When Demons Walk (20 page)

Lord Halvok's mansion was in a quiet area of town some distance from the Castle. The shortest way there brought her past the Temple of Altis. Although it was still under construction—and would be for several more decades—it was already an impressive edifice.

Dickon was not the only one finding his beliefs altered abruptly. Since she had taken up her role as the Reeve's mistress, Sham had found herself in danger of forgetting her hatred of Easterners. It felt odd not to be angry all the time—she felt naked and defenseless. That vulnerability made her resent Altis all the more. Things were changing, and very few changes in Shamera's life had been for the better.

“You do not belong here,” she said to the god.

Great windows on either side of the massive entrance glistened darkly against the light-colored stone like two large eyes. As she resumed walking, she could almost feel someone watching her until she was well away from the temple.

Lord Halvok's residence was a modest manor to be the
home of an influential noble, but Sham was suitably impressed by the amount of gold he must have spent to buy two hundred rods of land in the middle of the city. She had plenty of time to view the lawn as she walked completely around the building to make certain there was no light that would suggest a servant was up and about.

As she stepped onto the grass, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end: if she'd had any doubts that Halvok was a wizard they were clearly resolved. She hadn't tripped any obvious warding, but the tingling sensation strongly suggested there was one nearby.

She inched forward until she found it. It was a simple spell, designed to warn Lord Halvok if a thief was about, but not to keep out wizards—such a spell would be too taxing to sustain, even with runes. Carefully, gently, Sham stepped across leaving the spell undisturbed.

The lower floor windows were shuttered, but those on the second floor were open. Scrambling up the native rock face and through a parlor window gave her little trouble. She stood in the darkness in the small room and pulled a sliver from her thumb with her teeth.

Places where magic was worked frequently began to collect a certain aura about them. Even people who couldn't normally sense magic would begin to feel uneasy, as if they were being watched or followed. Such places tended to get the reputation of being haunted. Chances were good that Halvok's workroom was in an isolated area of the house to avoid driving off the servants.

Sham closed her eyes and whispered a scrying spell to find where the workroom was. The return information was immediate and strong. Hastily she pulled the shutters on the window and lit a dim magelight to look around.

“Plague take him,” she muttered irritably.

The darkness had hidden the exact nature of the room she was in. The dark forms she'd assumed were bookcases were filled with a wide variety of antiques, each neatly labeled by a piece of parchment tied by wire to the artifacts. At another time, she would have been fascinated and covetous—particularly of the fine dagger display.

Unfortunately, there were several items radiating magic, a few as strongly as her flute. She was going to have to sneak through the dark house hoping no one heard her until she could get far enough away to find any other magic.

Sham called her magelight, restored the shutters to their former position, and opened the only door in the room. Rather than a hall, she found herself in a large bedroom. The bed was neatly turned back and a bed warmer was set near the banked coals of the fireplace.

She walked through the room and opened a door into a dimly lit hall, deserted except for a yellow-eyed tomcat. The cat stared at her indifferently from its perch on an open window sill before returning its gaze to the night.

A dark stairway broke off from the hall, too narrow to be anything but the servant's staircase. Sham crouched low and listened for any sound that might indicate that it was in use.

She counted slowly to twenty before creeping quietly down the wooden stairs, walking as close to the edge as she could so the stair wouldn't flex and squeak. Pausing briefly on the first floor, Sham decided to continue to the basement before trying to scry magic again. The further she was from the little collection room the better her chances of making the spell work would be.

She traveled down several steps when something both soft and sharp touched her gently on the back of the neck.

Stifling a scream, Sham jumped down two more stairs and turned, knife in hand to confront her attacker. She stared into the darkness, but saw nothing. Holding absolutely still, she listened for the sound of breathing.

The cat, sitting on a narrow shelf in the wall of the stairwell, purred smugly. She could hear it lick its foot in the darkness. Sham had passed by the animal without seeing it, and it had batted her gently with its paw.

Biting back her relieved laughter, she continued into the cellar. The temperature dropped noticeably as the last faint light faded behind her. She stopped and scried for the fragmented magic of the workroom again, though she didn't close her eyes this time—it would have been pointless in
the utter blackness of the cellar. She could still sense the spells tangled in the collection of antiques, but this time the stronger pull by far lay ahead of her, slightly to the left.

She decided the risk of someone seeing her light was less than the risk of someone hearing her as she tripped over the cat in the darkness, so she called her magelight once more. She kept it dim, so it wouldn't spoil her night vision. The cat, with typical contrariness, was nowhere to be seen.

The first door that she came to opened into a storage area filled with foodstuffs. The second room was obviously a workshop—the wrong kind. Bits and pieces of broken or unfinished furniture were set in an organized fashion around the room. There was no third door, though she could feel the pulse of magic quite strongly when she tried.

Frowning, she tapped one foot with silent impatience and stared into the workroom. She inhaled and detected, underneath the smell of the lemon oil and varnish, the tang of herbs and the acrid scent of burned hair. Mentally she compared the size of the food storage room and the wood-shop. The storage room had been significantly narrower.

Back in the storage room, behind a shelf of dried parsley and fresh vegetables, she found a plain door that opened into Lord Halvok's workshop—this one scented with magic rather than varnish. Stepping into the room gave her an odd feeling of going back in time. This was what the old man's workshop in the Castle had looked like.

There was no trace of black magic here, as there had been none in the hut in Purgatory; but she hadn't expected to find any. A magician who practiced the forbidden arts would hardly have done so in his own house. She began to search his books.

All magic had a certain signature that identified itself to a wizard. Because of that signature it was possible to tell what a spell would do, even if it were unfamiliar to the magician looking at it. Rather than waste time looking through each book, Sham touched the books in turn using her magic to search out the tomes that might contain black magic.

After twenty minutes of work, she laid three books on the smooth surface of a marble table. The first was an old copy of an even older text. It had several spells that called for the use of various body parts . . . “the forefinger of a man hanged on the vernal equinox,” “the eye of a man who died in his sleep.” Enough for the spells to be black magic, but a farseeing spell was not what Sham was looking for. She set it aside.

The second book, bound in butter-soft leather, was embossed with the enlightening title,
Majik Boke
. Unlike the first one, it was spelled shut so no unsuspecting person could casually open it. It took Sham some time to dismantle the protection spells, as they were old and powerful—also vaguely familiar. As soon as the spells lost their hold, the book fluttered open and the signature of evil increased tenfold.

“I found that in the ashes of the bonfire where they burnt the library of the King's Sorcerer,” Lord Halvok spoke quietly from behind her.

Sham turned to him and nodded, with a casualness she didn't feel. Never show fear or let them know they've surprised you. “I thought that I recognized the Old Man's work in the warding. You haven't opened this?”

Lord Halvok's blunt fingers stroked behind the ears of the yellow-eyed cat that was draped limply over his shoulders. The cat purred. “No, I have one just like it—though I believe Maur's copy is somewhat older than mine.”

He strode casually to the table where the books rested and picked up the one she hadn't had time to examine. He unworked the spells that kept it closed and opened it to display essentially the same text as the page her book was opened to—although written in a different hand. “This is my copy. As Maur's apprentice, I suspect the one you opened should be yours. I advise you to keep it somewhere no one will find it. Texts that deal with black magic are forbidden, Lady Shamera.”

He snapped the book shut and met her gaze. “Tell me, how did you know that I was the wizard this afternoon? The illusion of the old wizard has fooled many mages who,
forgive me, were more powerful than you are.”

She shrugged. “How long have you known I was a sorcerer searching for a demon rather than just the Reeve's mistress?”

“After all these years Lord Kerim chooses a mistress—not just any mistress, but a native.” He closed his eyes briefly. “We have been without hope for so long. Holding on to our lands by the thread of Lord Kerim's honor.” He opened his Southwood blue eyes and met hers. “When I realized something was going on, it was easy to connect it with you. Why would he choose an unknown Southwood lady of, you'll forgive me, more style than beauty, when he could have his pick of court ladies—including Southwood women like Lady Sky if his tastes were so inclined?”

“My scintillating intellect, of course,” she offered in Lady Shamera's vacuous style.

He laughed involuntarily. “Right. I had already begun to rethink your intelligence, based on the reports of my fosterlings. Siven said he thought you used your stupidity with great skill and shrewdness.” Halvok shook his head. “All that aside, you had to be a wizard helping the Reeve track down the demon—he would never have risked taking up with a Southwood lady in this political climate for anything less. Now, you answer my question, how did you recognize me?”

“Maur always said that illusions are an unreliable spell—they are one of the few spells that can lose effect without the spellcaster being aware of it.”

“You aren't going to tell me.”

“No. It's not my secret to tell.”

He stared at her for a moment, then nodded his head. “Fair enough.”

Sham pursed her lips and tapped her fingers lightly on the table. “You sound as if you value Lord Kerim.”

He frowned sharply. “Of course I do. Why do you ask?”

She looked up from the table and narrowed her eyes at him. “Because some idiot summoned the Reeve through the worst corner of Purgatory just to recite an old story that could have been told to the Whisper.”

Halvok's eyebrows flew up at the tone of her voice. “It was an opportunity I could not resist. Purgatory is a black hole where our people disappear. The Easterners like to forget that it exists—or they pretend that it is nothing more than a slum like most cities of any size have. You were safe with the Shark beside you, no one would risk his wrath—”

“—To kill the Cybellian Lord who is given primary credit for putting down any hope that Southwood had of shaking off Altis' yoke? You are the one who needs to visit Purgatory, if that's what you think,” snarled Sham. “The Shark, despite his own belief, is neither omnipotent nor omniscient and there are any number of people in Purgatory who would be happy to give their miserable lives to prove it.”

“Are you—” said Halvok softly, obviously keeping a firm hold on his temper, “—speaking as a concerned citizen or as the Reeve's mistress?”

“Does it matter?” she returned roundly. “What you did was stupid and unnecessary. The Reeve knows all he needs to about Purgatory; where do you think he found me?”

Halvok stilled. “You were in Purgatory?”

Sham nodded. “The Reeve saved my life. Why do you think I am working for him, an Altis-worshipping Cybellian?” Twisting the truth was one of her many talents.

“Lord Ervan was hardly so poor that his widow—” he hesitated, then said in the manner of one stating an obvious fact he had overlooked, “You're not his widow.”

“I,” said Shamera, losing enough of her annoyance to grin at him. “—am a thief, and have lived in Purgatory since the Castle fell. Look, I need to know everything you can tell me about demons.”

Suddenly he grinned as well. “Now that I'm feeling guilty enough to risk talking about them? All right, I admit, it was a stupid impulse to insist that the Reeve come to my workshop—especially as weak as he is. Although he's been getting better ever since Ven died, hasn't he?”

“Actually,” she said, “not quite. He's been getting better since we discovered Ven's body, though one had little
to do with the other. That night I found a number of runes on and about the Reeve's person that tied him to the demon. Apparently the demon was responsible for Lord Kerim's illness—I'm not sure why, or even exactly what it was doing. The runes it was using are odd forms of the masterpatterns.”

Lord Halvok looked around until he found a pair of stools. He gave one to Sham and sat upon the other. “Why don't you tell me what you know about this demon, and I'll tell you anything I can.”

“Very well.” She perched on the proffered seat. “The demon is killing people every seven to eight days and has been for the past . . . oh three quarters of a year or so. It didn't start concentrating its kills at the Castle until several months ago. As I told you, it killed Maur—which is how I first got involved.”