When Demons Walk

4

As the door closed. Kerim turned to his servant. “Dickon, I believe Talbot will be nearby. Find him and send him in, will you?”

“Very good, my lord.” Dickon bowed and left the room.

As soon as the soft click of the latch reached Sham’s cars, she relaxed and sat back in a more comfortable cross-legged position on the floor.

The Reeve looked at her for an instant and then began laughing softly, his shoulders shaking. “I was wondering how we’d pull this off. You’ll forgive me, but when Talbot proposed this, I thought he was insane.”

“Thievery requires a certain amount of boldness, and a touch of theatrics,” she answered, batting her lashes at him. “I have it on good authority that being a mistress has similar requirements.”

He nodded. “No doubt it does, but I’ve seen warriors quake at the sight of my mother.”

She started to reply, but a soft sound from the corridor caught her attention. A moment later there was a gentle tapping on the door. She stood without tangling her feet in the yards of material that formed her skirt, and strode across the room to open the door for Talbot.

The former sailor entered with his usual rolling gait, aiming a wide grin at the Reeve. “Impressive, isn’t she?” Talbot nodded at Sham with the expression of a doting hen viewing her egg. “Told her that black was for when folks were dead. She raised her brows and looked down her nose and said black was erotic. When she came out looking like that I bought a nice black nightdress for the missus.”

“I didn’t expect her this soon.”

“Mmm, well now, it seems that she’ll not be needing tutoring in court ways—she was brought up here under the old king.”

Kerim turned to her, and Sham nodded, quipping, “’Fraid I’m not much credit to my upbringing.”

The Reeve gave her a thoughtful glance, then turned his attention back to Talbot. “No word tonight?”

Talbot looked grim. “Nay, sir, but it’ll come.” Looking at Sham, he explained, “Our killer likes to hunt every eight or nine days: ’tis the only real pattern the thing has. Yesterday was the eighth day and no one died, so tonight’s it.”

She frowned, trying to remember what little she knew about demons. “Is there any pattern to the numbers? Like three times it feeds on the eighth day and then twice on the ninth?”

“I don’t know,” answered Talbot, intrigued. “I hadn’t thought it might be a fixed pattern rather than whimsy. I’ll go through the deaths again and see.”

“Is it important?” asked the Reeve.

“It depends,” she said, helping herself to a roll that was sitting ignored on Kerim’s plate. She found a comfortable chair and tugged it around until it faced the Reeve. Talbot took up a seat on the nearest couch.

“On what?” The Reeve picked up his eating knife and began to carve the chicken.

“On whether or not you believe in demons,” she replied—though she didn’t recall any pattern to demon killings. She waited smugly for his reaction. Intelligent, educated Cybellians did not believe in demons.

“I’ve seen a few,” said the presumably intelligent, educated Cybellian Reeve thoughtfully, “but never anywhere near the city.”

Sham choked and then coughed when she inhaled a crumb.

Kerim ignored her outwardly, though she thought there might be a hint of amusement in the lines around his mouth as he continued, “There is no way that these murders are the work of demons. The last victim died in his room in the middle of the day. He kept thirty-odd servants; if it had been a demon, the thing would have been spotted long before it found Abet’s room.”

“Abet’s locked room,” added Talbot meaningfully, looking at Shamera.

“In any case,” continued the Reeve, “I can’t imagine one of the swamp demons dragging its carcass through the whole of Abet’s mansion without someone noticing. Not only are they loud, but they stink like a week-old fish.”

“Ah,” said Sham, enlightened. “These demons of yours, are they strong and devilishly hard to kill? Roughly human in shape?”

The Reeve nodded, “Sounds like all the ones I’ve met.”

“Uriah,” she said firmly. “I’ve never met one—not that I’m complaining. But I’ll tell you this much, I’d rather face a hundred of the things than take on a demon. Uriah are monsters, abominations created by magic. Demons are magic.”

“Magic,” barked the Reeve, at last giving her the reaction she’d been waiting for. “Every time you Southwoodsmen hear about something that is not easily explained, you sit around nodding sagely and say ‘magic’—as if the whole pox-ridden world turns on it.”

She laughed, “It does, of course. Only self-blinded Easterners can’t see it.”

Kerim shook his head at her, and resumed his speech-making. “I’ve lived here for almost ten years and I’ve never seen someone work magic. Sleight-of-hand, yes—but nothing that can’t be explained by fast hands and a faster mouth.”

“The wizard-born aren’t stupid, messire,” said Talbot mildly. “Ye weren’t here for the blood that followed the conquest of the city—the witch hunts we have now are nothing in comparison. Proper terrified of magic, yer armies were, an’ they slaughtered any mage they could find. The wizards who survived would prefer ye kept on thinking magic’s what the streetcorner busker uses to pull a coin from behind yer ear.”

“And it’s easier for me this way,” added Shamera, to stir up the Reeve again, who’d begun to let Talbot’s calm voice soothe him. “It gives a thief a decided advantage to be able to use magic where no one believes in it. Who am I to ruin the fun?”

“Do ye remember how long the Castle stood against the Prophet’s armies after Landsend itself had fallen?” asked Talbot, ignoring Sham.

“Nine months,” said Kerim reluctantly.

Talbot nodded. “Nine months on what little food they had stored here. Did ye ever find a water source other than the well that was dry long decades before the siege?”

“No.”

Shamera noticed that the Reeve was beginning to sound huffy, as if he didn’t like the direction that this conversation was taking. She had thought that Talbot was only trying to calm Kerim down, not change his mind.

In a spirit of general perversity she said, “The weekly mopping of the secret passages aside—”

“Every other week,” corrected Kerim.

She ignored him. “—I would wager there are still ways out of the Castle that no one knows about. Master Talbot, if the Reeve is determined not to believe in magic it’s a waste of time to try and prove otherwise.”

“If his ignorance is a threat to his life it needs to be altered,” countered Talbot with a touch of heat. “This killer is attacking in the Castle; it might choose the Reeve next.”

“Who could stop it if it did?” replied Shamera, becoming serious. “If I don’t know what to do with a demon, how could a magicless Cybellian—whether he believed in demons or not?”

“Others have tried to educate me concerning magic,” said Kerim neutrally. “Why don’t you educate me about demons instead?”

“Very well,” agreed Sham. Adopting her best “mysterious sorceress” manner she said, “Demons are creatures of magic, called to this world by death and dying.” She grinned at the expression on the Reeve’s face and switched to more matter-of-fact tones as she continued. “Actually, they are summoned here by black magic.”

“What makes you think that it is a demon we’re hunting, not a man?”

“Because my friend—the one Hirkin said I murdered—was killed by a demon.”

Sham looked at the Reeve carefully, trying to see what he was thinking, but his face was as neutral as his voice. “What makes you so certain?”

She shrugged. “He told me as much before he died.”

Talbot stepped in to keep the Reeve from offering the offense disbelief would be. “I doubt ye ever met him, sir, ye came later to Landsend; but the old man who died was Maur, the last king’s advisor.”

Kerim frowned thoughtfully. “The King’s Sorcerer was tortured before he disappeared from the Castle dungeons, but I didn’t think he was as old as the man who died looked.”

“Wizards,” said Sham, striving to keep the bitterness out of her voice, “—especially those as powerful as Maur, can live longer than mundane people. When he could no longer access his magic, he aged rapidly.”

Kerim looked her in the eye. “I was not here when he was tortured, and I would not have countenanced such an action. Magic or no magic, if the records of his words in the King’s council meetings are accurate, he was a man of rare insight.”

Sham allowed herself to be mollified by his answer. “He was attacked by a demon called Chen Laut. He drove it away, but was mortally wounded before it fled.”

“How did he drive it away?” asked Kerim with obvious patience for her Southwood-barbaric beliefs.

She smiled sweetly. “Magic.”

“I thought Maur couldn’t work magic,” said Talbot, frowning.

Sham shrugged, seeing no need to explain the difference between calling magic and working magic.

“So what does a demon look like?” said Kerim. He ignored her attempt to bait him and finished the last of his food.

Sham smiled in anticipation of his reaction. “I don’t know. I couldn’t see it.”

Kerim paused briefly, then shook his head with an air of long-suffering patience. “Demons are invisible. What else can you tell me about them?”

She shrugged, enjoying herself. “Even in Southwood, most people believe in them the way that you believe in magicians—stories told to keep children in at night. You know—” she switched to a sing-song voice and recited,

“I’ve never heard it.” The Reeve bared his teeth at her. “So tell me a story.”

She returned his smile, such as it was. “Demons, like dragons, are creatures of magic rather than mere users of it. They are almost always evil, though there are tales of some that have offered aid or shelter. Demons never appear unsummoned, and are difficult to get rid of. The Wizard’s Council has forbidden the use of sacrifice or human remains while working magic since just after the Wizard Wars about a thousand years ago. Apparently such things are necessary to get rid of demons as well as to summon them.”

She had meant to stop there. She really had. If only he hadn’t gotten that self-righteous, see-what-an-ignorant-savage-you-are expression on his face.

She leaned forward and lowered her voice dramatically. “The wizards would find a likely young man and kidnap him. Demons have no form here on our world. They must be given one. The ceremony is long and brutal, culminating in the young man’s death as the demon takes his body.” That was true enough, as far as she knew. She decided to add a few of the choicer rumors to go along with it.

“Sometimes though, the first victim’s body was not usable, due to the brutal rites that summon the demon. You see, the death spells set to keep the demon’s host body from procreating have a tendency to kill the person, or in this case, body they are set upon if the subject is too weak.” She grinned cheerfully and saw that even Talbot looked grim. “If everything is successfully completed, the wizard has a demon enslaved to his will until the wizard’s death.”

“What happens after the wizard died?” asked Kerim, who had resumed an impartial expression soon after she’d began her last speech. How entertaining to find someone who could resist her baiting.

“The demon was destroyed by a contingency of the original binding—” she replied, “—unless the demon was the one who killed the wizard, in which case the demon controls itself.”

“Ah,” said Kerim, “now, the stories.”

“Tybokk—” she said, nodding at Kerim’s remark, “—is probably the most famous of these. The name of his summoner is lost to time, but for four hundred years, more or less, he would join a Trader Clan as it crossed a certain mountain pass—”

“And kill them all?” offered Kerim blandly.

Shamera shook her head, “No, Tybokk was more creative than that. The travelers would arrive at their destination, every one of them, chanting a simple rhyme, day and night; until, one by one, they killed themselves.”

“The rhyme held the clue that destroyed the demon?” suggested Kerim.

Again she shook her head. “That would make a good story, but no. As far as I have heard the rhyme was something like this:

He would probably still be destroying Traders if he hadn’t killed the family clan of the man who was then the ae’Magi.”

“The who?” asked the Reeve.

“The ae’Magi,” replied Talbot, sotto voce. “It’s an old title given to the archmage. He’s the wizard who presides over the Wizard’s Council, the appointed leader of all of the magicians—usually he’s the most powerful, but not always.”

Sham waited until they were through talking before she began again. “The ae’Magi was born to the Trader Clans. When news came to him of the deaths of his family, the ae’Magi went hunting. For three years he traveled over the mountain pass that the demon frequented, accompanying various clans as none seemed to be favored over the other. When a stranger joined the party, not an uncommon occurrence, the ae’Magi would test him, to see if he were a demon.”

“How did he do that?” asked the Reeve.

Sham shrugged, “I don’t know. Since the proscription on demon summoning, many of the magics associated with demons have been lost as well.”

She cleared her throat and continued. “One day, or so the story goes, the clan that the ae’Magi was traveling with came upon a skinny young lad, placing the last stone on a newly dug grave. There was a wagon overturned nearby with both of the horses that pulled it lying dead in their traces. The boy had a few scratches, but was otherwise unhurt by the wolves that killed his family while he watched from a perch in a tree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certainly,” said Kerim agreeably.

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

It was late in the evening when they finished ironing out their respective stories, and Sham was led, yawning, to the chamber that the Reeve had given her. As she shut the door behind the Reeve’s manservant, she stretched wearily and looked around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The plain-faced maid who entered the room the next morning and began to light the candles never saw the knife Sham reflexively seized at the sound of the door opening.

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

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

“No, Lady ... I mean, yes, Lady.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What underdress?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Enter.”

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

“Lady.”

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

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

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

“Thank you. Kerim ... My Lord.”

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

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

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

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

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