When Demons Walk (10 page)

“I kept him with me in the Castle at first, but I was distracted by the business of running Southwood. I didn't notice some of the nobles were tormenting the boy until Dickon pointed it out to me.” Kerim sighed, and shook his head. “Elsic has a way with animals, and the Stablemaster is a kind man who holds absolute control over his lads, so
I gave Elsic into his keeping. I hope that he's become enough of a fixture around the stables that when . . .” The Reeve's hands tightened involuntarily on the arms of his chair, but he continued calmly enough, “—when I'm no longer here, no one will hurt him for being the way he is.”

“I'll keep an eye on him,” promised Sham softly. “If there is a problem, there are places that he can be made safe. Wizards are used to strange creatures and would do him no harm.”

“How do you know he'll be safe with Scorch?” Kerim asked.

Sham shrugged. “Selkies have a way with animals.”

He gave her a narrow glance.

Sham smiled and continued amiably. “Selkies are one of the seafolk. They generally appear in the shape of white seals with dark eyes—a better form for swimming than a man's body, I imagine. No seaman who wants to live long would dream of spearing a white seal—ask Talbot. They are said to be a race of warriors, as harsh to their own kind as they are to others. When one is too old or wounded, they attack him, driving him away or killing him upon a whim. I would not think they would allow a blind child to live past his first hours unless his mother was very clever.”

He seemed to be taking this calmly enough, so she continued. “His people don't use human magics. They have access to knowledge I do not. I would take any warning he chooses to give you very seriously.”

Kerim's lips quirked into a smile and he shook his head, “I don't think that I should ask this question; if Dickon were here, he'd disown me. What did Elsic mean when he said the demon wanted me?”

“Assuming magic is real?” asked Sham with raised brows.

Kerim sighed theatrically, and nodded.

Sham shook her head. “I don't know. Was anything specifically happening to you when the killing started?”

“Hmm . . . that would be about eight months ago. It was about that time that I moved Elsic to the stables. A good friend of mine died of the wasting sickness.” He
closed his eyes briefly and leaned back, “My mother dismissed the cook. My favorite mare foaled. My back started hurting.”

“That was when your back trouble started?”

Kerim nodded. “I wrenched it on the way back from Fahill's funeral.”

“Lady Sky's husband?”

The Reeve nodded shortly, and then began to push himself forward again. “Come. If we hurry we'll have time to eat before Brath and his entourage invade my chambers.”

 

I
NDEED
, D
ICKON HAD
just finished taking the dinner trays out when someone knocked on the Reeve's door.

“I'll get it,” said Sham.

The high priest waited in the hall with the aesthetic-looking Fykall a step behind him. Brath nodded at her as he entered. “You may leave us, Lady Shamera.”

She glanced at Kerim who made a negative motion with his hand. Shutting the door after Fykall was inside, Shamera said pleasantly, “I
am
sorry, Lord Brath, but my lord has a headache and I promised to do something about it as soon as you're gone.” She bushed by both churchmen and sat down gracefully in the chair nearest Kerim, leaving the visitors to occupy the chairs opposite him.

“You said you have a letter for me?” asked Kerim.

Lord Brath gestured to Fykall who pulled a sealed courier's envelope out of his purse and handed it to Kerim. “As you see, I have not broken the seals.”

Kerim looked up and raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that you could have done so, Lord Brath. The Voice has methods to prevent his letters from straying.” With a finger, he touched the seal and it opened readily without use of a letter opener.

Sham leaned sideways, shamelessly reading over the Reeve's shoulder. There were two sheets of paper in the courier's pouch. The first was a plain sheet of paper with a quick scrawl that said merely:

 

Sorry I inflicted him on you, but the old fool's a favorite with Altis. I didn't know anyone else who could deal with him better than you. Hope this helps.

 

Terran

 

The second paper was embossed and official. The scribe's art had been practiced so heavily that Sham had to stand up and walk directly behind Kerim in order to read it. It was folded so she couldn't see the top third, but the meat of the letter was decipherable.

 

Be it known that the first desire of Altis is that all of his subjects live in peace. To those ends, the Reeve of Southwood is to make such judgments as seem him mete. All who live in Southwood shall abide by his decisions.
Signed this day by
Terran, the Voice and the Eyes of Altis

 

As Sham was connecting Terran of the first letter to the Voice of Altis, Kerim began to read the official letter out loud. When he was finished, he looked up at the high priest.

His voice softened from the official tones in which he'd read the letter. “I will, of course, keep the original. If you would have a copy, Fykall is welcome to stay and render it for you.”

The high priest stood stiffly, looking much older than he had coming into the chambers. “That won't be necessary, Lord Kerim. Come Fykall, there are things to be done at the temple.”

The little priest nodded, but before following his retreating superior he reached out and patted Kerim's shoulder twice in gentle sympathy.

Sham waited until the door closed and said, “Trust a churchman to take all the joy out of putting him in his place.”

Kerim eyed her unfavorably. “Don't make light of any man's pain.”

She tossed her head. “That was not pain you saw, but thwarted ambition. I have no sympathy to spare for Lord Brath—he has no mercy for those in his power.”

Kerim watched her face; he'd known too many people consumed by hatred to watch while it consumed another victim. “Perhaps you are right; he doesn't deserve our sympathy. But, Shamera, if we do not feel it—how are we better than he is?”

She snorted and strode to a small table that held a pitcher of water and several cups.

As she filled a cup with water she said, in an apparent change of subject, “You know, I have always wondered why there was never an official injunction against magic since Altis dislikes it so.”

“And you accuse me of gross ignorance,” he mused.

She turned toward him, cup in hand, and said, “Excuse me?”

“Even
if
magic were real, there would be no injunction against it. As far as I know Altis has never handed down a directive one way or the other.”

She frowned. “After the Castle fell, Lord Brath declared magic an anathema to Altis and incited the soldiers to kill anyone who might be a mage.”

“Fear makes idiots of us all, at some time or the other. Brath was officially reprimanded for his part in the deaths after Landsend was taken.”

She set the cup down without drinking from it and wandered aimlessly around the room. “I don't like him.”

“Brath? Neither do I. He's an arrogant, self-righteous, self-interested worm,” he agreed lightly.

She tilted her chin up. “If he were drowning I wouldn't throw him a rope.”

“The question is—” said Kerim slowly, “—would he throw you one?”

S
ham entered her room with a tired sigh. Without calling for the maid, as she knew was customary, she rapidly stripped off the blue dress and left it where it dropped. Tonight she was too tired to play Lady Shamera for the maid's benefit. A nightdress had been left on the bed, and she slipped it on.

Something nagged for her attention and she frowned, staring at the mantel over the fireplace. She had a very good eye for detail and a memory that seldom failed her: The ornaments on the mantle had been moved. Someone had been in her room while she was gone.

Alert now, she noticed that the keys were in the lock of the trunk, as if someone had tried to open it. Sham stretched and deliberately relaxed her muscles. This was not Purgatory, she reminded herself—she was the only thief here.

The servants had been in to dust the mantel and moved a few of the figurines and the ornamental dagger. Jenli had probably tried to open the trunk to put the rest of the clothes in the wardrobe—not that she would have had any luck.
Sham knew without looking that the fastening spell had not been broken.

Still, she opened the lid and dug through the remaining clothes to make sure nothing had been disturbed. The flute lay awaiting her touch, its call so strong she had to force herself to cover it again with her tunic.

Her knife and dagger were there, slim-bladed and honed to deadly sharpness. Her thieving tools were there too, neatly tucked inside a small kit. She felt naked without them, but they were hardly necessary in the rarefied atmosphere of court. Tomorrow she would begin searching the courtier's houses, then she could wear them.

Sham closed the trunk and locked it again, first with the key and then with magic. She picked up a long-handled brass snuffer that was leaning against the wall, and started to put the candles out one by one.

She could have used magic, of course, but she always used it sparingly. A wizard who used her magic for little things was likely to have nothing left in time of need. With a demon on the loose in the Castle she was likely to need it—and she was convinced it was in the Castle. One of the talents said to be strongest in the seal-people was sensitivity to danger. If Kerim's selkie said it was here, it was so.

As Sham stood on her toes to reach the small candelabra that hung from the center of the room, a strange shiver ran down her spine. It was similar to the sensation the shifted ornaments on the mantel had given her, but this had no such mundane cause. Casually she circled the fixture, scanning the shadows that cloaked the corners of the room. She saw nothing, but she was certain something was here with her.

Slowly, Sham continued darkening the room. Moving to the fireplace, she extinguished the three large candles placed on the far end of the mantel. As she moved, she forced herself to keep her hands steady.

Warding spells were effective against magical beings like demons and dragons only if the warding was around the spellcaster's home and cast by someone who understood the exact nature of the creature. Even if she had been
better-versed in demonology, she was caught fairly on the demon's hunting grounds—and she was beginning to feel like dinner.

After she'd extinguished the last candle, Sham casually set the snuffer against the fireplace and stared at the polished floor as if in deep thought—the sea could freeze before she'd crawl into that bed with its hampering blankets while there was a plaguing demon in the room. It wasn't the best time to remember that the demon was overdue for a kill.

Sham caught a bare glimpse of something as a light touch stroked her shoulder. She didn't realize it had been an attack until she felt the warmth of her blood sliding down her arm. Whatever it used to cut her with was so sharp that she did not hurt initially—an oversight soon corrected.

Deciding that staying in character might have its advantages, she screamed for help. She hoped the walls were thinner than they looked, so Kerim might hear her. The demon had been avoiding a public display, for reasons of its own; Sham hoped that it would continue the pattern. She didn't have the knowledge she needed to destroy the demon yet, though she had the Whisper looking for any wizard that might. Without intervention, there was a better than even chance that she wouldn't survive the night.

Hand to her shoulder, she spun around, looking frantically for her attacker while carefully maintaining the mannerisms she'd adopted in her role as the Reeve's mistress. The room was quiet and appeared as empty as it had before the attack. All she could hear was the harshness of her own breathing.

Just as in the Old Man's cottage, the intruder wasn't using conventional methods of invisibility. No matter how powerful a sight aversion spell was, a wizard who was aware of the spellcaster could overcome it—as he could any other illusion. Sham couldn't see anything out of place. Warm fluid dripped off her fingers, but she didn't look down at the growing stain on the floor.

 

I
T HAD FED
its hunger only last night; so it had only come to watch the newcomer—although it had placed the dagger on the mantel for possible use. Weapons were difficult to carry in its own insubstantial form.

The Chen Laut breathed deeply. The scent of the woman's terror-inspired sweat was titillating—much too arousing to resist. She was so vulnerable, pitiful really. A millennia of evading human detection told it that it was taking unnecessary risks. Even a decade ago, it would have resisted hurting the human for fear of betraying itself.

But the Castle was held by fools who didn't believe in magic or demons: And this woman played where she didn't belong. It considered the crippled human that it could hear struggling to the wheeled chair on the other side of the door, and dismissed him with the last of its caution.

Upon entering the room, the demon had changed into its secondary form, calling upon magic to hide its body from the woman. As a noncorporeal entity, the demon needed a physical form to affect things in this world. The Summoner had provided two. The first form must be protected; without it the demon would be powerless, cut adrift here forever. But the second form, though infinitely more useful, was not necessary to survival.

 

S
LOWLY
S
HAM BACKED
against the stonework and stretched a hand behind her, fumbling amid the implements that hung on hooks near the hearth. Her magic was unlikely to hurt it until she understood better what she was fighting—so she decided to try something else. The most obvious tool for a frightened woman to grasp was the poker. She had no intention of getting close enough to the demon to use such an ineffective weapon. Deliberately Sham knocked the poker loudly to the ground and snatched the small shovel instead, as if she had missed her target. She held the iron handle with an awkwardness that was not completely feigned; her shoulder
hurt.

There was a soft sound to her right as if something hard scraped across an expanse of floor that the rugs didn't cover. She was certain that the demon was as capable of
masking sounds as Sham herself was: It was goading her.

The next sound was louder, and to her right again. She turned toward the fire and dipped the shovel in the hot coals. Continuing her turn, she cast the fiery lumps in the general direction of the second sound.

When she faced it, Sham saw the vague form of her attacker. Though magic concealed its face, it appeared to be a man. She must have hit it with some of the coals, because it shrieked in an inhumanly high tone. As the sound died down, she could hear someone rattle the catch on the door to Kerim's room.

As Sham turned to the door, the intruder grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her towards the far wall. She landed on the polished nightstand, an improvement to the well-being of neither her nor the small, formerly sturdy piece of furniture. Used to street fighting, though no one had actually thrown her across a room before, she managed to roll to her feet, shaking off bits and pieces of wood as she did so.

The demon had summoned the shadows around itself, using the same spell that Sham favored in the dark streets of Purgatory. In the dark room, the unnatural shadows covered the whole area until the only thing Sham could see were the coals that had landed on the bedclothes and started to ignite the cloth.

As she peered into the darkness, the demon surprised a cry out of her when it cut her bared calf. She looked down before it had completed its stroke, and she caught a glimpse of something metallic in the darkness: the pox-eaten thing was using a knife!

For some reason that turned her fear into fury. She was being attacked by a demon, a legendary creature of song and story—and it was using a knife like a common thief.

She crouched with a snarl, but the entire room was encased in the peculiar shroud of shadow and the demon's presence was too strong to pinpoint. Smoke from the small fires amid the bedding and the rugs began to fill the room, making her eyes water, and she acquired another wound, this one on her thigh. Sham growled with frustrated anger.

A deafening crack echoed in the room, followed by an assortment of sounds, including the opening and closing of the outer door as the intruder escaped into the anonymity of the hall.

 

T
HE DEMON RAN
cautiously through the halls until it was far from possible pursuit. The Reeve would be more interested in protecting his woman than finding her attacker. In the shadows of an unused room, it examined the body it wore. The damage the coals had inflicted was minor, though it would require a fair amount of power to return the golem to wholeness. The mild irritation it felt toward the Reeve's mistress flamed to momentary rage. It calmed itself by deciding the woman would be its next meal, seven days hence. Until then, she could do little harm.

 

A
S THE UNNATURAL
shadows dissolved, Shamera could see that the door by the fireplace had been split down the center. The half with the latch lay on the floor, tangled in the tapestries that had covered the doorway; the other half hung awkwardly from the lower hinge. The upper hinge clung tenaciously to the door, pale splinters of wood attesting to the force that had ripped it from the door frame.

She turned her gaze from the door to the Reeve, who was dressed in night robes with a wicked-looking war axe in one hand; his chair was placed sideways to the door frame to allow him to strike effectively. She gave him a grin of sheer relief.

“I'm glad you could make it,” she quipped, her voice not quite as steady as she wished.

“When you issue an invitation to your bedroom, it's common practice to make sure the door is unlocked,” he returned without a pause. He looked beyond her and said, “It's also common to wait until your partner's here before you start getting the sheets hot.”

She turned and noticed that the smoldering blankets had begun to flame. Fires were the second magic that an apprentice learned, since fire is the easiest element to call into being. The
first
magic was how to extinguish them. She
jerked the covers to the floor beside her. Given Kerim's disbelief in magic, she assumed that he would think that she smothered the fire with the weight of the blankets.

To her continued astonishment, Sham liked the Reeve, Cybellian that he was—but she didn't know if she could trust him. Twelve years ago she'd learned that fear was a brutal enemy, and she decided not to give him proof of magic's existence for a little while longer.

“Sorry,” she quipped lightly, “I'm not familiar with the etiquette required of a mistress. Next time I'll make sure that you're in the bed before I throw hot coals at it.”

Kerim grunted in approval and swung the axe in a short arc that connected with the remaining hinge. The second half of the door dropped to the ground. By the simple expedient of grabbing both sides of the doorway and heaving, he pushed the awkward chair through the cleared opening and into her room.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You remember the demon that Talbot and I keep talking about?”

“The hypothetical one that's the reason you're here?” he said, rolling his chair slowly up to her.

She nodded. “That's the one. It decided to check me out. It didn't seem to care for more company, and so it left as soon as it became obvious that you were coming in.”

When he was close enough to see the blood in the shadows of the room, he said, “How badly are you hurt?”

“Not much, unless the cut on my shoulder is worse than it looks.”

He reached up and pulled her hair aside so that he could get a good look at her shoulder. “I've seen worse, but it's deep enough to warrant stitching. Dickon's pretty good at it.”

“Dickon?”

He laughed at the disbelief in her tone. “He was a soldier before he was a valet, and he sews torn skin better than most of the healers.” He looked again at her shoulder and his brows lowered in thought. “It looks like a knife wound.”

Sham nodded her head. “A plaguing sharp knife at that.”

Kerim laughed. “From your disgruntlement I assume that you were hoping for claws and fangs?”

She smiled, closing her eyes to relieve the dizziness brought on by loss of blood. “Guess I was at that.”

“Come with me and tell me what happened.” He wheeled back to the doorway and pulled his chair back over the door sill.

“Have you talked to your stablemaster about modifying that thing yet?” asked Shamera, following him into his room.

“He and one of the carpenters are working on a new chair,” answered the Reeve. He gestured toward a seat. “Sit before you fall down. I'll go get Dickon and you can tell me what happened after he has taken care of you.”

She complied gratefully and lowered her head to her knees. Dickon must have been sleeping nearby, because the Reeve returned with him shortly. She didn't know how Kerim had explained the wounds, but Dickon was as contained as ever as he cleaned and mended the cut on her shoulder with small, even stitches. Determining the slice on her thigh was superficial, the servant bent down to get a closer look at the gash on her calf.