When Demons Walk

11

Sham opened the door to her room cautiously, but it was empty. Breathing a sigh of relief she stepped in and shut the door behind her: she had not been looking forward to explaining her dusty tunic and trousers to Jenli.

She stripped rapidly out of the filthy garments, stuffing them in the trunk. The ever-present ewer of water near the bedside took care of the grime on her hands and face, then she searched unsuccessfully for another dress she could don without help. After the second time through the wardrobe, she pulled one out randomly and tugged it over her head.

Struggling and contorting she managed to button all but the top few buttons. Sham surveyed the result in the polished bronze mirror dubiously. Made of pale yellow silk, the gown resembled a shift rather than a dress. Fine lace, made for a child’s gown, edged the neckline and shoulder straps. It wasn’t the gown that bothered her, but the body it covered.

She set an illusion to cover the healing wound on her shoulder and several bruises she didn’t remember receiving. After twisting around for a minute or so, she decided she’d covered the worst of the contusions, and any left were bound to be attributed to rough play rather than disassembling furniture and chasing wizards through Purgatory. Dickon had promised to bring dinner to the Reeve’s room, and since she had missed breakfast and lunch, she wasn’t about to miss dinner.

As she was running a brush through her hair, her gaze fell on the trunk lid, and she realized she’d forgotten to lock it. Frowning, because securing her possessions was second nature, Sham quickly took care of it before entering Kerim’s room. Still puzzling over her unusual oversight, she forgot to make certain Kerim was alone.

The Reeve had also taken the time to change his garments, and he bore little resemblance to the rough warrior who dared cross the heart of Purgatory. He sat regally imprisoned in his chair, staring coldly at the Eastern nobleman who confronted him. Neither of them seemed to notice Sham’s presence.

“Do you always listen to gossiping stableboys, my lord?” Kerim sounded irate.

“Of course not,” replied the noble in fussy tones, “but my man reports that there was indeed a body discovered in the stables with that weird, blind boy of yours.”

“The stableman’s body was in several pieces—not something a boy of Elsic’s age would be capable of doing,” Kerim’s voice lowered to a warning purr that caused the nobleman to take a step backwards. “I suggest you be careful what you repeat in public, lest you find yourself looking a fool—or worse. It might, for instance, become known that your coffers aren’t as golden as they appear. Odd how tradesmen attend to such rumors so closely.”

Without looking away from the other man, Kerim held out his hand toward Sham. “Come here, my dear, Lord Arnson was just taking his leave.”

She hadn’t been aware he’d noticed her, but she recovered quickly, stepping forward with a bright smile. “Kerim, would you finish buttoning this for me? Jenli wasn’t there, and you ripped the shoulder of the dress I was wearing—it’s positively indecent.” She shrugged slightly so the unbuttoned gown hung even lower, giving the flustered nobleman a wide, empty smile.

She didn’t bother looking at Kerim for his reaction to her lie. After the servants had discovered the mess the demon had made of her room in its first attack, Kerim had begun to enjoy his newly enhanced reputation; she had no doubt that he’d follow her lead.

“Of course,” answered Kerim in a voice that made Shamera shiver involuntarily, and not from fear. That man wielded his voice as well as he did his sword. “Come here and I’ll take care of that. You were leaving, my lord?”

The nobleman started, and took his eyes off the neckline of Shamera’s dress that was sagging even further as she knelt before the Reeve. “Yes, of course.”

Kerim finished the buttons and waited until the door shut behind the nobleman before dropping his loverlike manner.

“I cannot abide fools,” Kerim growled. “I can’t fathom how an idiot like that managed to win as many battles as he did.”

“Being ruthlessly brutal can sometimes be as effective as intelligence,” commented Sham, idly staring at the closed door. She hadn’t recognized his face, but Lord Arnson was well known in Southwood for ordering the slaughter of children in several northern villages. Perhaps she could arrange to meet him in a dark corner somewhere. One more victim of the demon ...

Kerim eyed her speculatively. “I think Lord Arnson will be called back to his estates. He has a large holding in Cybelle and the return might be beneficial to his health.”

Sham wasn’t used to being so easily read and found it disconcerting. She batted her eyes at him, and with artificially thick accents said, “Does the poor man find our climate unhealthy?”

Before Kerim could reply, Dickon opened the door for a pair of servants bearing a large and aromatic tray, covered to keep the food hot, as well as an assortment of dining-ware. Dickon looked around and found a table that had survived Sham’s cleansing of the room. He pulled it forward, and directed the servants to set it for dining.

Sham rose to her feet and gathered a pair of chairs while Dickon ushered the kitchen helpers out the door. She set the tray cover on the floor and snatched a thick, crusty slice of bread. She buttered it and took a large, satisfying bite, ignoring Kerim’s amused glance with the same insouciance she accorded Dickon’s disapproval.

Kerim pushed his chair forward to one of the place settings and cut a slice of the roast off with his eating knife and placed it on his plate opposite Sham’s.

“Lady,” said Dickon hesitantly, taking a seat after he made certain all the plates were set properly.

Sham smiled at him and continued chewing as she sliced some meat.

“What did you mean when you said I was mageborn?” He spoke in Southern, and mispronounced the last word—as if that would make it mean something other than what he thought it meant.

“Well—” she said, when she was sure she wouldn’t laugh, “—only a mageborn person could have broken through an illusion as strong as the old wizard had. Nine-tenths of the magic most wizards work are illusionary—like this frog.” She held out the little frog again.

“What frog?” asked Dickon.

Kerim frowned warningly. “Don’t play games with him.”

Sham shook her head. “I’m not. Look at it closely, Dickon.” She muttered a few words, increasing the power of her spell. “Tell me when you see a frog instead of a rock.”

She was perspiring with the effort of her spell weaving before Dickon sat forward and drew in a swift breath. “I see it.”

Sham closed her empty hand. “Illusion—” she managed finally, with only a hint of amusement, “takes on the appearance of something that it is not. There are three ways to penetrate the spell. One is by magic. The second is by touch; there are very few mages who can create illusions that are real to more than one sense at a time. The third method is simple disbelief. Anyone can break an illusion that way, you don’t have to be a wizard to do it. But most illusions set by a wizard of any power are miserably hard to dispel by disbelief—unless you are a wizard yourself.” She glanced at Dickon’s discomfited expression, feeling a surprising amount of sympathy for him; it wasn’t easy to find your long-held beliefs crumpling at your feet. “Your disbelief in magic is so strong that when you walked into the magician’s cottage you didn’t even see the illusions. I have never heard of such a case before; the only possible explanation is that you are mageborn.”

Dickon muttered a foul word that indicated his disbelief in graphic terms.

Sham’s eyebrows climbed at the vocabulary the fastidious servant had used, and she commented with interest, “I’ve never heard of it done that way before. I wouldn’t think it possible.”

Dickon looked at her with the expression of a cornered boar.

Deciding he was still too shaken for teasing, she sobered and touched his sleeve lightly. “There is sleight-of-hand, Dickon, but magic is real, too. Illusion is only part of it. Here—I’ll demonstrate.”

There was a fingerbowl full of water near her plate. She pushed the plate aside and pulled the bowl in front of her.

“Water is a common means of scrying, because it’s easy to use. The important thing to remember is that water is a liar, easily influenced by thought. If I expected the demon to look like a giant butterfly and I asked the water to show me the demon, I might see a giant butterfly, possibly I would see something really related to the demon, or I might see a kitchen maid cleaning vegetables. It isn’t illusion though, so you should be able to see something.”

Sham looked into the bowl and muttered a soft spell, waving her hand three times over the water.

When she was done, she set the fingerbowl before Kerim and said, “We’ll let Kerim try it first. I have called the water to show the person you hold most dear—probably, it will only show you the face of the person you think you care about most. Don’t take it too seriously.”

Kerim leaned forward until he looked directly into the bowl; he nodded thoughtfully and shifted it across the table to Dickon. With a doubtful look at Sham, Dickon leaned forward in his turn. He looked in the bowl, then tensed. A white line rose on his cheeks as he clenched his teeth, staring into the pool of water.

“Remember,” she cautioned him, because he seemed so distressed, “what you see is what you expect to see.”

Dickon shook his head and said softly, “It’s not that. My wife was killed in a bandit raid shortly after we were married. I haven’t seen her face for ten years; I’d forgotten how beautiful she was.” Dickon drew in a swift breath through his nose and looked away from the water as if with great effort.

“This is magic?” he questioned warily.

“Yes.” Sham pulled the table back to its original position and dipped her fingers in the water, cleaning them and dispelling the magic.

Dickon eyed her cautiously, but he seemed to be considering the matter, which was the best that she could hope for under the circumstances.

“With that done,” said Kerim, cutting the meat on his plate with his eating knife. “I need your thoughts on the wizard we met this afternoon, Shamera.”

He had plainly decided that Dickon needed some time to think about magic alone. Well, enough, she didn’t mind changing topics.

She frowned thoughtfully. “Yes, Lord Halvok. That was ... interesting.”

“Why would he work so hard to keep his identity a secret?” asked Kerim.

She raised her eyebrows. “How would the Eastern lords react if they knew they were negotiating with a wizard? It would destroy his credibility with those who do not believe in magic. Those who do believe in magic would distrust him even more, fearing his power.”

“Halvok’s personal ambitions aside,” she continued, “—I imagine it would be difficult to find another noble who was not consumed with bitterness toward you Easterners and still commanded the respect of the other Southwood nobles. It is only his single-handed defense of the northern reaches at the end of the war that allows him to negotiate at all without being named a traitor and losing the support of the Southwood factions.”

“So you think Halvok was trying to help?” Kerim sounded as if that were the answer he was hoping for.

Sham shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know him very well—I only know what I have seen and heard. Although he apparently likes you, his first loyalties seemed to be given to Southwood. I don’t think he would jeopardize his position to help you, but as long as you are no threat to his goals he shouldn’t go out of his way to harm you either.”

“So he was just trying to give us information? Couldn’t he have sent word through the Whisper?” asked Dickon.

Sham sighed and brushed her hair back from her face. “I don’t know.”

“What else would he be doing?” asked Kerim.

“I can think of one other reason Halvok could have called us there,” she said reluctantly. “The quality of Lord Halvok’s illusions make him a master sorcerer—perhaps better than I am. Black magic is proscribed and punishable by the most dire consequences if the Wizard’s Council finds out. In the last two decades I’ve heard of only three wizards discovered using it anyway.”

“Meaning?” asked Kerim when she hesitated.

“Meaning there are almost certainly more black mages,” Sham answered. “If Lord Halvok is such a one and summoned the demon himself he might have told us the story to concentrate our efforts on the demon, rather than looking for a human summoner. Lady Tirra said the men who died all opposed your protection of the native Southwood lords—certainly Lord Halvok would have seen them as a threat.”

Kerim sat for a moment, before shaking his head. “The wrong men died, Shamera. The men who died were petty lords for the most part; none of them, my brother included, had much power.”

“Maybe Halvok’s purpose was just what it appears.” said Shamera, “I’ll visit his house tonight and see what I can find.”

Kerim nodded, saying, “I’m not all that anxious to find out that one of the few Southwood lords willing to consider the good of the whole country rather than trying to recapture the past is involved with a demon—but I’d rather know as soon as possible either way.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until tomorrow, when you know he’ll be at court?” asked Dickon.

Sham shook her head. “This is the night he spends with Lady Fullbright, to get information about her husband’s business. The servants have the night off.” She grinned at them. “I see that hasn’t made it to the rumor mill yet—it’s nice to know the Shark hasn’t lost his touch.”

The night was dark, the moon hidden by drizzling clouds. Sham hoped the rain would take care of the dust that Purgatory and Kerim’s room had left on her working clothes.

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 master patterns.”

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.”

“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.”

“So Halvok 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.

Alone 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.