When Demons Walk

3

For the past several days Sham had been following the new Master of Security as he haunted the back streets of Purgatory looking, according to the Whisper, for her. The contrariness of it pleased her, and she’d had little enough else to do.

Neither she nor the Whisper had been able to find out who or what had killed Maur, though they’d found several other victims, ranging from nobleman to thief. Four days ago one of the Whisperers told her that Talbot was looking for her and that she might be interested in what he had to say. It could be something about the Chen Laut, or perhaps something more sinister.

With Maur gone, she hadn’t continued her attempt to exact vengeance; somehow there was no point in it. The last thieving she’d done was the night Maur died almost three months before. Even so, if Talbot wanted to he could tie her to any number of her past crimes and have her hung. She didn’t think the Whisper would help him do that, but the Shark was unpredictable.

She watched Talbot from an abandoned building near the docks as he spoke to an old woman who shook her head. The South woodsman was greatly changed. It wasn’t his clothing—brown and grey look pretty much the same no matter how good the fabric. He hadn’t changed the way his grizzled, light-brown hair was pulled back and tied, though she thought his beard might be closer clipped than before. His features were still arranged in a good-natured fashion that made her want to like him despite her suspicious nature.

The difference, she decided, was that he’d lost the perpetual fear that haunted everyone forced to live in Purgatory: fear of hunger, fear of death, fear of living—and the hopelessness that traveled hand in hand with the fear. Like the Shark, Talbot had become a shaping force rather than another of the helpless vermin who infested Purgatory.

All her fears of hanging aside, would someone of his current rank spend three days looking for her just to arrest her? She was a good thief, but she was careful too. She never took anything irreplaceable, and never really hurt anyone if she could help it—she avoided anything that would lend urgency to her capture.

With sudden decision, she stopped following him and climbed easily to the roof of one of the buildings nearby. She skittered cautiously across the moldering rooftop and down into the alley behind it, startling several raggedly clothed youths. Before they decided if she was worth attacking, she was up and over the next building and dropping to the street beyond.

From the paths Talbot had followed the previous days, she surmised he was headed for one of the taverns she occasionally frequented. She took a path through vacant buildings and twisted thoroughfares, saving several blocks over the distance Talbot would have to cover. Near the tavern, she found an alley he should pass by and settled in to wait.

When Talbot walked by her, oblivious to her presence, some sense of reluctant caution almost kept her silent. In direct defiance of her instincts of self-preservation, Sham spoke.

“Master Talbot.”

She was pleased when her theatrical whisper caused the old sailor to crouch defensively. There was a smile on her face as she assumed a relaxed pose against the brick wall of an abandoned building.

He straightened and looked at her. Her father had used the same look when she had done something that displeased him. At ten it had made her squirm; now it only widened her smile.

“The Whisper has it that you have been looking for me,” she said.

He nodded in response to her question. “That I have, Sham. I was told ye might be interested in doing some work for me.”

“You do know what I do?” she asked, raising her eyebrows incredulously.

Again he nodded. “Aye. That’s why I’ve sought ye out. We’re needing someone to sneak in and out of the houses. The Whisper gave us a number of folk who might do. Yer name was particularly recommended—” then he smirked at her, “Shamera.”

She laughed and leaned more comfortably against the wall. “I hope that you didn’t spend too long looking for a thief called Shamera.”

The Shark wouldn’t have told Talbot, if he’d thought the sailor would spread her identity around. But, she wasn’t certain she cared either way; with the Old Man dead, only his promise kept her in Landsend. In Reth there were no Easterners and a wizard could make a fair living.

“No.” Easy humor lit his blue-gray eyes. “But I’ve got to admit the purse was sadly lightened by the time I found out exactly who I’d be looking for. I’d never have thought that Sham the thief was a girl.”

She grinned. “Thanks. I’ve had a few years of practice, but it’s good to know I’m convincing in my role. I take it you got your information from the Shark—he enjoys making people pay twice for the same goods.”

Talbot nodded. “Dealing with the Shark directly is more expensive than buying the same information from his men, but it’s faster and more complete. ’Tisn’t my gold I’m spending, and the Reeve’s more interested in quality than price.”

“I’ve heard that the Reeve has been confined to a chair,” said Sham impulsively. She’d liked the Reeve despite his heritage, and was half-hoping the rumor had it wrong.

Talbot nodded; a shadow of sorrow chased his usual cheerful expression off his face. “Right after the fight with Lord Hirkin. Says he’s got an old injury that’s been worsening since it happened. He’ll stay steady on for weeks and then he’ll have an attack that’ll cripple him up something bad. After a few days it’ll ease off, but he’s never as good as he was when it started.”

Daughter of a soldier, she knew what confinement in a chair meant. They were used mainly for the old, who had difficulty moving, but occasionally a fighter would have the ill luck to survive a back injury. One of her father’s men had.

He’d been slammed in the lower back by a mace that crushed his spine. For a summer he’d sat in his chair and told stories to Sham; sometimes even years later she’d call up that soft tenor voice and the visions of great heroes.

She’d overheard the apothecary tell her father that when a man lost the movement of his legs it interfered with the flow of his vital essences. Anyone who stayed confined to a chair was headed for an early pyre. Some died quickly, but for others it was a slow and unpleasant death. The autumn winds had brought an infection that her father’s man was too weak and dispirited to fight off and he was gone.

She remembered the Reeve’s lithe strength as he wielded the blue sword and decided that she didn’t like the thought of him crippled in a chair—it was like the wanton destruction of a beautiful piece of art.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.

“His health is one of the reasons that we need ye, girl,” said Talbot gruffly.

“You’ll have to tell me more of what you want of me before I decide to take on your job.”

Talbot nodded his head. “I’ll do that. We’ve a killer here at Landsend.”

Sham said dryly, “I know several dozen; would you like to meet one?” Not by a twitch did she reveal her sudden alertness.

“Ah, but ye don’t know one like this, I’m thinking,” replied Talbot, shifting toward her. “The first victims seemed random—a spit boy at a tavern near the new port, a cooper, the Sandman. It started, as nearly as I can figure, from Hirkin’s books, seven or eight months ago.”

“The Sandman?” said Sham, surprised. “I’d heard he’d ruffled some feathers when he took out a contract the assassins’ guild hadn’t approved.”

“That’s as it may be, but I don’t think the guild had anything to do with his death. He died without a sigh or a squeak while his mistress was sleeping beside him. She woke up to find her man cut to ribbons.” Talbot waited.

“Like the Old Man,” said Sham, since he’d already drawn the parallel himself.

“I thought that would snare yer interest,” said Talbot with satisfaction. “The last five victims have been nobles, and the Court is beginning to fret. Himself thinks it might be a noble doing it, and he wants someone to search houses for evidence. If his health were better, the Reeve would have done the investigating himself; instead he sent me to find a thief who would do the job without robbing the nobles blind. Someone who could blend in with them.” Talbot met Sham’s eye. “Ye might as well be knowing that I added to the requirement ’cause I don’t think, myself, that our killer is a noble—though I believe he’s very much at home among the nobles. And we have a source”—there was an odd emphasis on the word “source”—“that says it’s in the Castle at least sometimes and it isn’t human. Himself, being Eastern, dismissed the last part, but is almost convinced of the first.”

“What do you think the killer is?” asked Sham, lowering her eyes so he couldn’t read her thoughts in them.

“I think it’s a demon,” he said.

Sham looked up, and repeated softly, “A demon.”

“Aye,” he nodded slowly. “A demon.”

“Why would you think that?” smiled Sham, as if she’d never heard of the demon called Chen Laut.

“Sailor’s superstition,” he answered readily enough. “I know the stories, and the killings fit. The last noble was killed in his locked room. They had to take an axe to the door to get to him and there were no passages that anyone could find. If it is a man, all ye have to do is search the houses. If it isn’t, I’d rather have a wizard around to deal with it.”

“You overestimate my abilities,” she commented. “Officially, I’ve not been released from my apprenticeship.”

“Maur,” said the sailor softly, “was a man who left an impression wherever he went. He came to the ship I served on from time to time—saw to it that I learned to read and write. I’d rather have his apprentice than any master wizard I could name. Besides, the Shark assures me that ye are as capable as any wizard left here in Landsend.”

“All.” Sham wondered how many other people had known who the Old Man had once been.

“Ye owe the Reeve for yer rescue,” said Talbot softly. “Wizard or not, there were too many people for ye to handle on yer own. Himself pays well, but if that is not enough, add the satisfaction of finding yer master’s killer.”

Sham’s eyebrows rose and she shrugged, as if it were no great matter—never let them know what bait you’ll jump for or how high. “Maybe you’re right. In any case, I certainly owe you. When do you want me at the Castle?”

The former sailor narrowed his eyes at the early morning sun that was creeping slowly to lighten the sky against the rooftops of Purgatory. “His words were, I believe, ‘as soon as you find her.’ I’d be thinking then, now would be a good time.”

The Cybellians had a taste for color that was almost offensive to Southwood eyes. The servants of the Castle, Easterner and Southwoodsmen alike, were arrayed in jewel tones of sapphire, ruby, topaz, emerald, and amethyst. Talbot appeared underdressed in his brown and grey.

One of the blank-faced servants snickered behind them as Sham followed Talbot through the entrance hall. Still walking, she rubbed conspicuously at one of the smaller stains on the front of her leather jerkin. Then she spat loudly on it and rubbed some more while she looked for a better means of retaliation. The carefully placed, bejeweled trinkets that littered every available surface caught her eye.

Walking slightly behind Talbot, she picked up a gold-and-ruby candlestick from the entrance of a long formal meeting hall and carried it with her the length of the room. She set it down casually on a small table inside the far door, smiling inwardly as a footman sighed with relief—not noticing that the small figurine than had occupied the table was now in a pocket of the full sleeve that covered her left arm.

The figurine was encrusted with green gemstones that Sham thought might be diamond rather than emerald in the quick glimpse she’d managed before secreting it away. If so, the statuette of the dancing girl was worth far more than the candlestick that she could hear someone rushing to restore to its former position.

The foolery distracted her from the fact that the last time she’d walked through this hall it had been strewn with bodies, many of whom she’d known. As they passed by the doorway she could still picture the young guardsman who had lain there in a limp heap, blind eyes staring at her. Only a little older than she had been, he’d asked her to dance one evening and talked about his dreams of adventure and travel.

Sham winked at a timid maidservant who was staring at the lad in the ragged clothes. The maid blushed, then winked back, smoothing her bright yellow gown with calloused hands.

Talbot led Sham into the private wings. The difference was immediately apparent from the lack of servants standing ostentatiously in the corridors. This was an area of the Castle she wasn’t familiar with, and she felt some of her tension dissolve.

There were none of the richly woven rugs that were scattered around the floors in the public rooms, but she thought that it might be a recent modification to accommodate a wheeled chair. No small tables littered the halls as they had elsewhere; there was nothing the wheels of the Reeve’s chair would catch on.

She bit her lip and the little statuette in her sleeve made her increasingly uncomfortable: the Old Man would not have approved. The Reeve had enough things to deal with; he didn’t need to worry that the thief he’d been forced to ask for help was untrustworthy enough to steal from him. She looked for an innocuous little table to set the stupid thing on, but Talbot’s path seemed to be confined to the denuded corridors that twisted and snaked back and forth.

Finally they came to a narrow hall that bordered the outside of the Castle. On one side was the finished marble that pervaded the castle but the other side was rough-hewn white granite from an earlier age. The hall ended abruptly in a wall with a plain door; Talbot stopped and tentatively rapped on it with his knuckles.

He raised his hand to knock a second time, but stopped when the door opened smoothly to reveal another one of the bland-faced servants that Sham was developing a hearty dislike for—a dislike that was compounded by the dancer in her sleeve. If it hadn’t been for that bland I-am-a-servant expression she wouldn’t have taken the blasted thing in the first place. She glowered at the wiry man who held the door.

“The Reeve was expecting you, Master Talbot. Come in.” His voice was as expressionless as his face.

Giving in to the impulses that had often brought her grief in the past. Sham slipped the statuette into her hand and gave the valet the little dancer with her glittering green eyes and begemmed costume.

“Someone is bound to have missed this by now.” Her tone was nonchalant. “You might take it to the first long room to the right of the main entrance and give it to one of the footmen.”

A brief snort of masculine laughter emerged from a darkened corner of the room. “Dickon, take the stupid thing to the emerald meeting room and give it to one of my mother’s servants before they shrivel with terror.”

With no more than a slight nod of disapproval, the manservant left the room holding the statuette in two fingers as though it might bite him.

Sham looked at the expansive room that managed somehow to appear cluttered. Part of the effect was caused by the way the furniture had been arranged to he easily accessible by a wheeled chair, but most of it was the result of the wide variety of weaponry and armament scattered on walls, benches, and shelves.

“Thank you, Talbot, I see you found her.” As he spoke, the Reeve wheeled into the light that drifted into the room through colored glass panels of the three large windows high on the outer wall. Although the original builders of the Castle had planned on the building being fortified, later Southwood Kings had added a second curtain wall and traded safety for comfort and light.

Sham was surprised at how unaltered the Reeve seemed. Though confined to the chair, the silk of his thin tunic revealed the heavy muscles in his upper arms and shoulders. Even without the bulk of the chainmail he’d been wearing the night of the Spirit Tide, he was a big man. She couldn’t tell anything about his lower body because it was wrapped in a thick blanket.

“Have you satisfied your curiosity?” There was bitterness in his voice, though the man’s innate courtesy kept him speaking Southern rather than his native tongue.

Sham looked up into his face and saw there the changes she hadn’t seen in his body. Pain darkened his eyes to black and made his skin grey rather than the warm brown it had been. Lines she didn’t remember seeing before were etched deeply around his eyes and from nose to lips.

Remembering the young soldier who sought the company of a child too young to hide her curiosity rather than endure the sympathetic pity of his former comrades, her reply was different than courtesy demanded.

“No.” Her voice was neutral. “Do you cover your legs because they are deformed or because you are cold?”

She knew that she’d chosen correctly when his crack of laughter covered Talbot’s gasp at her temerity.

“A bit of both, I suppose,” Kerim answered with a surprising amount of humor considering his former bitterness, “The wretched things have started to twist up. Since it bothers me to look at them, I wouldn’t want to inflict the sight on anyone else.”‘

Sham observed him shifting slightly uncomfortably in the chair and said, “You ought to have more padding in the seat. And if you asked your wheelwright, he’d tell you that a lighter, larger wheel would turn more easily. You might try something like the ones on the racing sulkies—” she shrugged and found a seat on the wide arm of an expensive chair, “—if more padding and bigger wheels work for horses, they should work for you.”

The Reeve smiled. “I’ll take that under consideration. I trust that Talbot explained what we need you for?”

She grinned at him. “He said that I get to rummage through the houses of the aristocrats with your permission. It will certainly make life easier, if not as much fun.”

Talbot cleared his throat warningly, but Kerim shook his head and said, “Don’t encourage her, she’s just baiting you.”

“Who else is going to know about me?” she questioned, realizing that she was enjoying herself for the first time in a long time.

“Just Talbot and myself,” answered the Reeve. “I don’t know who else to trust.”

“What about your source?”

The Reeve’s eyebrows rose.

“You know, the one who told you the killer is here?”

“Elsic,” said Talbot. “He doesn’t know about ye, and we won’t be telling him.”

Sham looked at the Reeve’s discomforted face and Talbot’s bland one and thought that the first thing she would look for was this Elsic.

“Do you have any particular house that you want me to ... explore first?” she asked.

Kerim shook his head and gave a frustrated grunt. “I don’t have any idea where to start. If you’ve robbed the manors of Landsend as frequently as the Whisper claimed, you probably have a better idea than I.”

Sham shook her head. ‘“No. I’ve been fairly selective in my targets. I haven’t stolen anything from anyone with close connections to the Castle for ... hmm ... at least a year.” So she lied —did they really expect her to give them something solid enough to hang her with?

The Reeve grunted; she almost hoped he knew how much her answer was worth. “Talbot and I have talked about it. We thought it might help you to meet the people of the court before you decide which residences to ... explore. I tire too easily of late to keep abreast of the latest gossip, and Talbot has no entrance to the court proper, as he not only is a stranger and a peasant, but also a Southwoodsman.”

“So am I,” she commented, “stranger, peasant, and Southwoods native as well.”

Talbot grunted. “But you’re not the Master of Security either.”

She allowed her lips to twist with amusement. “How are you going to introduce me to your court? ‘Excuse me, but I’d like to introduce you to the thief who has been relieving you of your gold. She’s going to look around and see if she can figure out which of you is killing people, so be sure that you tell her who it is.’”

Kerim smiled sweetly with such innocence in his expression she knew immediately that she wasn’t going to like what he was about to propose. “The original idea was that you could become one of my household.”

Sham raised both of her eyebrows in disbelief. “Half the servants know who I am, and the rest of them will know before I leave here this morning. The only reason the thief-takers haven’t hauled me in is because they can’t prove what I do, and you have the reputation of punishing thief-takers who work with more zeal than evidence. A reputation, I might add, that I am extremely grateful you deserve.”

Kerim’s smile widened, and the innocence was replaced with sudden mischief and a certain predatory intentness that made her realize again how well the title of Leopard suited him. “When we found out just who and what you were, lady, Talbot and I came up with a much better solution. They know Sham the Thief—a boy. You are going to be Lady Shamera, my mistress.”

Talbot put his hand to his mouth and coughed when Sham spit out a surprised curse she’d learned from one of the more creative of her father’s men.

“Ye won’t have to go quite that far, lassie,” commented the Reeve blandly, in a fine imitation of Talbot, complete with seaman’s accent. “I don’t demand anything so ... strenuous from my mistresses.”

Sham gave Kerim an evil glare, but she held her tongue. He was almost as good at teasing as she was, and she refused to present him with any more easy targets. She took a deep, even breath, and thought about what he’d proposed, her foot tapping on the floor with irritation.

“I expect—” she said finally, biting off the end of each word as if it hurt her, “—that you mean I am to play the role of mistress, not fulfill it. If that is the case, I am inclined to agree that the role would have its uses.”

A short silence greeted her, as if neither Kerim nor Talbot had expected her to give in so easily. Before either man had a chance to speak, the door opened and Dickon returned from replacing the statuette. Sham shot him a look of dislike which he returned with interest and doubtless more cause.

Clearing his throat, Dickon addressed the Reeve. “When I arrived at the emerald meeting room, Her Ladyship had already been summoned. She questioned my custody of her statuette. I had no choice but to inform her where it came from. She instructed me to tell you that she will be here momentarily.”

“Dickon, wait outside the door to welcome her in,” snapped the Reeve, and the servant responded to his tone and jumped to do his bidding.

“Hellfire,” swore Kerim. “If she sees you, she’ll recognize you when you reappear as a woman. My mother has eyes that would rival a cat’s for sharpness.” He wheeled rapidly to the fireplace that all but spanned one of the inner walls and pressed a carving. A panel of wood on the wall next to the fireplace slid silently inwards and rolled neatly behind the panel next to it, revealing a passageway.

“Ah,” commented Sham, tongue in cheek. “The fireplace secret-passageway; how original.”

“As the passage floor is mopped every other week, I would hardly call it ‘secret,’” replied the Reeve sardonically. “It will, however, allow you to avoid meeting my mother in the halls. Talbot, get her outfitted, cleaned up and back here as soon as you can.”

Sham bowed to the Reeve and then followed Talbot into the passageway, sliding the door in place behind her.

“We need to get ye clothes befitting a mistress of the Reeve,” commented Talbot.

“Of course,” replied Sham in a casual tone without reducing the speed of her walk.

“Lord Kerim told me to take ye t’home. My wife can find something for ye to wear until a seamstress can whip something up.” He cleared his throat. “He also thought we ought to take a week and ah ... work on your court manners.”

“Wouldn’t do to have the Reeve’s mistress tagging valuable statuettes?” ask Sham in court-clear Cybellian as she stopped and looked at Talbot. “I should think not, my good man. Must not tarnish Lord Kerim’s reputation with this little farce.”

“Well now,” he said, rubbing his jaw, “I suspect that clothing might be all we have to worry about.”

She nodded and started off again. After a mile or so Talbot cleared his throat. “Ah, lassie, there is no place in Purgatory that carries the sorts of silks and velvet that ye need.”

She sent him a sly grin. “Don’t bet on it. If there is something that people will buy. Purgatory sells it.”

He laughed and followed her deeper into Purgatory.

“The problem we face—” she explained as she led him through the debris-covered floor of a small, abandoned shop near the waterfront, “—is that a mistress of a high court official must always wear clothes built by a known dressmaker. Most of them wouldn’t let someone dressed like me through the door. If we managed to find one that would, it’d be the talk of the town by morning.”

She stooped and pulled up a section of loose floorboard out of the way, leaving a narrow opening into a crawlspace that the original owner of the building had used for storage. She had several such storage areas here and there around Purgatory and she was careful never to sleep near any of them. She had found she lost less of her belongings if she didn’t keep them with her.

“You’re too big to fit in here, Talbot. Wait just a moment.”

Sham slipped through the crack with the ease of long practice and slithered through the narrow crawlway until she came to the hollow that someone else had widened into a fair-sized space underneath the next building over. No one mopped the floor twice weekly here, and the dust made her eyes water.

She called a magelight and found the large wooden crate that held most of her clothing. Lifting the lid, she sorted through the costumes she had stored there until she came to a bundle carefully wrapped in an old sheet to protect it from the dust. As an afterthought, she also took her second-best thieving clothes and added them to her bundle.

In darkness again she crawled back out the small passage. She put the floorboard back and scuffed around with her feet until the dust by the loose floorboard was no more trampled than it was in the rest of the room.

“If you’ll turn your back for a bit, I’ll change into something that the dressmakers will find acceptable.”

Talbot nodded and walked a few paces away, staring through the dirt-encrusted window at the vague shapes of the people walking on the cobbled street outside, commenting, “For a Purgatory thief, ye know a lot about the court.”

Sham removed her belt and set it aside, after freeing the small bell pouch that carried the few coppers that she traveled the streets with. It gave her time to think about her answer.

“My mother was a lady in the king’s court, my father a minor noble,” implying that her parents were court parasites, poor gentry with aspirations and little else who hung on at court for the free boarding. Not flattering to them, but somehow she didn’t want to tarnish her father’s name by making it common knowledge that his daughter was a thief. Sham set the money aside and pulled out a comb, a few hairpins, and a clean cloth, before stripping out of her clothes.

“Didn’t ye have a place to go? Purgatory is not where I’d like to see a young court miss forced to live.” Like the gentleman he was, Talbot kept his back firmly toward her.

“After the Castle fell? No. My parents died when the gates were opened. They had no relatives who survived the invasion.” There had been no one to turn to, just a blind old man who had been her teacher. He had wanted to die as well, but she wouldn’t let him. Perhaps he would rather have gone then, than survive these last twelve years blind and magicless.

“How did you survive?”

“Not by selling my body,” she said dryly, finding the sympathy in his voice oddly disturbing. She used a touch of magic to dampen the cloth and cleaned her hands and face as well as she could. The rest of her was cleaner than most people in Purgatory were, but clean hands and face would have made her stand out. “I knew a little magic. Thieving is not a bad way to make a living, not after the first time—though I know a whore who says the same thing about her line of business. My choice has a longer career span.”

“If ye don’t get caught,” added Talbot, matching her dry tones.

“There is that,” agreed Sham politely.

She unfolded the sheet and took out the blue muslin underdress, shaking it out as best she could. The rest of the wrinkles were swiftly eliminated by another breath of magic. Usually she wouldn’t waste her energies on something so trivial, but she didn’t have time to heat a flatiron.

Once the dress was on, she slipped the knife that usually resided in her boot into the thigh sheath, and slipped her hand through the hole in the skirt to see if she could reach the handle. It was a little awkward, so she pulled the sheath over the narrow strips of leather that she’d tied around her thigh until the knife came more naturally to hand.

She had to leave off her arm sheath and dagger, but the long, sharp hairpin was almost as good. The yellow overdress covered the small slit in the skirt, but as it was open on the sides it didn’t hamper her access to the knife. A pair of yellow slippers completed the outfit.

“You can look, now,” she said, rolling the clothes she’d been wearing into the bundle she’d brought from the cubbyhole. She pulled her hair out of its braid and tugged the small wooden comb ruthlessly through the thick stuff until she was able to twist it neatly on the top of her head, securing it with the wicked hair pin.

“Now,” she said, “we are ready to visit the dressmakers and acquire a wardrobe.”

Shamera swept into the castle, leaving Talbot to direct the disposal of her purchases. Looking neither left nor right she followed the path that she’d taken earlier in the day.

She’d scorned Talbot’s suggestion that the Reeve wouldn’t take a woman of questionable taste as his mistress. Everyone knew that the Reeve had never taken a mistress, so she had to be extraordinary. With her angular features and slender body, that left her wardrobe.

The dress she wore was black, a color that the Cybellians used only for mourning. She’d had the seamstress lower the bodice and take off the sleeves, leaving most of her upper body exposed. Small sapphire-blue flowers, torn hastily from another dress at Shamera’s request, were sewn here and there on the satin skirt of her gown.

Her hair, free of its usual restraints, hung in thick soft waves past her shoulders and halfway down her back. She’d colored her lips a soft rose and lined her large eyes and darkened her lashes with kohl. Her face she’d powdered until it was even whiter than usual, a shocking contrast to the darker-skinned Cybellians. She had even changed her movements, exchanging her usual boyish stride for a sultry swaying walk that covered the same amount of ground in a completely different way.

When she’d emerged from the dressing room at the dressmaker’s, Talbot had started laughing.

“No one, but no one, is going to confuse ye wi’ Sham the thief.” Even the outrageous bill that she’d run up hadn’t been enough to take the wide grin off his face.

Shamera didn’t bother to knock at the Reeve’s door, but thrust it open hard enough that it hit the wall behind it with a hollow thud.

“Darling,” she gushed in heavily accented Cybellian. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard that you were ill. Is this why you broke off with me?”

After a dramatic pause at the door, Shamera rushed over to his side trailing expensive perfume behind her and ignoring the stunned looks on the faces of the man and woman who were sitting in chairs next to Kerim. As she crossed the floor she looked at them from the corner of her eye.

The woman was small and beautiful despite the fine lines around her mouth and nose. Her coloring was the same as the Reeve’s: thick dark hair, warm brown skin, and rich dark eyes. She must have been extraordinarily beautiful as a young girl; even now, with strands of silver and a slight softening of the skin of her neck, she would have brought a pretty penny at any of the higher-class brothels in Purgatory.

The man sitting next to her was similarly beautiful; his features were fine-boned and mobile, a refined version of the Reeve’s. The dark eyes were large and long-lashed. A warm, approving smile dawned on his lips at her appearance, revealing a single dimple.

Shamera reached the Reeve’s chair and leaned over, pressing a passionate kiss on his mouth, lingering longer than she’d really intended when he responded with matching theatrics. Breathing a little harder, she pulled back before she ended up sitting on his lap in front of the woman who, judging by the look of moral outrage on her face, could only he his mother.

“But sweetheart, what is it they are feeding you?” Sham looked with honest horror at the mush on the tray that sat on a table beside Kerim’s chair. She picked up the tray and sought out the servant standing in the shadows, where a good servant learned to make himself at home.

“You, sir, what is your name?”

“Dickon, my Lady.”

“Dickon, take this back to the kitchens and get something fit for a man to eat.” She thickened her vowels deliberately when she said “a man”; it might have been her accent.

The servant came forward to take the tray, stiffening slightly as he got a good look at her face. But he took the gold inlaid wooden slat without commenting and left the room before anyone had a chance to object to Shamera’s order. She turned back to the remaining three occupants in the room and noticed that Kerim had lost control of his laughter.

She widened her eyes at him and gestured dramatically, saying, “Horrid man, I come here to rescue you, and all that yon do is laugh at me. I think I shall leave.” With that she turned on one foot and took two steps toward the door.

“Shamera,” Kerim’s voice darkened and Sham felt as if he’d run a caressing hand down her back. “Come here.”

She turned back with a pout and crossed her arms under her breasts. The effect caused the other man in the room to swear softly in admiration and the immaculately garbed woman’s eyebrows rose as Shamera’s gown slid lower. Slender she might be, but not everywhere.

“Shamera.” There was a soft warning note in the Reeve’s voice, but Sham was glad that no one but she was looking at him. No one could have missed the inner amusement that danced in his eyes. She felt her lips slide out of their pout and into an honest smile in response.

“I’m sorry,” she offered softly, obediently traversing the floor between them, “but you know I don’t like being laughed at.”

He took the hands she offered him and brought them to his lips in apology. “Dear heart, your presence is like a breath of summer in these dark chambers.” He spoke in the sultry voice that would have made a young maiden swoon.

“Our presence is obviously unnecessary,” commented the other man. “Come, Mother.” The older woman took his arm and allowed him to assist her to rise.

“Wait,” ordered the Reeve raising a hand imperiously. “I would like to introduce you to the Lady Shamera, widow of Lord Ervan of Escarpment Keep. Lady Shamera, my mother the Lady Tirra and my brother, Lord Ven.”

Shamera’s shallow curtsy was hampered by the fact that Kerim hadn’t released her hand. She smiled at them and then turned back to Kerim, without waiting to see if they would return the greeting. With her free hand she smoothed the hair out of Kerim’s amused face.

Shamera heard the Lady Tirra draw her breath in to speak as Kerim’s servant came in with a new tray from the kitchen. Sham straightened, took the tray, and gifted the servant with a warm smile for his timely interruption; she wasn’t sure how far she could push Lady Tirra without offending Kerim. Balancing the meal easily on one hand, she lifted the warming covers to reveal a nicely roasted chicken with an assortment of greens.

“Ah, that’s much better. Thank you, Dickon.”

The servant bowed and retreated to the corner he’d occupied from the beginning as Sham set the richly carved wooden tray on Kerim’s lap rather than on the nearby table. She knelt in front of him, ignoring the damage to the material the dressmaker had so carefully pressed.

“Eat, my Leopard; then we will talk,” she purred in the sultriest tone she could manage; it must have worked because she heard the rustic of crisp fabric as Kerim’s mother stiffened with further outrage.

Without taking his eyes off Shamera, Kerim spoke. “My thanks, Mother, for your concern. It seems that I will not be dining alone tonight after all. The gentlemen of the court are doubtless awaiting your late arrival.”

Lady Tirra left the room without another word, leaving her youngest son to trail after her.