When Demons Walk (8 page)

“The boy was accepted with no questions: children are treasured by the Trader Clans. He was a solemn child, but that might have been because of the death of his father. The
ae'Magi, like most of the Traders, would sooner have suspected himself of being a demon than he would have suspected a child.

“One night the ae'Magi sat brooding in front of a small fire while his fellow Traders danced and exchanged stories. Gradually the stories changed from acts of heroism to more fearful topics, as is the case with most such story-exchanges. Someone, of course, told the story of Tybokk.

“The ae'Magi turned to leave and caught an unusual expression on the strange boy's face. The boy was smiling, but not as boys do—his smile was predatory.

“A chill crawled up the ae'Magi's spine as he realized how well the demon had been disguised by its summoner, and how close the mage had come to being defeated by the creature he hunted.

“A great battle followed, one that is yet spoken of with awe by the descendants of the Traders who witnessed it. In the end, the demon's body was destroyed. The demon was left without form, unable to do more than watch as the Clan traveled out of the mountains in safety.

“Still today, the pass is called the Demon's Pass or Tybokk's Reach, and some say that there is an unnatural mist that occasionally follows those that walk that path at night.”

A small silence followed her story, then the Reeve said, “You should have been a storyteller rather than a thief. You would make more money at it.”

She smiled blandly. “You obviously don't know how much I make thieving.”

“So you think we have another Tybokk?” asked the Reeve.

She shrugged. “If Maur was right when he named it Chen Laut, then we do.”

“Chen Laut is the monster who eats children who don't do their chores,” explained Talbot. “My mother used to threaten us with him.”

“If the King's Sorcerer was mistaken?” Kerim asked.

“Then perhaps we have a man who enjoys killing,” she replied. “He works seven or eight days in a row with the
eighth or ninth day off, or perhaps his wife visits her mother every eighth or ninth day. He travels freely among the upper classes—a servant of some kind, or perhaps a noble himself. He can pick locks and skulk in shadows so skilfully, I didn't see him when I entered the old man's cottage.”

There was a slight pause, then Kerim nodded his head. “As long as you are willing to continue to look for a human culprit, I will listen to anything you have to say concerning demons.”

“Agreed. Now may I ask you a question?”

“Certainly,” said Kerim agreeably.

“Just who is Lord Ervan, and how did I become his widow?”

 

I
T WAS LATE
in the evening when they finished ironing out their respective stories, and Sham was led, yawning, to the chamber that the Reeve had given her. As she shut the door behind the Reeve's manservant, she stretched wearily and looked around.

It was smaller than Kerim's chamber, but the lack of clutter made it seem much the same size. Unlike the Reeve's room, thick rugs adorned the floor to keep the chill stone separated from vulnerable bare toes. Sham took off her shoes and let her feet sink into the pile of a particularly thick rug.

Experimentally she peered into the surface of the nightstand near the bed; the reflection that stared back at her was less blurred than the one in the little polished bronze mirror she habitually carried. The candles that lit her chamber were of the highest quality, and left the room smelling faintly of roses. In the Reeve's chambers the lighting had been augmented by several large silver mirrors. Without the mirrors or the windows, the corners of this room were very dark.

She had never slept amid such extravagance even when she'd lived here with her Father—she couldn't even remember when she'd last slept in a bed. The widow of Lord Ervan would have taken it as no more than her due, but
without someone to perform for she was only a peasant-thief in a place she didn't belong.

Like the one in Kerim's room, the fireplace stonework covered most of one wall with tapestries hung on either side. As she walked closer, she noticed a door tucked discreetly behind one of the elaborately woven wall hangings on the small part of the wall not occupied by the fireplace.

The sight of the discreet opening cheered her, reminding her why she was here. Dickon had taken her through several halls that twisted and turned, but thieving had gifted Sham with a very good sense of direction. She suspected that the door connected to a similar one in the inner wall of the Reeve's chambers—fitting for the Reeve's mistress, of course.

Returning to the bed, Sham kicked off the slippers that matched her black dress. The fastenings were on the front, so she had refused the offer of a maid. She left the gown lying on the floor where it had fallen, knowing that only someone used to such costly apparel would be so careless. Snuffing out the candles, she climbed into bed and tucked her knife under the pillow, successfully resisting the urge to lie on the floor until she fell asleep.

 

B
LOOD DRIP-DROPPED
from the man's hand onto the smooth granite floor, making a dark viscous puddle. This one had been very satisfactory; his surprise, his terror was sweetening for the meal he'd so generously provided. The demon smiled as it contemplated its handiwork.

 

T
HE PLAIN
-
FACED
maid who entered the room the next morning and began to light the candles never saw the knife Sham reflexively seized at the sound of the door opening.

“Good morning, Lady Shamera. My name is Jenli and my Uncle Dickon told me you would need a maid. If I am not satisfactory, you are to let him know and he will find someone else.” This speech was said to the bed tick as the girl folded it neatly back; it was also said in Southern that was so thickly accented as to be virtually indecipherable.

Sham belatedly remembered her role as the Reeve's mistress and responded accordingly—in accented Cybellian. “As long as you keep your tongue still about my personal business and listen to what I say, a replacement will not be necessary.”

“No, Lady . . . I mean, yes, Lady.”

Sham gave the maid an assessing glance. Jenli didn't resemble Lord Kerim's personal servant in the slightest. Where he was tall and spare, she was short and round. Every thought that crossed her mind crossed her face first. It would be a long time, if ever, before she matched the perfect-servant expression favored by Dickon—thank the tides.

Sham palmed her knife to keep it out of the maid's sight and got out of bed, wandering languidly to the trunk at the foot. When she casually dropped the soft lace nightdress on the floor, Jenli blushed and paid even closer attention to the bed tick.

Sham opened the trunk, newly purchased to hold Lady Shamera's necessities and inspected its contents—the few items of clothing the dressmaker could make ready immediately, her bundle of Purgatory garb, the flute she'd taken the night the Old Man died, and several canvas bags full of sand to make the trunk weigh what it should. She supposed that she really should have stored the flute in her cave, but it was tied to Maur and she hadn't had the will to set it aside.

When Jenli stepped forward to help, Sham tossed a neatly folded dress across the room where it graced the floor like a dying butterfly. Jenli brought her hands to her cheeks and rushed to save the expensive material.

“Oh, Lady, these should have been hung up and. . . here, let me take that.”

The shy, soft-spoken maid snatched the cloth-of-gold overdress out of her hands with the swiftness of a pickpocket. When the maid turned her back to hang the garment the wardrobe, Sham took the dress she wanted out of the trunk, closing and locking the lid with a touch of magic.

The gown she chose was a blue so deep it was almost
black, complementing her eyes perfectly, and trimmed in a light yellow the same color as her hair. The sleeves covered her arms and shoulders entirely. The back was high cut and the collar fastened tightly around her throat. Jenli stood behind her and fastened the myriad of buttons that ran up the back of the dress. When Sham turned around the maid's eyes widened a little.

“Where is the underdress, Lady?” questioned the maid uncertainly.

“What underdress?”

Jenli cleared her throat. “Some packages arrived from the dressmakers this morning, madam; shall I have them brought up?”

Sham nodded absently, adjusting the gown for maximum effect. “Thank you. Where is the Reeve this morning?”

“I don't know, Lady, I am sorry. Would you like me to do your hair this morning?”

“Just brush it out,” said Sham, then added in a fretful tone, “I need to find Kerim.”

The maid led her over to the delicate bench that sat in front of a small bronze mirror. While she brushed the heavy blond mane, Shamera examined the dress with satisfaction.

It
had
been intended to be worn with an underdress. The silk stopped just below the peak of her breasts, offering a tantalizing view of their undersides as she moved. It managed to push her breasts in such a manner as to make her look far more endowed than she was. Material draped from the sides gracefully, exposing her navel before gathering together at her hips.

It wasn't as if the dress were indecent by Southwood standards. Away from the cool ocean air of Landsend, one of the traditional styles of dress was an embroidered bodice and skirt that left the midriff bare. It was the contrast of the modest style and color of the dress with the bare skin that made the dress shocking.

When the maid was finished with her hair, Shamera applied her own cosmetics, shading her eyelids with grey powder and staining her lips red. Face powder was something that she'd never been able to abide for long periods
of time, so she left it off. Finished with her toilet, Sham drifted gracefully to the inner door, ignoring the one leading to the hall.

“My Lord?” she said softly, cracking the door open so the Reeve would hear her address.

“Enter.”

She ducked daintily under the heavy material and advanced into the room. Kerim was talking with several noblemen. As Shamera sauntered across the soft carpeting, conversation ground to a halt.

“Lady.”

Shamera looked behind her to see the maid ducking through the door. In her hands were a pair of satin slippers that matched the blue dress.

“How silly of me, to forget my slippers. Thank you.” She took the shoes and slipped them on.

“Good morning, Lady.” There was amusement in the Reeve's voice. “I will be only a few moments, then we can break our fast.”

“Thank you, Kerim . . . My Lord.”

Shamera approached him and kissed him on the cheek before sinking to the floor beside him, and gazing up at his face. A slight flush rose on his cheekbone. She wasn't sure whether it was suppressed amusement, embarrassment, or something else. The silence echoed in the room for an uncomfortably long time before one of the men began speaking. When the others left the room at last, Shamera was thankful that none of them looked back to see Kerim dissolve into laughter.

“That
dress
 . . .” he gasped when he could.

She widened her eyes at him in mock innocence. “Whatever do you mean? Is there something wrong?”

He was still laughing too hard to make speech easy. “Did you
see
Corad's face when you came into the room? He's a Kerlaner. They keep their women confined to their houses and veiled. I thought that his eyes were going to join his feet on the floor.” He relaxed into his chair, his shoulders still shaking and pointed a finger at her. “And you were no help at all, Mistress Adoration. Every time I
looked away from Corad's sweating face, I had to look at you.”

“Self-control—” Shamera smirked, “—is good for you.”

“I
t might be more circumspect to wait until the next evening session,” he explained as he led her rapidly through the corridors, “but then there will be so many people that you can't hear yourself think. Besides I wouldn't want to waste the effect of that dress.”

Sham didn't have to look at him to know that he was smiling. “I hope you'll remember how much you like it when you get the dressmaker's bill.”

He laughed. “Usually there's some form of entertainment at the court—music for dancing, a minstrel, or something.” He paused, and his chair slowed briefly as he cast her a wicked glance. “I was told there was a magic act this afternoon.”

“I'll look forward to it,” replied Sham dryly, and Kerim laughed again.

As they neared the public area, the halls widened and became more expensively furbished. Kerim nodded at the footmen who opened a set of wide doors. When Sham and Kerim entered the room, people began to converge on him. Keeping a steady forward progress, he acknowledged each
person who approached, introducing them to Sham. She nodded and smiled blindingly as her eye found the place where she'd found her mother's dead body.

Shamera placed her hand on the Reeve's strong shoulder and gripped it tightly against the tide of memories, hoping he would ascribe it to stage fright. After a moment, the immediacy of her memories faded and the hall became merely a highly polished room full of brightly clad people.

As the Reeve's mistress, she represented an unknown force in politics of the court, one that threatened to upset the established influences. She was careful to act stupid, and concentrate on Kerim—which did much to add to the amusement that lingered in his eyes.

“Kerim,” announced Lady Tirra, coming upon them from behind. “You told me that you would see to it that the Lady Sky's lands and property would be released to her. She tells me that her husband's brother still refuses her the right to the manor house at Fahill.”

Kerim nodded. Much of the enjoyment left his face as he turned to look at his mother, though his expression was carefully pleasant. “I have been negotiating with him. It would have helped matters greatly if you hadn't sent a message to Johar yourself. He is so irate now it may take a full-scale siege to get him to relinquish the estate. He's even trumped up a charge that Lady Sky murdered Fahill.”

“Ridiculous,” Lady Tirra responded immediately. “He is merely being greedy, and you are too worried about upsetting his cronies to curtail him properly.”

The Reeve leaned back against his chair. “I agree that Lady Sky had nothing to do with Fahill's death, Mother—it's an obvious attempt to hold the lands. We are not going to get her all the land, but if you quit ‘helping' me I can come up with a reasonable compromise.”

“With her estates and yours joined, you would have the wealth to make your position unassailable,” suggested Lady Tirra aggressively, leading Sham to the conclusion that this was something she'd proposed before.

The Reeve bridled visibly. “The only one who can relieve me of my duties is the Prophet of Altis, Mother. He
is not affected by the wealth and power of those who object to my rule. Moreover, I am not marrying Lady Sky. She was the wife of my dearest friend—”

“Who has been dead these eight months,” she pointed out briskly. “It is time that I have grandchildren. I would not mind accepting Lady Sky's child as my first.”

“Then marry her to my brother,” he snapped impatiently. “She and he have been lovers for some time. If he'd offered for her, she'd have married him three months ago.” Taking a deep breath, he dropped his voice so he wouldn't be overheard by anyone not concerned. “You know Ven and Johar have always gotten on well. Ven asked me to seek a settlement based on his marriage to Sky.”

The level of noise in the room had dropped as the conversation progressed. Sham had the impression that everyone in the room was intent on overhearing the exchange between the Reeve and his mother—an impression that was confirmed as silence abruptly descended in the room when a young woman entered through a nearby door. From the reactions of the courtiers, she could only be the Lady Sky that the Reeve had been discussing with his mother.

Like Sham, the woman had typical Southwoodsman coloration, but where Shamera owed her attractiveness to dress and cosmetics, this woman was beautiful. She was tiny, fragile, and
very
pregnant.

Ah, thought Sham, that explained the “first grandchild” remark. Ven hadn't struck her as the type of man who would find a pregnant woman attractive; his involvement with her hinted at depths she had not expected from her first meeting. Or, more probably, he was a fortune hunter after her estates.

Lady Sky kept a pleasant smile on her face as she made her way to where the Reeve sat. Ignoring Sham, the Lady kissed the Reeve's cheek and said, in unaccented Cybellian, “Good morning, Kerim. I take it you and Tirra were discussing Fahill again?”

The Reeve smiled, but there was a subtle reserve in his expression. It was odd considering that Lady Sky was the only one beside Lady Tirra who she'd heard address the
Reeve by his first name. She wondered if there had been something between Kerim and his friend's widow.

“We were discussing Fahill,” he replied, not untruthfully. “My mother has taken it upon herself to berate your brother-by-marriage for his unnatural hatred of womankind.”

Lady Tirra's lips tightened with anger. “I merely implied that if he had any respect for the woman who bore him, he would not turn an expectant mother out of her own house.”

Lady Sky laughed and shook her head. “Thank you for that, Lady, but my brother-in-law knows I can always depend upon your generosity for a place to stay. He is only claiming property, not harming me.” She turned back to the Reeve and said in a gently chiding voice, “But, we are being impolite. Would you introduce me to your companion, Lord Kerim?”

Kerim had enjoyed shocking the court and his mother, but Sham could hear the reluctance in his voice when he introduced her to Lady Sky. Sham nodded at the other woman and began toying with a seam in the tunic that Kerim wore.

“I heard of Lord Ervan's death, several years ago,” said Lady Sky, obviously trying to make Sham feel welcome. “I knew him only by name, but he was reputed to be a kind man. I had not heard that he was married.”

Sham lowered her gaze modestly, but spoiled it by moving her hand off the material of Kerim's velvet tunic and onto the skin over his collarbone. She could almost hear Kerim's mother, who had been steadfastly ignoring her, tremble in outrage. Kerim took her hand firmly in his, bringing it to his lips before he set it safely on the back of his chair.

“Indeed, we married shortly before his death,” allowed Sham, absently. Then in a much more animated voice she continued, “Kerim, this tunic doesn't hang right in the shoulders. Leave it with me tonight and I'll fit it for you.”

He reached up and patted her hand, “As you wish, my dear.”

“You are looking tired, Kerim.” Lady Sky's concern
was obvious, and Sham felt herself warming to her. “If you would like, I can introduce Lady Shamera to the members of your court and you can rest.”

Kerim shook his head. “Actually, I find that I feel better today than I have for some time. Otherwise, I would have waited to bring Shamera into this viper pit—she doesn't have the experience to protect herself. Ervan was a hermit, even he admitted it, and he kept her secluded with him.”

Kerim turned to Lady Tirra, and changed the subject to less personal matters. “Dickon informs me you have quite a spectacle planned for today.”

“Would you stop repeating servant's gossip? It is unfitting.” Lady Tirra's rebuke was absent; obviously this was an old battle she had long since lost. “However, in this case it is correct. He comes with the strongest recommendations from no less than three of my ladies.”

“I look forward to it. You will have to excuse us, ladies, while Lady Shamera and I continue through this mob.” Kerim set his chair in motion.

As they proceeded from one small group of people to another, Sham felt the eyes follow her: outraged female and intrigued male glances took in her dress, her company, and her probable position, before turning to the Reeve.

She noticed that Kerim was not beloved by most of the Eastern members of the court. Their manners hid their feelings, almost as well as Sham's bare-midriff dress hid her lack of beauty—but, there was little warmth in the voices that spewed forth the flowery phrases of welcome. Kerim, she thought, was paying for his attempts at uniting the country.

If the Easterners were unsupportive, the few Southwood nobles in the room made up for it. They stood together in a loose-knit cluster on one end of the hall. At Kerim's approach, they broke off talking, and one noble stepped forward with a low bow.

There was a slight wariness in his manner that did not detract from the warmth of his greeting. “My Lord, we were discussing the merits of burning the fields in the spring versus burning them in the autumn. As it has turned
into mere speech-making without meritorious debate, we welcome the distraction.”

Kerim smiled, and Sham saw an answering affection in his face. “It sounds as if you were losing the debate, Halvok.”

Several of the Southwoodsmen had drifted away, but at Kerim's remark the others relaxed and exchanged lazy insults with the man Kerim had addressed as Halvok.

“Allow me to introduce my companion, Lady Shamera, widow of Lord Ervan,” said Kerim. “Lady Shamera, these are the Lords Halvok, Levrin, Shanlinger, and Chanford.”

Sham smiled vaguely at them all. All of the names sounded familiar, and Chanford she recognized, though he was much older now. He had been with the defenders of the Castle in the final days of the invasion—she doubted that he would remember the Captain of the Guard's sorcerous daughter, or associate Lady Shamera with her if he did.

Lord Halvok was the obvious leader, from his placement in Kerim's introduction as well as the deference the other lords gave him. He was younger than Chanford, but a good decade older than Kerim. Being short for a Southwoodsman, he was about the same height as most of the Cybellians. His fair hair was more silver than gold, and the clipped beard he wore was completely white. As he took her hand and bowed over it, she caught a speculative look in his eye, as if he were assessing a new hunting hound.

Kerim spoke with them on several small concerns before moving on with Sham drifting beside him. They hadn't gone far when someone began ringing chimes, drawing the crowd's attention to a portion of the hall where a platform had been built. On top of the platform, where he was easily viewed from the floor, stood a man clad in a black robe and hood, his face veiled.

He raised both hands in a dramatic gesture, and from either end of the stage, blue smoke began to emerge from silver urns on the floor. A second gesture, and flames shot forth accompanied by an approving murmur from the crowd. His bid for attention done, the magician waited
patiently for the audience to assemble. Kerim found a place near the front, giving Sham a clear view of the proceedings.

“Ah, bold lords and gentle ladies, welcome.” The magician's voice was dark and mysterious; Sham saw several ladies shudder eagerly. “I thank you for the opportunity to—”

“Tabby? Tab-
by
!” interrupted a woman's shrill voice from the nearest doorway.

Sham, like most of the audience looked over to see one of the serving women staring incredulously at the magician, who stared back with equal astonishment. The flaming urns began to sputter and die down.

“Tabby, what
are
you doing? Does Master Royce know what you are up to?” The woman put her hands on her hips and shook her head at him as he jumped off the stage and scurried toward her making frantic shushing gestures. As he ran, his hood fell back to reveal the round and freckled face of a young man.

“Hush, Bess,” he said in a stage whisper, darting a nervous glance at the crowd. “Master Royce is . . .” He looked again at the rapt audience and leaned closer to the woman and whispered something.

“What did you say?”

The magician cleared his throat and whispered again.

She laughed, and turned to the crowd. “He says Master Royce had a few too many last night. You'll have to make do with his apprentice.”

The audience roared with appreciation, as they realized this had been part of the act. The magician shuffled back to the stage, looking embarrassed, and frowned at the silver urn. The one nearest him gave an apologetic burp of flame.

“I'm really not as bad as all that,” explained the apprentice earnestly. “I even brought Master Royce's familiar along to help me if I forget the spells.” He motioned to a table set discreetly behind him, covered by a black cloth. One of the various bumps under the cloth seemed to move toward the front of the table, rising briefly to a greater height before settling down again.

The crowd laughed, which seemed to cheer the magician.
Sham watched in appreciative silence as the sleight-of-hand master used a façade of incompetence to distract his audience.

He pulled a small rabbit from underneath a nobleman's tunic and examined it sorrowfully. “This was supposed to be a gold coin. Let me try one more time.”

He put the rabbit back under the clothing of the discomfited noble, whose comrades were beginning to tease him, but it wasn't a gold coin this time either. The crowd roared, and the Cybellian nobleman flushed, though he was laughing too. The magician mutely held up a wispy bit of muslin, easily recognizable as a lady's undergarment.

The nobleman snatched it back and bellowed in the tones of a field commander, “Now how did
that
get there?” He opened his leather purse, stuffed the lacy thing in, and produced a coin saying, “Here's your gold coin, lad.”