'd had the guts to try?” Bucerius was clearly on the edge of reason, caught up in fury and despair.

  “What you figure they be doin’, sweeping up soot, patching some poor crispy together again? Damn me, if human persons aren't as simple a creature as there be!”

  “Me? Why, you're the most vile, crude, offensive being it has been my displeasure to meet. You drive me crazy with your vulgar manner, your vexing ways.”

  “Manners, is it? That's your complaint, I don't be actin’ nice?”

  Bucerius roared, a great and hearty guffaw that started deep in his chest, burst into life, and rattled windows on every side.

  “Manners be what them Bowsers got, with their fine little hats and bow ties. They was bein’ mannerly like, when I stopped ‘em blowing your fool head off. Might be I should've waited a minute or two.”

  “I thanked you for that. I don't intend to do it twice. Besides, I think I could have handled the situation myself.”

  “How? You gonna hit ‘em with your clock? Scare them louts with your fancy city talk? You gonna-”

  “Hold it right there, buckos. Make a move and I'll fair drop you on the spot…”

  Finn and Bucerius turned as one, staring at the man who had silently stepped out of shadow, taken them unawares, and now aimed a pair of pistols squarely at their heads.

  “Sir, we mean you no harm,” Finn said at once, “we're merely passing by.”

  “No, we aren't just passin’ by,” Bucerius said, sending a furious glance Finn's way, “now put those toys down, you ol’ fool, ‘fore I stuff ‘em down your craw.”

  “Easy,” Finn said softly, “if I'm not mistaken, that's a very fine pair of matched Wesley-Grovenhalters. Back-action, side-lock. Notch rear sight. Sliding safety catch. Sixty caliber, I doubt I'm wrong in that.”

  “Fifty-seven,” said the stranger. “You've got an eye for arms. Not many thugs of your sort can tell a fine weapon from a brick.”

  “I assure you we are not-”

  “Stop! Another step and you'll be singing with a Coldie choir!”

  The man didn't look to be a danger-seventy, eighty if he was a day, and clearly walking with a limp. A pale, stringy fellow with scarcely any flesh on his bones, a bristly chin, and hardly any teeth at all. His eyes seemed enormous behind the thick spectacles that perched on the bridge of his nose. A nose, Finn noted, with a prominent wart on the end. A wart so big, it might well have grown a wart itself.

  Looks, though, could be most deceiving
, Finn reminded himself. Large-bore weapons had a way of enforcing respect, even among the aged, the ugly and the lame.

  “You got no cause to point them things at us,” Bucerius said, with less defiance than before. “We're not a couple o’ thieves. I be a respectable businessman, and this human person's a master of clocks-”

  “Lizards,” Finn corrected.

  “Whatever. Anyhow, it oughta be clear we isn't no bein’ ruffians or felons of any sort.”

  “What you are,” the old man said, the weapons still steady in his hands, “is arsonists, torchers, flat maniacs. Heartless brutes what burns a man's ship of the air, and nearly murders him to boot!”

  Bucerius stared. “That thing was yours? And you got out alive? I'm not believin’ that. Anyone was in that thing was burned to a cinder ‘fore they could blink an eye.”

  The old man showed them a nasty, double-toothed grin.

  “If you was in it when it catches, that's so. If you had the sense to get out, that's something else again. And what's it to you? You care if an old man fries?”

  “You got out before it… Damn me, I never thought of that. Who are you, what's your name, then?”

  “Devius Lux. What of it?”

  “Devius Lux. I heard of you somewheres.”

  “I expect you have. Devius Lux, purveyor of antiquities and such. Ancient brushes, curries, combs. Items for those who take an interest in hair care of the past. My shop is next to Gaxiun-Froon, the seer who sells plain water and swears it'll turn any female into a savage of desire.”

  Devius frowned. “Who in hell you be, sir? I expect you best tell me that.”

  “Bucerius. A merchant like yourself. I be dealin’ in, ah-a number of things. It was the filthy Bowsers what brought you down, not me.”

  “They got us too,” Finn added. “We're lucky to be alive ourselves. I feel our fall was cushioned by chickens. Otherwise, we would not have fared as well.”