When Demons Walk

10

Elsic tucked his head against the silky-soft shoulder of the Reeve’s warhorse. He held the brush in one hand as he absorbed the warm scent of horse and fresh straw.

The stallion had a long name in the Eastern tongue, but Kerim called the horse Scorch because he was blackened on all ends like a scorched bit of wood. Elsic liked to curl his tongue around the odd name when he talked to the stallion.

Since Kerim had granted him leave to work with the horse, Elsic had been given the task of grooming him and keeping his stall clean. Relying on touch rather than sight, it took him longer than the other grooms; but the Stablemaster said he did as good a job as Jab, who had groomed the Reeve’s stallion previously. The praise hadn’t made Elsic any more popular with Jab or any of his cronies, especially after Jab was dismissed for using beggar’s-blessing. He really didn’t mind the other stablemen’s antagonism. He didn’t like to talk much anyway, except to Scorch and occasionally with the Stablemaster or Kerim.

Elsic spent most of his time in the quarantine barn where Kerim’s stallion had been banished after breaking out of his stall and savaging one of the other stallions. There were four stalls in the barn, stout-walled with barred windows, but Scorch was the only occupant.

When the stallion shifted restlessly, Elsic returned to grooming the last bit of sweat that remained from the long-line exercise the Stablemaster gave Scorch twice daily to keep him fit. Usually the big animal relished the attention and stood motionless as long as Elsic kept the brush moving, but today Scorch took a half-step away from the brush and began making huff-huff noises as he expelled air forcefully through his nostrils.

Elsic put a hand out and touched the horse’s shoulder. The velvet texture was damp with nervous sweat, and the muscles underneath were taut with battle-readiness. The boy tried to smell what disturbed the animal—he’d long ago found that his nose was almost as keen as the horse’s. As he drew in a deep breath, he heard something brush against wood as it entered the barn. Instinctively, Elsic stood as still as he could trying not to draw attention to himself.

Like Elsic, the warhorse was quiet, issuing no challenges to the invader of his territory. Elsic wrapped a hand in the horse’s mane for reassurance as he heard rustles and bumps in the stall across the aisle.

It was gone as suddenly as it had come. He didn’t hear it leave, but it was gone all the same. Scorch whistled piercingly, half-rearing until Elsic’s feet were lifted off the floor. The boy smelled it too—blood.

Reluctantly, he loosened his grip and stepped out of the stall, shutting the door but not latching it behind him. He thought about seeking out the Stablemaster, but a strange sense of dread drew him across the aisle to the next stall instead.

The door was latched; it look him a moment of fumbling to open it. When his left boot touched something, he knelt and stretched out a reluctant hand, though he knew the man was dead.

As they neared the stables, Sham could hear angry muttering and the shrill scream of an enraged stallion. There was a small barn to the side of the main buildings where most of the disturbance seemed to be concentrated. She felt a bit of smug satisfaction when the Reeve’s new chair traveled easily over the ruts and rocks of the stable-yard.

A group of angrily muttering stablemen were gathered at the east end of the barn, near the entrance. The Stablemaster stood in front of them, a long, wicked whip held readily in one hand as he struggled to be heard over the growl of the crowd.

Sham had seen enough mobs to know when one was brewing; a thread of uneasiness had her palming her dagger.

When the Stablemaster noticed them approaching, he quit trying to address the crowd and contented himself with keeping them back. His eyes passed over Sham without pause, dismissing her as he would a servant. Distracted by her spell’s success, it wasn’t until they were quite close that Sham realized it was more than just the stablemaster’s whip that kept the mob from entering the building.

Snorting and tossing its head, a large dark-bay stallion paced restlessly back and forth, occasionally striking at the air with a quick foreleg. White foam lathered his wide chest and flanks. His ears were flattened, giving him a wicked look not lessened by his rolling eyes. He looked like the horse Kerim had been riding the night she’d met him, but Sham wasn’t certain.

When they were within several paces of the crowd, Kerim stopped and blew the war horn he’d brought from his room. The mournful wail cut easily through the lower rumbling of the crowd. When the last echoes of it died down the stableyard was quiet; even the stallion had stilled.

Satisfied that he had their attention, Kerim continued forward. A path opened in the crowd and Sham, anonymously androgynous in her dusty clothes, followed him until he stood next to the Stablemaster.

Kerim turned to the crowd and addressed them in Southern first, repeating himself in Cybellian. “I believe you all have duties elsewhere.”

At his cool look, most of the small crowd dissolved until only a handful of stubborn men remained.

Kerim’s eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “Am I to understand that none of you work in my stables?”

The men shifted uneasily, but one stepped forward. Doffing his cap, he looked at the ground. “Begging your pardon, sire, but the man what died is my brother, Jab. He asked me to meet him in the barn when I finished with my horses, said he had somewhat to show me. When I comes in, I sees that weirdie ...” He cleared his throat, perhaps remembering that the Reeve was known to take an interest in Elsic. “’Cuse me, sire. I sees Elsic kneeling down next to the body of my brother. There weren’t no head on the body, sire. I only know’d it was Jab ’cus of his boots.”

Kerim eyed the sharp-bladed scythe the stableman was carrying and said blandly. “So you decided to carry out a little justice of your own, did you?”

The ruddy stableman blanched, and his friends began quietly to drift away.

“It were for my own protection, sire. That demon horse opened its stall and drove me out of the barn ’fore I could catch Elsic and hold him for the guards.”

Kerim shook his head in disgust. “Enough. Take the scythe back to where it belongs. You have the rest of the day off. Your brother will be seen to by the priests of the Temple. If you desire other arrangements for him, talk to one of them.” He waved his hand in dismissal.

When the last of them were gone, Kerim turned his attention to the barn. The big stallion snorted and raised both front legs in a slow, controlled rear that he held for a long moment before dropping to all fours.

“Ye’d better see to the horse first,” suggested Talbot, who’d arrived just as the mob dispersed.

Kerim nodded and propelled himself forward. As he passed the entrance, the stallion snorted at him but never took its attention off of Sham, the Stablemaster, and Talbot. When Kerim gave a sharp, short whistle from the shadows of the barn, Scorch reluctantly followed him.

“Come,” said Kerim after a moment.

Inside the barn it was dim and cool. By the time Sham’s eyes had adjusted from the brightness of the late afternoon sun, Kerim was backing his chair out of a stall opposite the one he’d put his horse into. Mutely he gestured Talbot into it. The shadows hid whatever reaction Talbot had, and after a moment he came out and shut the stall behind him.

“Did you notice anything strange?” asked Kerim.

The former seaman nodded grimly. “Not enough blood. ’Tis gory enough, I grant ye, but if he were kilt here there’d be quite a bit more. Someone brought the body here after he was dead.”

“Elsic,” Kerim called softly.

The stallion’s stall opened and closed behind the thin, pale boy. There were smears of blood on his hands and on his clothes where he’d wiped them off.

“Stablemaster,” said Kerim softly, his eyes still on Elsic. “Send a rider to the Temple and inform the priest there is another body to retrieve. I also need someone to find Lirn—the Captain of the Guards—and let him know I need a pair of guardsmen here to keep people out until the priests come.”

“Yes, sir,” the man left, patting Elsic’s shoulder as he passed.

Kerim waited until he was sure the Stablemaster was gone before approaching Elsic.

“It was Jab, wasn’t it?” Elsic asked quietly.

“Yes,” replied Kerim. “Do you know who brought him here?”

Elsic shook his head, leaning against the stall door as if it was the only thing holding him up. The stallion put its head over the door and began to lip Elsic’s hair.

“It came in very quietly,” said Elsic, rubbing the animal’s prominent cheekbone with one hand.

“It?” asked Talbot intently.

“It scared Scorch too,” added Elsic.

Kerim nodded, understanding what Elsic meant by the remark. “Scorch wouldn’t have been afraid if it had been human.”

“It needed another shape,” commented Sham.

“What?” asked Talbot, looking at her in surprise as if he’d just noticed her presence. She smiled grimly, removing the concealment spell. “The golem needed another shape. It couldn’t use Lord Ven’s again, so it found someone else.”

Kerim shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. It must suspect we know it has a golem. Why display the stableman’s body so prominently? In less than an hour everyone in the castle will know Jab is dead. He’s been here longer than I have, everyone knows him.”

“He’s anonymous enough for all of that,” commented Talbot. “He looks not a whit different from any number of lads running about Landsend. If the demon didn’t want to stay in the Castle, Jab would give him anonymity.”

Sham had continued to puzzle it out. “I bet it’s killed someone else by now—then it made certain Jab would be found. Found moreover, somewhere that would cast suspicion on an obvious suspect for the mysterious deaths. Talbot, look at Elsic and tell the Reeve what any Southwoodsman sees.”

Talbot nodded his understanding, and to Sham’s surprise began, softly, to sing.

“... Frail she stood, and fair of face,

Her eyes as black as the fathomless sea,

And long pale hair as all her race,

She sang her song to me, to me ...”

Talbot hesitated, looking embarrassed although his tenor was in key and rich in tone. “It’s an old chantey. I thought of it the first time I saw him. I’ve never seen a selkie before, not even a white seal like they’re said to turn into, but Elsic looks too much like the stories for any sea-bred Southwoodsman to think he was anything else. I imagine that’s why ye’ve had such a hard time settling him in here.”

“Selkies,” explained Shamera, to Kerim, “have a reputation of being ruthless and bloodthirsty.” She noticed that Elsic was looking even more distressed so she added, “Bear in mind that their reputation comes from people who fish and hunt the mammals of the sea for a living—people unlikely to be popular with a race that changes into seals. I’m surprised you haven’t been asked to try him for the killings just because he is a selkie.”

“Selkie?” Elsic mouthed the word softly. “I dream of the sea, sometimes.” Although his face did not change, there was a melancholy note in his voice that touched even Sham’s Purgatory-hardened heart.

“I tell ye what, lad,” said Talbot slowly. “Not even the Leopard of Altis is going to make the stable a friendly place until we catch the demon. My wife and I have eight girls, and she always wanted a boy—the reason we have eight rather than six. She would enjoy yer company for a few days if ye would be pleased to stay with us until this blows over.”

Kerim gave Talbot a look of thanks. “I think it would be best, Elsic.”

The boy nodded, and gave the horse a final pat before allowing Talbot to lead him away.

“Now that’s just what the boy needed,” rumbled a deep voice from behind Sham in Southern. “A house full of women always makes me happier.”

Sham turned to see a man sitting casually on a barrel against the back wall of the barn. He was well above average height, with a build that would credit any lady’s plaything. The velvet and silk he wore suggested he was moderately wealthy. His waving blond hair made him Southwoodsman and his large, heavy-lidded, vacant eyes hinted at a correspondingly vacant mind—an image already fostered by his size. The only thing that was really out of place was the well-worn hilt of the heavy cutlass he wore at his hip.

Kerim was probably wondering how he sneaked past them in the little barn without anyone noticing him. Sham didn’t wonder, she’d taught him that little trick and several others as well.

“My Lord Reeve,” she said in overly formal tones, “if you have not met him already, I pray you allow me to present the Shark.”

The Shark drew himself to his extraordinary height and made a courtier’s bow. Sham noticed that he was looking even more stupid than usual, and she wondered what he was up to. “We’ve dealt only through others ’til now. Greetings, my lord.”

Kerim nodded, giving the Lord of the Whisper an assessing look. “Well met, sir. You will forgive me if I ask you why you are here.” Kerim indicated the stable with a broad sweep of his hand.

The Shark raised his weaponless hands to signify his harmlessness. “I? I am simply honoring an agreement that Sham and I had concerning a tidbit of information. That I found her in your august company is simply a matter of happy chance.”

Though the words and phrases the Shark used were High Court, his accent was steeped in the vowels of Purgatory, in marked contrast to the rich clothing he wore. As Sham knew he could speak with any accent he chose, switching from one to another as easily as fox could change directions, his show of coarseness could only be for the Reeve’s benefit.

“You found something on the Chen Laut?” Sham asked abruptly, irritated with his attitude.

The Shark bowed to her, without taking his gaze from the Reeve. “I found someone who says that he knows something about it, but he won’t talk unless the Reeve is there.”

“Why would he think that the Reeve is interested in the matter?” Sham kept her eyes on the Shark’s face until he finally met her gaze.

“I have no idea. The associate who found him swears the wizard introduced the condition without prompting.”

She couldn’t see any sign that the Shark was lying, but she knew he could cover a lot with the stupid expression he cultivated. She frowned at him, until he shrugged and lifted his hands to protest his innocence.

“On my mother’s grave, Sham. I don’t know why he decided that the Reeve had to accompany you. The word of your current whereabouts is not on the street, and none of my people has been asked about you. The wizard approached one of my associates yesterday. The Whisper occasionally uses the mage; we questioned him several times about the Chen Laut, but he claimed ignorance. Now, he wants to meet you this afternoon in his workshop in Purgatory ... with the Reeve.”

Sham shook her head. “How did he expect us to get the Reeve into Purgatory in that chair without attracting every would-be thief and ransom taker for a hundred leagues? Does he want an audience of several hundred thieves? Even if we make it in and out without getting killed in the process, every man in the city will wonder what the Reeve was doing traveling to Purgatory.”

The Shark’s lips quirked at her attack. “I haven’t talked to the man to ask him what he was thinking. I suppose that part of it will be up to you. I can only guarantee that the Whisper will not pass it in the winds.”

“I can ride,” Kerim pointed out mildly. Sham had almost forgotten him in the heated exchange. “Since the feeling is back in my legs and the muscle cramps have abated I should be able to stay in the saddle. Once we’re there, Dickon can assist me into the wizard’s dwelling.”

Sham aimed an assessing glance at him. “The risk is too great. You might as well have a target painted on your back as ride through Purgatory on a Castle-bred horse.”

“This demon of yours killed my brother,” Kerim reminded her. “If my presence will help to catch it or figure out what to do with it when we have it, by all means let us travel on to Purgatory. There are cart horses here, as well as the highbred animals. I am sure that we can find mounts to suit.”

Sham turned to the Shark. “What time this afternoon?”

“Now.”

“I’ll get Dickon.”

The two men waited until she was hidden by the Castle walls before speaking.

“So—” commented the Shark, rocking back on his heels, “—she found another one.”

Kerim waited politely, well used to the fighting of many kinds of battles.

“Another puppy to mother,” clarified the Shark with a casualness that roused Kerim’s mistrust. “I wondered how long it would be after the sorcerer died before she found someone else to coddle.”

“I don’t see any milk teeth, here,” replied Kerim, baring his own in a white flash. “As for whom is taking care of whom, I think that the honors are about even so far.”

The Shark turned away, watching the shadows gather in the corner of the barn. “Be careful what you do, Cat-lover. Those of us who live in Purgatory are good haters and we eat our foes, Sham no less than I.”

“Whom does she hate?” Kerim said softly.

“Ah, my Sham hates many people, but she channels and controls it. She follows rules, picking and choosing her victims. Those rules keep her sane, while the rest of us rot in our own well of haired and despair.” When the Shark turned back to Kerim, old anger robbed his eyes of the blandness that created the illusion of stupidity. “But I owe her my protection—and there are no rules to my hatred. If you hurt her, I will find you.” Kerim noticed that the thick accent had disappeared as well and the Shark’s Cybellian speech was as refined as any at court.

Kerim nodded his head wisely. “Your protection includes suggesting her to us, knowing—I assume—that this investigation would lead her to confront a demon?”

The Shark shrugged, resuming his don’t-ask-me-I’m-an-idiot expression. “She asked me to help her find the demon. Since it appeared the creature was tied to the Court in some way—it seemed the best way to fulfill both of your requests.”

The wizard kept his workroom in a remote part of Purgatory where only the most miserably poor people lived. The land was littered with the cardhouse remnants of warehouses that a generation of the salt sea air had rotted virtually to the ground. Here and there, a few boards had been scavenged and erected into crude shelters.

A heavy sea mist hung in the air, clinging to the low places and robbing any hint of color from the area. It was a mist thick with despair and untold tragedy; Sham had never seen this place without it.

She shivered and wrapped the ragged cloak she’d borrowed from the stables more tightly around her. This area was controlled by one of the most ruthless ganglords of Purgatory and she knew that in a few days his gang would sweep through here and knock the shelters down, taking the few possessions the occupants still had. On the ground, a human femur lay forsaken, a mute warning for those who cared to heed it.

It was odd, she thought, with a touch of bitterness, that people could create horrors greater than any presented by demons or ghouls. The Old Man had said that the same atmosphere prevailed in old battlegrounds even after centuries had passed. Places that absorbed too much violence had a propensity for collecting ghosts. When she let herself listen, she could hear the dead moaning in the winds. The horse she was riding tucked its head and scooted closer to the other animals from the Reeve’s stable, as if it, too, could hear the echo of misery in this place.

They were a strange-looking band, but they blended nicely with the few ragged souls who scurried in the shadows. The Shark’s brilliantly colored velvets were as much a warning as clothes. Only a fool or a very dangerous man wore clothing like that here, and a fool would never have made it this far. Sham spared a thought to wonder where he’d learned to ride; as far as she knew he lacked the benefit being the offspring of the Captain of the Guard.

Kerim rode easily, looking every inch a warrior. The comfortable way his hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed sword would not escape someone looking for an easy mark. Most surprising to Sham was the ease with which Dickon had shed his civilized mannerisms with his civilized clothing; he looked as dangerous as either of the others. With a faint breath of amusement, she realized that she was the least imposing member of the party.

As they rode on, the buildings began to rise again, built of reclaimed lumber and brick and stuck together with slabs of mud, bits of rope, and a few rusty nails. A whore gazed at them with dull eyes, knowing that such a well-dressed party would wait until nightfall before indulging in the product she sold.

The Shark stopped the horse he rode in front of a hastily cobbled building with blankets draping the windows and a few of the larger holes. Sham felt a momentary twinge of surprise that no one had stolen the blankets before she noticed the magical warding that surrounded the building.

As the Shark swung out of the saddle, a small group of urchins broke from the safety of the shadows to hold the horses. They weren’t as skinny as the rest of the children in this area, so Shamera felt it safe to assume the Shark had imported them. If he had thought that far ahead, he probably had other, more lethal minions in hidden nearby. Feeling more optimistic of their chances to make it back to the Castle without incident, Shamera dismounted.

Getting the Reeve off the horse was easier than getting him on had been. Watching his face, Sham thought that he would pay for the unaccustomed riding. With Dickon on one side and the Shark on the other, the Reeve managed the trip from the horse to the building supporting much of his own weight.

Once inside they found themselves in an earth-floored room, empty except for two chairs and a clear crystal globe that hovered waist-high in the center of the room without visible support. Shamera frowned momentarily at the chairs; she had expected nothing more than a bench—chairs were for nobles who could afford the woodcrafter’s high prices and lived where such things wouldn’t be stolen.

The Reeve settled comfortably in one of the chairs, and Dickon and the Shark stood next to him. The other chair faced the Reeve’s and was obviously meant for the wizard. Shamera took a step back to lean against the wall, but before she got to it, the back of her head hit something with an audible crack.

Rubbing the sore area, she turned and examined the apparently empty space behind her suspiciously. As she frowned at the wall, she noticed a subtle blurring around the edges of the room—she whispered a few arcane words.

The illusion of emptiness slid to the floor like so much water, leaving behind several bookcases packed with a few books and obscure paraphernalia, a bench set against one wall, and a wizard wearing a hooded robe watching them from the far corner of the room. She bowed to him and took up a seat on the bench. The hooded figure cackled merrily and shuffled out of the corner. Sham felt a brief tingle of his power as the hovering globe rose to the ceiling and began to emit light.

She snorted. “We are not all barbarian Easterners to be impressed by a magelight trick that I could do before I could talk.”

“Oh,” croaked the mage hoarsely, leaning heavily on his black staff as he shambled further into the light. “A sorceress. I’d heard that one was looking for the demon.”

“I told you so, wizard. I don’t lie,” answered the Shark in a cold voice.

“Aieh.” The old man’s shoulders shook with mirth and he turned to Kerim. ‘“You see, you see how easy it is to annoy a prideful man. Beware pride, boy, it will bring you down.”

“Foretelling or conversing, ancient?” questioned Sham.

The wizard moved to her; the smell of the rich-but-filthy fur robe he wore was enough to make her eyes water. “Conversation, child. I get paid for foretelling. Is that why you came here? I thought you were looking for a demon.”

“Foretelling is a double-edged sword—” replied Sham, “—while trying to avoid a bad fate, it’s easy to create a worse one. We have come to you for your knowledge, not your magic. I need to know what you can tell me about the Chen Laut.”

“And you—” the hunched figure turned to Dickon, “—what do you come here for?”

Sham thought that she caught a glimpse of confusion on Dickon’s usually impassive visage, but it was gone too swiftly to be sure.

“I am the Reeve’s man.”

“I see,” The old one rocked back on his heels. Sham took a step forward fearing that he was going to overbalance himself and fall over backwards, but he recovered.

The wizard limped slowly to the unoccupied chair and fell back into it. He shook his head. “Demons are not pleasant company, my dear.”

Sham assumed that he was speaking to her, though his gaze was focused on the wall slightly to her left. “It chose us, we didn’t choose it—it has been using Landsend as a hunting ground. It killed the Reeve’s brother as well as my master, the former king’s wizard, Maur.”

“The old king’s wizard?” The time-ravaged mage drew himself up and whispered as if to himself, “And you were his apprentice? I thought he had died long ago—I haven’t felt the touch of his magic since the Castle was taken.”

“He is gone now,” said Sham, though her tone wasn’t as sharp as she’d intended. “The last words from his lips were a warning against a demon called Chen Laut. I need to find the demon and destroy it.”

The wizard nodded, rocking a little in his seat. “The Chen Laut is the demon of the Castle. Long before the present castle stood on its hill, the demon came from time to time—feeding itself before wandering away for decades or centuries. The story of its origin is shrouded in the veil of time, and I know for certain only bits and pieces.”

“We are listening,” said the Shark.

“Aieh, so you are,” agreed the wizard. “Well then, long and long ago, well before the wizard wars, there was a wizard, Harrod the Grey—strong in magic and weak in wisdom—for only a foolish man would bind a demon to him as his servant, no matter what his strength. The spells are difficult and too easily lost in moments of passion or pain.”

“The demon he bound was patient, with the patience of all immortal things. It served its master well, until the man thought of it as a friend as well as a slave. When it had its chance, it killed him—trapping itself here, away from its own kind forever. The wizard called it ‘Chen Laut’—which means ‘gifted servant’ in the old tongue.”

“Do you know how to find it?” asked Sham.

“Aieh.” The old man stared vaguely at the carved handle of his staff for a moment. “I think perhaps it may find you as it did Maur.”

“Are there any other stories?” asked Kerim. “Every Southwoods man I’ve ever met has stories about some sort of magical creature or the other.”

The wizard snorted with surprised laughter. “Have you heard of the demon of the Castle? No? It is an obscure tale in truth; more because of the efforts of the rulers of Landsend than any lack of evidence or interest, hmm. He’d have nobles leaving in droves—unless they were Easterners, too sophisticated to believe in such errant nonsense,” He chortled to himself for a while.

“Would there be records?” asked Sham. “If this is something that has happened before, maybe someone has come closer than we have to solving it.”

Kerim shook his head. “I don’t know. When I got here, a lot of things had been destroyed. I sent what was left to the temple for safekeeping—Talbot can have some of his people go through them and see.”

“If we find the demon,” said Sham slowly, “what can be done with it?”

“Those wizards who know of demons and such are hunted down by their own kind. I have told you what I can about the demon.” With a wave of his staff, the room filled with greasy, odoriferous smoke.

Coughing, Sham ran for the door and tugged it open, allowing the smelly fog to escape the malformed little cottage. When it had cleared, the mage was gone and illusion once more cloaked the interior of his workshop.

“Well,” said Shamera, as Dickon and the Shark helped Kerim onto his horse, “the good news is that we know something of the Chen Laut. Unfortunately, if the mage was correct, it has survived at least a thousand years during times when mages of my strength were as common as church mice in Landsend. We still don’t know how to find the thing—or kill it when we do.”

“Do you think he told us all he knew?” asked Kerim.

It was the Shark that answered with a wry grin. “Haven’t been around Sham long, have you? Getting a straight answer out of a wizard is like waiting for a fish to blink—it won’t happen. He probably knows quite a bit more that he’s not telling you—but you’d need a rack to get it out of him.”

Dickon had been riding quietly behind the Reeve, staring at the ground. He cleared his throat and said, “Isn’t anyone else surprised to find that Lord Halvok fancies himself a wizard?”

“What?” asked Kerim sharply.

“I said—” repeated Dickon slowly, as if to someone who was extremely slow of thought, “—don’t you think it’s odd that Halvok thinks he’s a wizard?”

“You believe the old wizard was Halvok?” asked Shamera.

The servant frowned at her. “I admit that his impersonation of an old man was good, but under the hood of his cloak he was clearly Lord Halvok.”

Kerim looked at Sham. “I didn’t see Lord Halvok.”

The Shark had begun to smile, looking at Dickon. “An Easterner? How strange, I thought that the magic had been bred out of you all.”

Sham, ignoring the Shark, muttered a few words and held out her hand,.

“What am I holding, Dickon?”

The servant frowned at her, but he answered. “A stone.”

She looked at the frog resting on her hand, it blinked lazily twice and then disappeared, leaving a small rounded stone in its wake.

“What does that mean?” asked Kerim thoughtfully.

Sham shrugged, putting the stone back in her pocket and urging her horse back toward the Castle. “I suppose that it means that Lord Halvok is a wizard—a clever one.”

“And?” asked Kerim, while Dickon looked uneasy.

The Shark chortled. When Sham cast a stern look at him, he straightened his face, but his shoulders still shook with mirth.

“Who would have thought it,” he said. “An Eastern-born wizard.”

“Maur,” said Sham softly, “—always maintained that Easterners or Southwoodsmen, all are the same beneath the skin, It seems he was right. Dickon is mageborn, my lord, and it seems he has a talent for illusions.”