“But if the principal aim is to achieve good living and health among the populace, what is the harm in that?”
Bauchelain sighed. “Very well, I shall try again. Good living and health, as you say, yielding well-being. But well-being is a contextual notion, a relative notion. Perceived benefits are measured by way of contrast. In any case, the result is smugness, and from that an overwhelming desire to deliver conformity among those perceived as less pure, less fortunate-the unenlightened, if you will. But conformity leads to ennui, and then indifference. From indifference, Mister Reese, dissolution follows as a natural course, and with it, once again, the end of civilisation.”
“All right all right, Master, we are faced with the noble task of confounding the end of civilisation.”
“Well said, Mister Reese. I admit I find the ethical aspects of our mission surprisingly… refreshing.”
“Have you a plan, then?”
“Indeed. And yes, you will be required to play an essential role.”
“Me?”
“You must enter the city, Mister Reese. Unobtrusively, of course. Once there, you must complete the following missions…”
The sightless eyes had been staring a long time without seeing anything. Not surprising, since ravens had long since eaten everything there was to eat within those hoary sockets. No lids left with which to blink, nor any fluids to bring tears to those withered rims. Even so, Necrotus the Nihile, once king of Quaint, was not entirely surprised to find a grainy, misshapen scene slowly form, spreading to fill the vista his soul faced, a vista that had heretofore been naught but darkness-the welcome that was the Abyss.
Being dragged back and made to inhabit this bird-picked desiccated corpse hanging on the city’s north wall, the flesh he had once called his own in better days, was, while not surprising, nonetheless disappointing. Worse yet, he found he could talk. “Who has done this to me?”
A voice answered from somewhere below, not far, perhaps level with his chest. “To that, I have more than one answer, King Necrotus.”
The tether upon which his soul was bound to this body was not so tight as to prevent a slight wandering outward, in order to look down. So that he could see the two crows perched upon the rusty spike projecting out from the wall, upon which his corpse had been impaled. “Ah,” Necrotus said, “now I understand.”
One of the crows cocked its head. “You do? How charming.”
“Yes. You have come to discuss me. My life. My fate, all the lost loves of my mortal years in this world. Only, why must I witness this ironic indulgence?”
“Actually,” the first crow said, “we would discuss, not you, but your brother.”
“Macrotus? That sniveling worm? Why?”
“For one, he is now king.”
“Oh. Of course. I should have thought of that. No heirs. Well, plenty of bastards, but the laws are strict on that. I was planning on officially adopting one, but then he died. And before I could choose another, so did I.”
“Indeed. That strikes me as careless,” the first crow said. “In any case, my companion has done some cursory examination of your corpse here, and has detected the remnants of poison.”
Necrotus thought about that. “That runt did me in! Gods below, I never thought he had it in him!”
“More precisely,” the crow continued, “he fouled your life-extending alchemies, Necrotus. Which strikes us as odd, given his eagerness for health.”
“I was cheating, though, wasn’t I? He hated that. He invented a mechanism, you know. Fills an entire room. He climbs into a harness and it works all his muscles, all his joints, it exercises him, jerks him about. He spends half his day in that thing. I concluded he’d gone insane.”
“Tell us,” the crow said, “of this Lady of Beneficence.”
“A goddess, a minor one. Severe, miserable, a nose like a pig’s, tilted up, you understand. At least it’s so on the statues and idols depicting her.”
“A goddess?”
“I assume so. Believed to dwell in a pit in the Grand Temple. Why?”
“She is now the city’s official patroness.”
“That bloodthirsty bitch? Gods below! If I wasn’t a shriveled up thing hanging here, I’d-I’d-well, it’d be different!”
“Well, King Necrotus, I would point out, you are not alone here on these walls.”
“I’m not?”
“And so I now ask you, are you of a mind to partake in ousting your brother, the King of Quaint?”
“Beats hanging around. Let’s hear your plan, corbies.”
Emancipor stood in front of the small bush, listening to the birds chirp to greet the morning whilst he emptied his bladder.
“Look well on that yellow, murky stream, Mister Reese-”
The manservant started at the voice beside him. “Master! You, uh, surprised me.”
“Thus reducing you to a trickle. I believe, in case you are interested, that only a few minor cantrips would convert the toxins in your flow, such that a single gesture could set that unfortunate shrub to flame. But as I said, look well, Mister Reese. In a few days you will be astonished to witness a stream issuing from you so clear that it is nigh water.”
Emancipor finished with a few final, spasmodic spurts, gave himself a shake, tucked in, then fumbled at retying the front of his trousers. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Master-”
“To dwell unobtrusively in the city, Mister Reese, you shall have to abstain from all unhealthy indulgences. You might well return from this mission a new man.”
The manservant stared at Bauchelain. “Abstain? Completely? But, can’t I sneak anything-”
“Absolutely not, Mister Reese. Now, divest yourself of the relevant items on your person. The crowd of traders on the low road is reaching ideal density.”
“I’m not sure I want to do this.”
“Ah, but you are in my employ, are you not? Our contract stipulates-”
“All right! Of course, Master,” he added. In a calmer tone, “Can I not break my fast, as it were, before heading down there?”
“Oh, very well. Let it not be said I am a cruel master.”
They returned to the encampment, where Reese quickly filled his pipe with rustleaf and durhang, and broke the wax-sealed stopper on a bottle of wine.
“When you are done,” Bauchelain said, standing nearby and watching, “there is some wild anise growing here beside the trail. Chew the feathery leaves. This should assist in hiding the various smells emanating from your person. Would that we could find some wild garlic, onions, skunk-bulbs… Not too much of that wine, Mister Reese, it will not do to have you weaving and staggering at Quaint’s gates. You are producing enough smoke to launch a fire-fighting crew from the city-I think that will be enough, Mister Reese. The anise-”
“It’s fennel, Master,” Emancipor said.
“It is? Well, whatever.”
Head buzzing, the manservant marched over to the weeds and began pulling the thin spidery leaves from the stalks. “I feel like a damned caterpillar.”
“The white and black banded ones?” Bauchelain asked. “I am pleased to inform you that those transform into the most beautiful butterflies.”
Emancipor stared over at his master.
Who stared back.
A moment of silence, then Bauchelain cleared his throat. “Yes, well, off you go, then.”
Imid Factallo wandered down Runner’s Avenue, strange twitches spasming across half his face. They had started up a few days ago, some consequence of the wound he had received in his head, which he’d thought fully healed. But now… in addition to the twitches he was having strange thoughts. Desires. Illicit desires.
He wondered if he and Elas Sil had done the right thing. But it was too late now. That sorceror, Bauchelain,
