Penric's Demon (9 page)

Someday
, he promised himself,
I shall have new clothes, from a real tailor
. Though how he was to get to that someday, he had no notion.

Heading back downhill, they passed a bathhouse. Pen stopped and eyed it. “Pleasures of the body, eh?”
Clean and warm
surely qualified. Not to mention
shaved and trimmed
.

“Superb idea!” said Desdemona. “But not that one. There’s a better one farther up near the palace.”

“It looks tidy enough . . .”

“Trust me.”

The voice he’d come to recognize as Mira of Adria said something, which he tried but failed to not-understand.
If you would but put him under
my
direction, I could show him how to make a
fortune
in a place like this
seemed to be the gist of it.

Pen chose not to pursue the remark.

*
   
*
   
*

The bathhouse near the palace-and-temple precincts was intimidatingly large, compared to the one in Greenwell run out the back of a woman’s home, but not too crowded at this time of day. Pen visited its barber for a serious shave and a trim of the ragged ends of his hair, then the men’s side for a thorough lathering with scented soap of head and body, a sluicing rinse with a bucket of warm water, and a soak in the huge wooden tub with the copper bottom, big enough for half-a-dozen men, kept heated with a small fire underneath. He oozed down in the water and lingered with his eyes half closed until the skin of his fingers began to grow wrinkly, he began to worry that Tigney might be ready to send out a search party, and he became aware that Desdemona, who seemed to be purring as much as himself, was eyeing a couple of the better-looking of his fellow bathers in a way that Pen found unsettling. Time to decamp.

Dressed, hair combed out and drying, and back on the street, he glanced at the looming bulk of the temple at the top of the hill. It was the most imposing structure in town, and the chronicle of Martensbridge that he’d read yesterday had made much of it. A temple had always crowned this high site, but the prior one, being built of wood in the style of the Weald, had burned down in one of the periodic fires. In a joint building effort of Temple and town that had taken several decades, it had been replaced by this one of stone, after the Darthacan manner. This represented not a change in lordship or worship, but a change in wealth, Pen gathered. Curious, he turned his steps not downhill, but up.

He walked all the way around it, marveling at its size and stately proportions, then peeked through the tall pillared portico. No ceremonies seemed to be in progress, and other lone worshipers were trickling in and out, so Pen ventured within. As the space opened up before him, he realized that the old wooden Greenwell temple was a mere hall by comparison, despite its abundant woodcarvings. Or maybe a barn.

The holy fire on the central granite plinth had a round copper hood and chimney, made rich with delicate hammered designs, to carry the smoke out of the worshipers’ eyes, with the result that the domed roof was not smoke-blackened. A ring of arched windows below the dome let in light. The space was six-sided, one for the broad entryway and one for each of the five gods, opening to domed apses that must, could one see the temple from the top, make it look like a grand stone flower.

The niche for the Lady of Spring, whose season this now was, was redolent with offerings of fresh blooms.
 
A few serious-looking townsmen were praying in the niche of the Father of Winter, god of, among other things, justice. Judges, lawyers? More likely litigants, Pen decided. An impressively pregnant woman knelt on a cushion before the altar of the Mother of Summer, praying perhaps for a safe delivery, or possibly just for the strength to stand up again. The Bastard’s niche, between the Daughter’s and the Mother’s, was presently empty.

Pen went by habit to the altar of the Son of Autumn. Only two fellows were there before him. The younger man, looking like a military recruit, knelt on one of the provided cushions, his hands up, palms out and fingers spread. Praying for luck? An older man lay prone on one of the large prayer rugs, arms out, hands clenching, in the attitude of deepest supplication. It was mere fancy that Pen imagined him a veteran, praying for forgiveness, but he couldn’t shake off the impression.

He picked out a cushion behind them and got down onto his knees without quite knowing what he was praying for. Or should be praying for. Or even Who he should be praying to. So he prayed for the safety and well-being of his family, and of all on the Jurald lands, and poor half-cheated Preita as, he was reminded, he had promised to do. Ruchia? Hardly the right god. He signed the tally, rose, and carried his knee cushion over to the Bastard’s niche.

Kneeling again, he realized he’d forgotten to pray for himself. How temporary was the transfer of his affairs to this new god? The Bastard was the master of disasters; supplicants more often prayed to
avert
His attentions, like paying a mercenary company to route around one’s town.

Would praying for knowledge be safe? Pen was certainly desperate for it. But the white god was the author of some pretty vicious ironies, as far as the prophecy-stories associated with His gifts told. Praying for the soul of Ruchia seemed late off the mark, as she was signed by her funeral miracle to be in His hands already. Pen contented himself with hoping she was happy there, whatever that meant in that profoundly altered state beyond death.

On impulse, Pen decided to pray for Desdemona. Granted, demons were
already
creatures of the god, though whether escaped prisoners or servants seemed unclear. Maybe they could be either, as one man might be good and another bad, or a man might go from bad to good or the reverse at different times of his life? He became aware that she had grown very quiet, like a tight, closed ball inside of him.

Demons, unkillable and, it appeared, immune to pain, did not fear much, but they feared their god, and the dissolution they would suffer if they fell back into His hands. Pen would too, he decided, if going to the gods meant his destruction and not his preservation. However it was that souls were sustained in the hands of their chosen gods. Or choosing gods.

Praying for her safety and well-being must cover it, since neither were possible without that substrate of continuing existence. A well-practiced prayer that he knew how to do. So he did, whispering the words aloud.

In all, he was relieved that no one answered.

He unfolded himself and went back to the portico, pausing a moment to take in the view up the lake. He wondered if that distant gray smudge sticking out into the water from the left shore might be Clee’s castle birthplace—not on a crag, for a change, but using a small island to provide it with a free moat.

Uncertain which of the descending avenues to take back to the Order’s house, Pen called softly, “Desdemona . . . ?”

No answer. She seemed still locked up inside him. Pen wondered if the gods really
were
more present in their temples, for all that the divines taught that They were always equally present everywhere. And if demons would know. Pen pursed his lips, then slipped into a silk mercer’s shop at the top of one street.

Most of the goods displayed were far beyond his means, but he negotiated for a bit of ribbon about the length of his arm without doing his little stock of coins too much damage. He found the mirror provided for customers to hold the cloth up to their faces, and braided the blue silk band through his queue. He turned his head and waited.

“Pretty!” murmured Desdemona.

Aha, that’s fetched her out
. He must keep that trick in mind. He said only “Thank you,” and went back to the street, where he was then able to ask himself for directions.
No wonder sorcerers have a reputation for being strange.
That silent speech, if he ever gained the knack of it, would be a great convenience. Swinging his bundle of new old clothes, he started off.

A couple of housemaids giggled and blushed as he strode by, which Pen ignored. A glum and elderly washerwoman, shuffling along, looked up, and her wrinkled face broke into so unexpectedly sweet a smile that Pen had to smile back, and offer her a little bow. A shave and a hair wash worked on women of all sorts, it seemed. Which, since Desdemona might well be described as women of all sorts, was . . . opportune.

Turning down the steep street fronting the Order’s house, he saw Clee walking up it accompanied by a tall, black-bearded, soldierly fellow leading his horse. Pen finally saw what the term
richly caparisoned
meant, for it was a very well-dressed horse: saddle and bridle carved and stained and set with silver; its saddle blanket, admittedly atop a more practical sheepskin, of embroidered silk. He thought of Desdemona’s horse lecture, and was amused.

Two mounted guardsmen and a groom followed, reins slack. The bearded fellow bore a sword, in a town where very few men carried them, and a jeweled band on his hat.

Not much apart from the near-identical color and cut of their hair marked the two men as related. Clee was lanky, his hands thin and ink-stained, his clothing a knee-length townsman’s gown with trousers in a simple cut and fabric. His companion was thickset and muscular, his hands broad, suitable for maintaining a grip on a weapon in defiance of blows, his riding leathers heavy and less elaborate than what his horse was wearing. Pen suspected the straight black hair had actually borne a helmet at some point. Tough, solid, unsmiling.

Clee looked up and saw Penric, and his head went back in surprise; after a moment, he beckoned Pen nearer. The pair stopped to let him come up.

“Penric! I would like you to meet my brother, Lord Rusillin kin Martenden. Rusi, this is our visitor, Lord Penric kin Jurald, from the valley of Greenwell.”

Lord Rusillin spread his hand over his heart in the courteous gesture of a comrade of the Son, and offered Pen a reserved nod. Pen smiled and nodded back, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch his lips in the sign of the Bastard. “Five gods give you good day, my lord.”

The carved mouth made an effort at a smile. “Lord Penric. One god is giving you a difficult time, by what my brother tells me.”

Clee had gossiped about his condition? Pen supposed it was unusual, and therefore interesting. He couldn’t think Learned Tigney would like that. But then, very few people were as determinedly uninformative as Tigney. Pen managed, “So far, I have taken no harm from my accident. And it’s won me a trip to Martensbridge at the Temple’s expense, which I cannot fault.”

The smile grew more genuine. “You should join a mercenary company if you really want to see the world.”

Was Rusillin recruiting? That was one way for a lord to maintain his estate, certainly. “My brother Drovo did that,” said Pen.

“Good for him!”

Affability did not seem to come easily to the man, but Pen sensed he was trying. He therefore let this go by, struggling to remember what all he’d said to Clee about Drovo. By Clee’s lack of a wince, Pen hadn’t got round to mentioning his brother’s final fate, ah, that was right.

“Rusi collects and leads a company of men for the Earl Palatine of Westria,” said Clee, confirming Pen’s guess.

“A mercenary company that could find good uses for a sorcerer,” Lord Rusillin remarked, “though the Temple does not often release theirs to such services. The sorcerer might find such tasks profitable as well.”

Pen cleared his throat. “I’m neither a sorcerer nor Temple-sworn, at present. Or only an infant sorcerer. I acquired my demon less than a fortnight ago, and they are much weakened for a time by such transitions, I’ve learned. And I’ve had no training at all. So I’m afraid I’m not much use to anyone, just yet.”

“Hm. There’s a shame.” Rusillin gave him a kindly look, or perhaps it was pity.

“Well,” said Pen, extricating himself before Clee’s brother could start in on any more direct military propositioning, “I should report in to Learned Tigney. He’ll be wondering where I went. Honored to meet you, my Lord Rusillin.”

“And you, Lord Penric.”

He watched Pen keenly as he went inside, bending his head to make some remark to Clee that Pen did not hear, though Clee’s lips twitched. Pen was pleased that the two half-brothers seemed to have a reasonably fraternal relationship despite their differences in estate. There was certainly plenty to tempt Clee to envy, were he inclined to it.

He wondered if Desdemona had found Rusillin’s powerful figure impressive.

Pen went upstairs and settled with Tigney who, remarking sternly on his lateness, received as strict an accounting of Pen’s time as of his coins.

“Desdemona seemed to like the bathhouse,” Pen told him. “I hadn’t known creatures of spirit could partake of pleasures of the body quite so simply.”

Tigney’s lips thinned in his beard. “So dangerously, if the demon becomes ascendant. They devolve into fascination and excess, with no thought for preservation. As a man might ride a stolen horse to death.”

Controlling a wicked impulse to whinny, Pen excused himself to put his new treasures away and return to his station in the library.

*
   
*
   
*

The following afternoon, Pen had grown so absorbed in a Darthacan chronicle of Great Audar that he almost missed his chance.

The librarian had gone out, but a scribe and two acolytes were still working. They left one by one as Pen was perusing an account of the massacre at Holytree that seemed vastly different than one he had read from a Wealdean writer. He only looked up when Desdemona, with some effort, made his mouth say, “Hey!”