When Demons Walk (21 page)

“So the killings started about the same time as the Reeve's illness?” said Halvok.

“Yes.”

Lord Halvok frowned. “From what I know of demons, it is killing far more frequently than it needs to. Demons need to feed on death—but supposedly only once every several months.”

“Right,” agreed Sham, “but in order to keep its simulacrum working, I believe it needs to kill much more often.”

“A simulacrum?” Halvok sounded intrigued.

“Lord Ven had been dead several days before we discovered his body. I. . . freshened it to avoid frightening everyone who had seen him in court while his body was rotting in a little-used room in the Castle. The last form it had to wear that I know of belonged to a dead stableman.”

“The stableman who was found dead in the company of the Reeve's pet selkie?”

She nodded. “It killed him to get rid of Ven's form and used Elsic—the selkie—to throw as much sand over its trail as it could.”

Halvok shook his head. “By the tides,” he swore, “no wonder it has been so hard to catch.”

“Can you tell me how to find the demon?”

“No.”

“All right, then. Do you know how to kill it?”

Halvok shrugged. “Find out who it is and kill the body that houses it—after you destroy the simulacrum. It should take the demon a decade or so to find a person whose body it can steal. They are capable of that, you know, if they are not already tied to a host. The demon itself cannot be killed . . . unless—.” He stiffened as if a new thought had occurred to him, “—if you can find the demon, and enslave it the way the old magicians used to, it will die when you do.”

Sham thought about that and shook her head. “It's free now because it killed the mage who called it and he knew far more about demons than I do. Is there a way I can send it back where it came from?”

Lord Halvok nodded and elaborated, “You'll need to find a virgin, cut out his tongue, put out his eyes, chant a few lines, cut out his heart and feed it to the demon after taking a bite yourself. Death is capable of generating great power if you use it right. I have a young cousin who might work, though I'm not certain about his virginity, you understand.”

Sham snorted. “I think I'll pass—if nothing else works I'll settle on killing its host. What about the Archmage who destroyed Tybokk? How did he do it?”

“He managed to bind it to the dead body it had occupied so it was unable to seek another host. He used a spell that has been lost with most other demon lore—it's not in Maur's book. Perhaps there is something in the ae'Magi's library. I won't stop you if you want to ask the ae'Magi if he has a book of demonology in his possession—although such an admission would require him to present himself to the council for execution. Maybe it would help if you told him that you had a book on demon lore, but needed a specific reference.”

Sham laughed despite herself and held up a hand in surrender. “Would it be acceptable if I talk with you again
after I have had a chance to read this?” She tapped the book he'd given her.

The nobleman bowed his assent. “Lady, you have whatever aid I can offer. I will contact my old master and see if he has any suggestions.”

“I would appreciate that.” Sham rose from the stool and walked to the door. Before she opened it, however, she turned back to him. “Lord Halvok, would you happen to have any books on runes? Something that might have the forms that the demon is using?”

“Old runes?” He thought a moment. “I might have one that would help.”

Kneeling, he drew a thin volume from the bottom shelf and brought it to her. “This is something I picked up in the market a number of years ago. It's quite a bit older than it looks, and it has runes in it I had never seen before.”

“Thanks,” she said taking it.

“You may leave by the front door if you wish.”

She turned to bat her eyelashes at him. “And have the Reeve's mistress be seen leaving your manor at night? I can find my own way out, sir.”

 

“S
O
H
ALVOK ISN
'
T
calling demons?” Asked Kerim, pulling another pillow behind his back to prop himself up higher.

Sham, so tired that her very bones ached, struggled to think clearly. She had come directly here after leaving Lord Halvok's chambers, without stopping to find a safe place for her newly acquired books—not that there ever was a really safe place for a black grimoire.

“I don't think so,” she answered finally. “If he is summoning demons, he is a better actor than I think he is, and he's not doing it from his home.”

Kerim nodded. “Good enough for me. Why don't you go to sleep and we'll see what the morning brings.”

Sham gave him a mock salute and exited under the tapestry.

 

A
LONE IN HER
room, Sham stood for a moment in the darkness. The rune book was no trouble, but she wasn't sure what to do with the other one. Even though she had replaced the spell-warding on the book, the signature of black magic leaked from it.

Sighing, she set the book on the nearest flat surface she came to and set the second, more innocuous one on top of it. She could deal with it in the morning. She stripped out of her filthy clothing—the rain had turned the thick layer of dust to mud—and tossed her clothes in the trunk. As she shut the lid, the thought of the mildew the damp clothing invited crossed her mind, but she was too tired to deal with it.

T
he thunderous pounding on Kerim's door was loud enough to force Sham to sit up in her bed and curse under her breath. From the weight of her eyelids, she estimated she'd been asleep less than an hour. She thought seriously about ignoring the noise and going back to sleep, but anything worth waking up the Reeve at such an obscene hour of the night was worth investigating.

Knowing her intrusion might not be welcomed, she stretched out on the floor and raised the bottom of the tapestry until she could see into Kerim's room.

Kerim had already thrown on his bedrobe and was using his quarterstaff for balance as he hobbled painfully across the room.

“Yes?” he called out, before he opened the door.

“My Lord, Lady Tirra sent me to tell you that Lady Sky is in danger.”

Sham heard Kerim throwing the bolt on his door and the hinges squeaked once. A chest obscured her view, so she had to rely on her ears.

“I don't know the exact circumstances, but Lady Tirra
seems to feel it may be due to the Lady's recent miscarriage.” From his voice the messenger was painfully young.

Kerim reappeared in Sham's sight. He grunted as he settled himself in his wheeled chair and tossed the quarterstaff on his bed. Wasting no time he left the room.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Sham leapt to her feet and opened her trunk, shuffling through the assorted mess until her hand closed on damp cloth. She preferred her wet thieving clothes to court dress. As she wrestled with recalcitrant fabric, she realized she hadn't had to unlock her trunk. Once decently clothed, she slammed a hand on the leather and wood top and spelled it closed without bothering with the latch.

Quickly she opened the panel into the passages and slipped through. By this time, she knew the passages of the Castle better than she knew the halls where more conventional people traveled from place to place in the Castle. There were only three short sections of main thoroughfare she had to cross. Either luck or the lateness of the hour blessed her with empty halls, and there was no one to see when she cautiously scurried from one passage to the next on her way to Lady Sky's quarters.

Like most of the occupied rooms, the spyhole to Lady Sky's bedchamber had been sealed. It took Sham less than a wisp of magic to pull the board off the wall. Before she pulled the board completely away, Sham doused the magelight. Luckily, Lady Sky lived on the third floor where all the unmarried ladies of the court stayed, so there were several windows to let moonlight into the room.

Lady Sky might almost have been posed for an artist. The silvery light of the moon played upon her fair hair and caressed her graceful figure, which was as slender as if her pregnancy had never been. The white muslin gown that she wore made her appear younger than she was. She sat cross-legged on her bed, staring down at a dagger she held in both hands.

Sham couldn't see her face except for the corner of her jaw, but she had a clear view of Lady Sky's fine-boned hands turning the dagger over and over, as if she were
examining the knife at a marketplace, looking for flaws.

Sham began searching for a hidden door that would let her enter the room. Purgatory had eliminated any sympathy she might have had for people who took the easy way out, but the lady had the excuse of her recent miscarriage: It was common knowledge that such women were overly emotional. Sky had become as close to a friend as she had among the women at court, and Sham didn't want anything to happen to her. She was exploring a likely looking area when she heard Kerim's voice. Quickly she darted back to her spyhole and set her eye against it.

“Give me the dagger, Sky.”

The bolt must not have been thrown on the door, for Kerim's chair had stopped just inside the threshold. Lady Sky held the dagger up until the moonlight danced on the blade.

“This was my husband's,” she said in conversational tones. “He was very careful that all his weapons were kept sharp.”

“Sky, do you know how hard it is to kill yourself with a dagger? Unless you know what you're doing, it can take days to die of such a wound. Despite Fahill's axioms, dagger wounds are very painful. . .and messy.” Kerim matched her conversational tones exactly, as, with an easy push, he sent his chair rolling toward her bed.

A fresh breeze blew in from the window, causing the modest white muslin of Lady Sky's nightgown to flutter softly against her skin. Wheels touching the edge of her bed, Kerim waited patiently for her reply.

“They all die,” Lady Sky said finally, in a child's soft bewildered voice. “My babies, my parents, my husband, Ven—everyone. I think perhaps I'm cursed. There are so many people dying here—if I am dead too, maybe it will stop.”

“Sky, dying never stops.” Kerim's voice was gentle but implacable. “The only certainty life contains is death. Would your parents, Fahill, or Ven want you to die for no reason? Should there be one less person mourning their deaths and one more person to mourn? Fahill loved you. I
fought side by side with the man, and he was a withdrawn, embittered warrior until you came to him. During the few months he had you, he was happier than he had ever been. He would not like it if you used his death as a reason to destroy something he loved so.”

In the passage, Sham backed away from the spyhole. There was no threat to Kerim here, and somewhere along the line she'd developed faith in the Leopard's abilities—he would talk Sky out of her foolishness without her help.

Shamera needed to get away from Sky's voice. It wasn't death that was hard, or the dying, though the tides knew it could be bad enough: it was finding a reason to keep on living. She wished Sky luck.

From the lady's room, Sham heard the sound of a dagger flung to the floor, followed by sobs muffled against a man's shoulder. Sham stopped, and turned back to the spyhole.

Kerim held Sky in his lap, petting her hair gently as her shoulders trembled with grief. Sham bit her lip and turned away. There, in the dark passage listening to the sounds of another woman's sorrow, she admitted what she would not admit in the light of day: Sham the Thief loved the Reeve of Southwood.

Tiredly, she walked back to her room. She threw her clothes back in the trunk, and found her nightgown. Then she climbed into her bed, pulled the covers over her head, and waited for sleep to come.

 

T
HE DOOR TO
Sham's room hit the wall with a loud bang. She awoke abruptly to find herself in an unladylike crouch on the edge of her bed, her dagger clutched in one hand. Frowning blearily, she peered at the intruders.

Talbot's raised eyebrows caused her to remember just what the Reeve's mistress wore for nightgowns, and she dove back under the covers. Elsic, of course, was immune to the sight.

“Sorry to trouble ye, Lady,” said Talbot, smothering a laugh, “but the Reeve is in a meeting, and I have work to do sorting through records that the temple sent down. I waited as long as I could, as Kerim said ye were out until
the wee hours. It's now past luncheon and someone needs to see the lad here—” Talbot clapped the boy's shoulder with a heavy hand, “—doesn't get himself mob-eaten.”

Sham scowled at Talbot. “It is customary to knock, before throwing open a door.”

He grinned at her. “Worry about knocking do ye, thief? First I ever heard of it.”

Laughing, Shamera raised her hands in defeat. “Welcome, Elsic. Shove off, Talbot. We'll keep each other out of trouble. I'll fight off mobs and Elsic can handle the nobles.”

Elsic grinned. “For you, Lady, anything.”

Sham shook her head at Talbot. “From stableboy to courtier in one night. Shame on you for corrupting youth.”

“Me?” answered Talbot indignantly, “It was the womenfolk. Cursed I am with a pack of daughters who look upon any unrelated male as fair game, especially a lad as fair and mysterious as this one.”

“Ah,” said Sham knowingly, “—the real reason to move Elsic into the Castle for the day.”

Talbot grinned at her and left. Sham started to get out of bed, then hesitated, glancing at Elsic.

“I really can't see you,” he assured her with a wicked smile. Obviously an evening spent with Talbot's family had been good for him—he looked a good deal less lost than he had in the stables yesterday.

“I think you can wait in Kerim's room until I'm dressed, my lad. If you walk straight about four paces—” she waited as he complied, “—left a step, then six paces to the wall. Turn right and walk until you find the tapestry. Under the tapestry is a doorway to Kerim's bedroom.”

When he was safely out of her room, she threw back the covers and pulled out a dress at random. It was a flowered silk in flaming orange golds and deep indigo, with slits on either side of the skirt to the top of her hips. She had to rummage further to find the slip—little more than colored silk strips hung on a string. It was based on some of the dresses the Trading Clan women wore, but far more provocative—it also had relatively few buttons, and the ones
Sham couldn't work didn't make the dress any more revealing than it already was.

As she started toward Kerim's room, her gaze fell on the pair of books that waited patiently on the nightstand that had mysteriously appeared to replace the one she'd destroyed. She was going to have to find some way to occupy Elsic while she worked through the black grimoire, as well as a better place to keep it when she wasn't in the room. Her trunk would work to keep the book out of innocent hands, but that wouldn't disguise what it held from any magic user.

Sham heard the soft sounds of someone tuning a harp. She ducked under the tapestry to find that Elsic had located a small bard's harp amidst the weaponry that littered the room and was sitting at the foot of the Reeve's bed tuning it. There was a smudge on the bedclothes that looked suspiciously as if he'd used it to dust off the harp.

Elsic looked up when she came into the room and left off touching the strings. “Kerim lets me play this when I am here. It's a fine instrument.”

Sham looked at the harp doubtfully. It wouldn't bring more than three coppers at the market, and that only if someone cleaned and polished it; the wood was old, and the finish marred as if it had indeed been carried by a bard through several lifetimes of wandering.

“Did he teach you to play?” she asked, unwilling to comment on the harp's quality.

Elsic shook his head and began running his hands over the strings again. “No. I already knew how to play, though I didn't remember it until I held the harp. Lord Kerim says his fingers are too cumbersome for the strings, but he'll sing with me sometimes.”

The tune that he played was unfamiliar, but its haunting tone caused a shiver to run up her unsentimental spine. She had always accounted the Old Man a master of music, but he'd never approached the skill that Elsic displayed as he called the music from the old, worn harp. The strings wept with the sorrow of his song.

Unable to find any words that didn't sound trite, Sham
found a seat and closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her. After few refrains, Elsic traded the melancholy air for the more familiar melody of a feast-day song. He played the lilting verse through once before adding his voice to the harp's.

Sham smiled in contentment, pulling her bare feet to the velvet seat of her chair. The skirt she was wearing made the position less than modest, but Elsic and she were the only ones in the room. At the end of the last chorus, he set the harp aside, flexing his fingers and laughing self-consciously when Sham applauded him.

“It's the harp—” he explained, “—anyone could make such an instrument sound good.”

“Not I,” replied Sham, “nor my master who was a talented musician by all accounts. I have some reading to do. If you would like to continue playing, I'll bring my book in here where the chairs are more comfortable.”

Rather than answering her with words, Elsic took up the harp again. Sham ducked back into her room, and got the book Lord Halvok had given her. Returning to Kerim's room, she settled comfortably in a chair and started to unwork the binding spells on the book.

Elsic stopped playing and cocked his head to one side. “What are you doing?”

She released the first of the spells and stopped to answer him. “Magic.”

He frowned. “It feels . . . odd somehow . . . not like the magic I know.”

Sham thought about that for a moment, trying to decide just how the magic the Spirit Tide generated was different from the magic she used.

“It is different than what you do,” she said finally. “I don't understand your kind of magic very well; I don't know if any human does. I can sense it sometimes if it's strong enough, the way you can sense what I do. The magic that you use is already shaped by the forces of nature—like the ocean tides. The magic I use is unformed. I impose it on the book, or whatever I want to affect.”

“There's something else,” said Elsic after a pause, his voice tentative. “Something I don't like.”

“Ah, that,” she said. “The book I'm reading has a rather large section of demonology. There is magic that feeds—”

“—upon death,” he interrupted, having come to alert like a fine hunting hound.

“Even so. I'm not working the spells, but even writing about such things taints the pages.”

“Ah,” said Elsic in a fine imitation of her tones earlier. He nodded once, and resumed playing. He didn't appear unhappy, just thoughtful, so she left him to his music.

 

I
T WAS INTERESTING
to read the detailed explanation of the proper ceremony for summoning the dead accompanied by “How the Cow Ate the Roof” and “The Maiden's Caress.” There were worse choices, she supposed, but somehow the simple country songs made the sacrifice of three piglets in a particularly cruel manner even more distressing in comparison. It was a relief when someone knocked on her door, and gave her an excuse to quit reading.