The Kingdoms of Evil (61 page)

Mr. Skree's face took on the mildly constipated expression he got when he was trying to think of a way to contradict his master. Before he could formulate it, Skystarke broke in.
"These Vile Halls are no more lively than
use
-you-all, fiend. Unceasing indeed is the work of
Evil
!"

"But…" Freetrick response trailed off as he looked around himself. He could see people doing work, clerks and couriers darting around big porters, all moving purposefully. There were only a few of the ridiculously dressed idiots he remembered from previous visits, strutting about like… "Ah-hah."

Freetrick understood. It was as if his eyes had refocused. Before the castle's corridors had been filled with a gaudy parade of human officials over a shadowy background of ill-defined monsters.

Now, though, what Freetrick saw, not monsters, but dozens, possibly hundreds, of people; strangely shaped men and women going about their business, trying to avoid the lethal attention of the merciless dark aristocracy. There
was
a functioning government here. It was just that Feerborg the Ultimate Fiend wasn't a part of it.

"Malevolence," Mr. Skree said as Freetrick stepped forward into the throng, "alien as the concepts of duty and stewardship should be to any true servant of evil, this shambles of an individual must once again dare to advise the Ultimate Fiend to stay out of these Vile Halls."

"If you're trying to push me back into DeMacabre's clutches, Mr. Skree, I'm not interested."

"This servant will commit painful and bloody suicide for this audacious presumption," the chamberlain hissed, but Freetrick was already walking away from the door.

"Come on," he said. "I've got you, I've got Skystarke. I've got
all
those damn ogres you insisted we bring." He strode into the midst of the monsters and the dark aristocrats.

Who noticed him.

There was a murmuring in the Vile Halls, as of trapped ghosts.

Freetrick stopped. Movement began again among the people in the huge chamber. Some figures disappeared while others began to drift forward.

"Skystarke," Freetrick spoke softly, his lips barely moving as his eyes tracked back and forth, "why is everybody staring at me?"

"
They
-ah many possibilities," said Skystarke, "few of them
positive
."

"Thank the Tempest above that few things in Skrea are ever positive," came the sanctimonious hiss from Mr. Skree.

"I agree," said Freetrick, "but I can't just pop my head in and leave. I have to demonstrate I'm not a weak ruler. Plus this might be a good opportunity to…" truth help him, "mingle."

There were definitely a lot of people to mingle with. A real crowd was accreting around him. Most looked completely shocked to see him, which was odd. Freetrick addressed the closest, a woman he remembered from the Villainous Council.

"Hello, I mean, horrendous morrow, dark lady…uh"

"Her Fiendishness the Dark Princess Balkbright, daughter of His Fiendishness Teirchoke the Jaded, Despot Noggor…" Mr. Skree's sepulchral whisper tickled Freetrick's ear. "Malevolence, given the current political situation, this servant suggests that we leave immediately."

"Balkbright." Freetrick finished, ignoring Mr. Skree. He remembered her now, and was glad to see she was wearing something much less revealing than last time. "Um. Then he saw her expression. "Anything wrong?"

"M-malevolence," she stuttered, "are you sure you should be out in…in these circumstances?"

"Sorry?" said Freetrick. He glanced at Mr. Skree, hoping for some subtle nonverbal advice. What he got was a glimpse of a face that looked like it had spent the last forty days soaking in a bath of natron. "…uh." He said, quickly turning back to Balkbright. " Should I…not be?"

"I must go!" The woman ducked her head and began to edge away. "My father sends his regards!"

"Weird…" said Freetrick.

"Snarl!"

Freetrick jumped and turned to see "Her Wickedness the Dark Ignoble Lady Blightbog, daughter of His Wickedness Wrathnath Despot Nghakhor," Mr. Skree supplied.

She was standing at his shoulder, much too close, completely ignoring Skystarke's six-inch teeth. Freetrick couldn't help noticing that her outfit had way too much material around the shoulders and hips, and not nearly enough on the front. "My lord!" she said with devilish enthusiasm, "how
utterly
horrible to see you! Surprising though it is…are you here to see me, I wonder?"

"Well, no" Freetrick's surprised sense of chivalry prodded him, "that is, I had no reason to expect…uh, you presence, but I am of course
glad
to see you, Lady…"

"Blightbog," murmured Mr. Skree.

"Blightbog," said Freetrick. "Uh. How
are
you?"

"Much better now, my lord," she said, twirling a black tress and smiling. "We were just speaking of my lord's," she grinned wickedly, "new circumstances, and then he appears, as if by black magic! Surely the dark stars are in alignment with my destiny today. Now," she leaned closer, and Freetrick's eyes followed the way her breasts shifted against her chitinous armor, "come with me, my lord, and I shall give you what you are looking for."

In his defense, Freetrick would later say that yes, he knew something was wrong about that comment, but the whole situation was too strange, too distracting, happening to striking
quickly
for him to get a grip on what was going on. His response to Bogblight, if he even made one, was scarcely coherent, but that didn't matter since dozens of nobles, most of them female, were now clustered around him like groupies surrounding a movie star. This was far worse than anything Freetrick had experienced before in Clouds-Gather. Only the presence of Skystarke and the four towering ogres stopped the crowd from picking him up and dragging him away. And if he had had a few moments to think, Freetrick's thoughts might have gotten farther than:
why is everyone so surprised to see me?

"I do not
like
this," grated Skystarke's voice in his ear. "If his Malevolence would
release
a fiendish
ordah
to have this crowd
dis
pah
-ssed,
it would be my
plea
shah
to carry it out!"

Freetrick frowned and shook his head. Without any magic to shield them, these monsters were in no position to force the human nobles to do anything they did not want to. Having his bodyguards clear the crowd would be functionally the same as Freetrick simply waving his arms around and shouting, 'I am the king! Please go away!' And hoping everyone would agree. Come to think of it, despite Skystarke's bravado, what good would a monster bodyguard ever do in Clouds-Gather, unless—

Bogblight opened her mouth to complain or—who knew—bite him, but was pushed aside by another woman---"The dark lady Squeezevein, daughter of Strakhblargle Despot Dewmnor,"---who began talking even before Bogblight had finished clawing at her.

"…seem
much
more interesting, my lord." Freetrick recognized her from the Villainous Council, so he was not completely shocked when Squeezevein's tongue extended just a little too much before it licked her lips and retreated. "I was biding my time here for my father and Despot Hlirghor, but
you
, my lord, are
much
more interesting." Her hair blew up from her head, as if caught in a never ceasing updraft. Tiny metal rings marched around the perimeters of both her ears, and her lips, fingernails, and eyebrows were blood red. Resting between her upthrust breasts, a finger length human figure in bronze writhed in frozen agony. "How excited I was to hear your news this morning, my lord."

Another woman, hair dyed magenta, with the skull of a mutated monster dripping off her head and a black eye patch that Freetrick hoped was only decorative, stepped toward him. A high-collared black cloak spread over her shoulders, then parted predictably over her breasts.

"Dark Lady Gobreen, Wrathnag's daughter," announced Mr. Skree.

"You, my lord, must leave with at least one of us."

"Me, for example," said Bogblight, darting an envenomed glance at Gobreen.

"I'm sorry ladies, but I…uh…" Well, here was one good aspect to being married to Bloodbyrn. "My concubine," said Freetrick with relief, "would kill me."

There was a chorus of giggles, silvery and edged as a drawn dagger.

"Fiend," whispered Skystarke, "everyone knows about you and Bloodbyrn."

"Of course we do," said one of the sisters. They were wearing what looked like one large slug and nine pounds of gold jewelry between the two of them. Aside of course, from Freetrick himself, who was now also between the two of them.

"What did she do that my lord did not enjoy? Whip you too softly?" Asked Squeezevein, "Would the Fiend care to sample my skills as a dominatrix?" She drew back a hand, crimson nails lined up like bloody fangs. "I always received higher marks in physical abuse than that foreign trollop."

"Nonsense!" Firebolt shook her head, and dangly gold things jingled all the way down her body. "Lady Bloodbyrn's mistake was not to
bite
him hard enough. Is that not right, my lord?"

"You may bite him, sister. I will strike him." Freetrick assumed that Deadbolt flexed her muscles in anticipation. He could not see anything under the slug-like membrane that covered her arms and legs, but her abdominal muscles were certainly impressive.

"Or
I
could strike him." growled a fourth person. Freetrick looked up at that; the voice was disturbingly deep and masculine, but a huge and hideous headdress moved to block his view.

"Skystarke," he said, "I think we should leave."

"Oh fiend," cried Banebright, "take one of us with you!"

"Or two!"

"Or three!"

"Yes, in front of everyone!"

Skystarke hissed, "Fiend! Danger!"

"No striking kidding," snarled Freetrick. What the hell was going on? It was like someone had grabbed the dial marked "Skrean insanity" and twisted it all the way up.

"Do not worry, my lord." Whispered a silken voice in his ear, "I am sure it was
all her fault
."

Spies in the walls. That screaming argument in the corridor. Freetrick's eyes widened as he finally,
finally
understood. "Oh no…"

"RUN!" Skystarke leapt in front of Freetrick, and the women recoiled far enough from him to dash between them. Almost. Something sharp scratched across the armor over his shoulder and a slender hand darted toward his unprotected face, but Freetrick ducked out of the way and pounded across the floor, would-be seductresses and assassins both trailing behind.

A tall, fur-shrouded figure loomed out of the crowd behind the women. A pale, furious face glared down at him. The owner of the masculine voice, no doubt. "The Fiend should not attempt to flee," the man said. "That will only cause the blood to heat, the hands to move." His dark eyes seemed to expand. "Stay, rather. Rest." The halls behind him darkened and blurred. "In peace."

Freetrick's blood ran cold. The man, the Strakh's hands were moving beneath his furs, drawing a dagger? A poisoned needle?

"If you were to die here, Fiend, who would lose and who would benefit?" The man leaned closer, eyes intense. "I urge you—"

Freetrick lunged forward—

—and was stopped by the knife scraping across his neck.

"—urge you
not
to slay the Ultimate Fiend!" The man shouted.

"We shall!" Shrieked the woman holding the knife, Firebolt or Deadbolt.

"You shall not!" The fur-clad man seemed to grow, shadows spreading from him like ink dropped into water. "For that task is mine!" He leapt toward them, over the head of an extremely irate Dark Lady. Yes, Freetrick saw, the object under his fur cloak was indeed a sword. Excellent. So. He wasn't paranoid after all.

Firebolt (or Deadbolt?) shrieked in fury, and brought up her free hand. Dark mist exploded into being and the tall man's fur clothing writhed into vicious un-death. The re-animated garment squeezed spasmodically over his body, turning the forward lunge into a sideways hop. So the one would-be assassin was forced to bring his sword around to cut at his own clothing as the other raised her hands in victory. And Skystarke tackled the second from behind.