Treachery of Kings (26 page)

“Your pardon, sirs,” he said, “I am a stranger lost, and would ask you directions if I may.”

The pair stopped. They made no move to come closer, or back away, and one very subtly took a better grip on his cane.

“What address y'be seekin’, sar?” asked the fellow in spots. His voice was deep and mellow, though somewhat nasal, due to the prodigious size of his nose.

“I am even more lost than that,” Finn confessed. “I'm looking for a friend named Bucerius. He told me his address, but it totally slipped my mind.”

“Bucerius.”

“Yes.”

The Dobbin in spots looked at his comrade in stripes. “Are we familiar a'tall, ye think, with such a name, Flynn?”

“Why no, I cannot say we are.”

“My friend is of the Bullie folk. Very large fellow. Well, aren't they all? He owns his own balloon. That is, he did, until a Bowser band shot it down.”

“Oh, dear, Bowsers, is it, then?” The Dobbin named Flynn seemed quite alarmed.

“They don't come down here,” the other said. “We're peaceful folk indeed, but we don't put up with such foolishness as that.”

He nodded, slightly to his left. “The yappers know better, I'm thinkin’, than to be comin’ here.”

Finn, following the fellow's eyes to the arch overhead, saw six fine nooses, hanging ready in a row.

“A most excellent idea,” Finn said. “I'm sure it makes for a quieter neighborhood.”

“Aye, it does indeed. Sorry we canno’ be of help. If I might suggest… “

“Yes, please.”

“Don't be a-walkin’ about Heldessia Town at night. Our folk are quite—tolerant, of other kind. But I won't be sayin’ that fer everyone. And a pleasant good night.”

The pair tipped their derbies and turned away.

“I'm grateful for the advice,” Finn said, “and one thing more, if you please. Which way is the proper direction toward town?”

Finn's words were lost, for the Dobbins were no longer there. …

W
HICHEVER WAY WAS RIGHT, HE WAS SURE
this wasn't it at all. Not far from the neat, well-kept houses of the Dobbins, the neighborhood began to go downhill. Crumbling structures and boarded windows appeared. Shops had been plundered and burned. Vagrants had taken up residence in the empty buildings, and the foul evidence of their presence was everywhere.

It seemed to Finn that every town he'd seen in his travels—including, he had to say, his own—had its sections of grim desolation. And, strangely enough, poverty and ruin often bordered the streets of the well-to-do. A reminder, each to the other, of what might have been, and what might surely be.

Our folk are quite tolerant of other kind, but I won't be saying that fer everyone….

Finn understood the Dobbin's words well. If many humans still resented Newlie folk, the feeling worked two ways. Even now, three hundred years after the Change, the undercurrents of hatred and suspicion were very much present everywhere.

And would it ever be the same? Finn wished he had a more hopeful answer, but in his heart, he could not be sure such a day would ever be.

• • •

T
HE BLEAK, SHABBY STREETS REMAINED THE SAME
, but there was a difference now, one Finn recognized at once, for he had encountered it many times before. Ahead, a mist, a pall, a faint luminescence hugged the earth, rose and curled away, then sank to ground again. Standing amidst this dark, unwholesome veil were figures, vague and indistinct, specters, phantoms, wan and haggard shades, ragged, wispy apparitions, dank and ghastly things long devoid of mortal life.

Finn breathed a sigh of relief, for nothing here could do him harm. Whatever good or evil these Coldies had done in living form, none of it mattered now.

Several of the wraiths watched him closely, then one began to drift his way. A swirl, a flux, a vapor ill defined, yet a pale reflection of human form.

“What brings you among the dead tonight, sir? Searching for an old friend, a mother, perhaps, some dear departed kin?”

The Coldie's voice was a chill and awful thing, like dead bones a'rattle in a can, but Finn was used to that, for all the dead sounded much alike.

“No, but I thank you for asking. I'm not from around here, I'm from out of town. I was looking for an, ah—ac-quaintance of the living persuasion, as a fact. I fear, though, I've become quite lost.”

“Hah!” the Coldie laughed, a sound close akin to strangulation, a final deadly gasp. “You've come to the right place, sir. We're
all
lost here.”

Some of the Coldie's friends overheard him, cackled at his jest, and came near. Some were mere wisps, faint scintillations, fireflies lost in a mist. Others were ghostly shapes, foggy and obscure, but still of mortal cast.

The worst of these were the recently dead, for they had yet to shed the husks of their remains. Thus, they carried tatters, scraps, chill reflections of the horrors of the grave.
One, he thought he might know, but only for an instant, before it flickered away.

The specter that faced him now was better off than some, but scarcely a pretty sight to see.

“I was Artuzio Bliek, by the way,” the phantom said. “A seaman by trade, though I can't recall just where or when. The memory fades with the bodily form, you know. It's likely just as well. Who can say what foul deeds a fellow leaves behind?

“A lass named Idis, I do remember that. Or was it Peribee? I don't suppose you'd know her, sir?”

“Sorry, friend. I fear I can be of little help at all.”

“Well, perhaps it'll come to you again”

Then, as if an errant wind had passed, former seaman Bliek shuddered in brief agitation, then vanished in a wink.

“I hope you'll recall some very fine moments of the past,” Finn said, in case some whisper of the fellow remained. “There's good in every life, I can vouch for that.”

“Not that poor beggar, not our Bliek. I doubt he's got a pinch of anything much worth bringing up again. …”

Finn turned, startled for a moment, to find a grisly figure there. The specter was illusive as smoke, thin as spider breath. Yet, it was clear he had suffered greatly in life, for all that remained was a twisted limb, a bony chest, and half a hazy head.

“A rather gruesome sight,” the thing said, “but I can't help that. You might come over worse than me someday, you can't tell.”

“If I reacted rudely, I apologize,” said Finn. “I meant no disrespect at all.”

“No offense taken, friend. I'd say you've spent some time with the dead before. I've had many a fellow jump right out of his skin at the sight of me.”

“As you say, no fault of yours.”

The awful apparition seemed to pause, as if to gather what little was left of itself.

“I'm Prawn-Wallis the Second, by the way. King of this begotten land at one time, though I doubt you'd know that. I know you, though, Finn, Master Lizard-Maker, the one with the winsome Mycer lass.”

“Scones and Bones!” Finn glanced over his shoulder, to see if some living foe were there. “How could you possibly be aware of that?”

The specter laughed, a most disturbing sound. “Those of the croaked, the stiff, the perished, so to speak, know a great deal—unless you're as dumb as Artuzio Bliek, who might as well not be dead at all.”

“It's true, then, you were really a king in this land?”

“Why would I lie about a thing like that? Yes, of course I was the King.”

“And when exactly was that?”

“When
is not a big thing with the insubstantial crowd. You've spoken to the dead, you ought to know that. I don't have the foggiest idea
when.
Some time ago, all right? I'm in that fossilized museum somewhere, go find me yourself.”

“The Holy Place of Emperors, Tyrants and Kings.”

“Whatever they're calling it now, that's where I am.”

“I'll certainly take a look. That's if I get back there, again.” Finn paused for an instant, wishing he had a mug of the Fractured Foot's ale.

“May I ask you a question, sir? Would you take offense at that?”

“I'm dead. How can you get more offensive than that?”

“I'd ask if you followed the rites of the Deeply Entombed in your time? I'm curious to know if religious napping is truly beneficial, after you've, ah—passed on?”

“The what?”

“The Church. The Church of the Deeply Entombed. I wondered if—”

“You've lost me, sir. What are you talking about?”

Finn, puzzled by the phantom's reaction, explained the beliefs of the Deeply Entombed, how sleep was quite helpful in picking up points for later on.

The ghostly image of the King seemed to twitch and waver about. Finn felt certain he was really quite annoyed.

“Ridiculous. Never heard of such a thing.” “Possibly you forgot. It may have been a long time.” “No. There's much I don't recall. I doubt I'd forget something as foolish as that.”

Finn sighed. “Then I guess there's no use asking about the bell.”

“And what bell is that?”

Naps and tacky shrouds and crypts without a blanket or a sheet. Bells that ring every thousand years, and sometimes on a Tuesday afternoon…

“I haven't been comfortable with much of the royal beliefs since we arrived,” Finn said. “I've felt all along that the Grymm family church is not all it's said to be.”

He frowned at the gruesome dead King. “This After-world they talk about. I've pondered on that myself for some time. What do you know about that?”

The wraith gave a nasty laugh. “I've heard this one once or twice.”

“You're saying it isn't true. There isn't anywhere else.”

“I'm saying I'm
standing
in it, friend.”

“I've heard both sides of this, most of my life. My uncle was in the Church of Unrequited Lust. Mother wouldn't let him in the house. His wife was Tabernacle of the Frequently Annoyed. She believed we came back as bees.”

“There's a lot to be said for that. I'd be willing to come back any way I could.”

“Is it really that bad over there?”

“There's nothing to
do
, boy. No recreation of any sort,
no place to go where you aren't dead, too. What's the damn point? I used to be one who frequently said, ‘Hey, I might as well be dead.’ I suggest you think twice before you give any credence to that.”

“Yes, I see what you're saying. I don't believe I've heard it put that way, I appreciate that—”

Finn stopped, taken aback, for the phantom Prawn-Wallis the Second seemed to blur, dissipate and scatter here and there.

“Wait,” Finn said, “I hoped you'd stay, sir. There are quite a few things I'd like to know.”

“That's the living for you. Everybody wants to know something, and there's nothing you know that'll keep you from ending up here. The thing
you
need to know, Master Finn,” came the hideous whisper, the rattle and the moan, “is some are sayin’ you might be joinin’ us soon. I'd take a care if I was you…!”

A shiver, a gust of air sharp as an icy blade, struck Finn to the bone. Truly, no one likes to hear news of his demise, especially from the dead. …

N
OT QUITE STIFF AND NOT QUITE COLD, AND
not beyond the pale. Still, he felt as if he'd spent the whole night in a burrow or a well, somewhere as comfy as a grave.

And, if they didn't stop pounding at him, jerking him apart, shouting in his ear, he'd rise from the dead and show them what-for…

“Get up, you damn fool, on your feet, boy. I be gettin’ some annoyed with you!”

“Whuka-whoo,” Finn said, or words to that effect, “wudda-wudda-boo.”

A pummel, a yank, a slap hard enough to bring him back from wherever he might have been.

“Ah, it be about time you gettin’ your wits about you, Finn. No one be sleepin’ here but the dead.”

“You mean I'm not?”

“If you be deceased, then I be too, and I'm fair warmer than that.”

The head, the knobs above the brow, the ring in the nose, the massive shoulders that blocked out the sky.