When Demons Walk

5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tabby? Tabby!” interrupted a woman’s shrill voice from the nearest doorway.

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

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

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

“What did you say?”

The magician cleared his throat and whispered again.

She laughed, and turned to the crowd.

“He says Master Royce had a few too many last night. You’ll have to make do with his apprentice.”

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

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

The crowd laughed, which seemed to cheer the magician.

Sham watched in appreciative silence as the sleight-of-hand master used a facade of incompetence to distract his audience.

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

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

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

The magician took it and shook his head. “So that’s how Master Royce does it.”

While the audience cheered, the magician stepped back to the stage and drew away the cloth that covered the table. The audience grew quiet as he began to work wonders with the props he’d brought with him. Without using a spark of genuine magic, he had his jaded crowd gasping in awe and wonder—most of them anyway.

Although he seemed to enjoy the spectacle with the rest, Lord Kerim kept up a steady stream of enlightenment directed at Sham that usually began “Dickon says.”

“Dickon says that there are two glasses, one within the other,” he explained softly as the magician made water appear and disappear by moving a glass through a wide tube of leather.

“There are hooks in the tube to catch the inner glass filled with water, and the outer glass that he is displaying for us now is empty. Notice how careful he is to hold the tube upright.”

If Sham hadn’t been certain that it was a direct attack on her claims of magic, she would have been interested in the methods the magician was using with a smooth competence that put the lie to his claims of being merely an apprentice.

“There’s a false base in the lid of the pot,” said Kerim, nodding at the empty pot the magician held up for all to view.

The entertainer took a small twig from the table behind him and set it on fire with a breath. He placed the flaming bit of wood into the pot.

“He shows us the empty pot,” continued Kerim, “puts the lid on and the spring-loaded base is pressed into the pot, snuffing the fire between the twin plates of metal. Dickon says that between the second base and the top of the lid there is room for a small animal or two—maybe a couple of doves. They take up less room than you’d think when you see them fluttering their wings.”

Sham smiled, and, having had enough of Kerim’s lecture, began to work her magic. The performance proceeded as Kerim predicted. When the pot was opened, the fire was gone—replaced by two ring-necked doves ... and an osprey.

The predator mantled, displaying its wingspan to good advantage as it surveyed the crowded hall with hostile eyes while the doves fled in terror.

The audience, oblivious to the look of dumbfounded amazement on the magician’s face, began to clap; the osprey screamed and took to the air. It circled the room twice before it flew at the central panel of the stained-glass window that spanned half the distance from the arched ceilings to the polished floor.

A gasp arose from the crowd as the bird hit the glass, flying through it without damaging the valuable window. As the applause rose, the “magician” recovered his aplomb and bowed deeply.

Sham shook her head. “It was incredible the way that man fit the osprey into the lid of the pot. How do you suppose he worked the trick with the window?”

She widened her eyes at Kerim who scowled at her, making her illusion well worth her effort.

The entertainer wisely chose to end his performance, though there were several props he hadn’t yet used. He threw up his hands and blue smoke filled the air; when it cleared he was gone. The fraudulent serving woman collected coins from the assemblage while several dark-clad men packed away the magician’s belongings.

As they were moving away from the stage. Sham felt Kerim’s shoulder stiffen slightly. She looked up to see a tall, thin man in clerical robes of red and gold weave his way purpose fully through the tangle of people that stood between him and Kerim. Like many of the Cybellians, this man had dark skin, though his hair was a golden color rare for an Easterner. His hawk-like features and his coloring gave him an arresting quality that was heightened by the peaceful assurance with which only zealots or madmen are blessed.

Beside him and to the left was a short, slender man clad in robes of white so brilliant Sham’s hands ached in sympathy for his laundrywoman. He kept his head down and had a determinedly peaceful expression. His hands were folded calmly over the green belt that wrapped twice around his waist.

Sham stopped behind Kerim’s chair. She recognized the foremost man by his robes of office; he was Lord Brath, High Priest of Altis. She narrowed her eyes at him, before dropping them to the floor—this man had been among those to condemn her Master. She hadn’t gotten around to him with her thieving; perhaps she should resume her efforts.

“Lord Kerim,” he announced in a rich voice made for singing hymns of praise, “I understand you have declined my request for additional monies for the building of the new temple.”

“Yes,” said Kerim baldly in such regal tones that Sham looked at him with respect.

“That is unacceptable. The glass-artisans’ guild has presented a design for the entry hall that is perfect, but it will require the funding I requested to begin the work. The ruby glass is particularly dear, and the supply of it is barely adequate.”

“Then the work will not commence. There are other matters more urgent to the treasury than another stained-glass window. If you have a grievance with my decision, you may take it up with the Prophet in your next letter.” Kerim propelled his chair forward.

The high priest stepped into the chair’s path. “I already have. He’s sent a letter for your perusal.”

Behind his back, the smaller priest rolled his eyes and shrugged helplessly.

“Very well,” said Kerim. “Come to my room after dinner has been served and removed.”

“Be certain that I shall, Lord Kerim,” replied the high priest darkly.

“That one bears you no good will,” commented Sham when the churchmen were safely left behind.

“Him, I don’t worry about.” Kerim’s voice lost the haughty tones as easily as it had gained them. “Brath is too occupied with windows and altars to be a real threat. His assistant, Fykall—the little priest in white and green, is another matter. I have found him invaluable, but I suspect it is only because he shares my understanding of the needs of Southwood, so we haven’t had to battle each other—yet. If we do, I’m not certain who will come out on top.”

Sham nodded, and noticed a man standing by one of the doorways, looking like a hen who had wandered into a fox’s den. In contrast to the silks and satins of the nobles, he wore dark homespun and the hoots of a horseman who was not above mucking stalls.

She nudged Kerim lightly with the hand she rested on his shoulder and the Reeve turned his head. When he saw what she was looking at, he held up a hand to signal the other man to wait while he worked his way to the door.

Kerim didn’t stop to converse, but simply pushed himself through the arching entrance and out into the hall beyond. The other man followed Shamera, pulling the door closed behind him.

“Elsic, again?” asked the Reeve in a resigned voice.

“Aye, my lord,” replied the stableman.

Elsic, thought Sham, the “source” of Talbot’s theory about demons. She wondered how much he knew about it.

The hallway, in marked contrast to the other halls in the castle, was straight. There were no other openings until they reached the end of the hall where a rough-hewn door hung open, A massive bar leaned against the wall where it could be used to hold the door shut in times of need. Stepping through the doorway, Sham squinted against the bright sunlight.

Large stone-walled runs held fat-bellied mares and their sleek foals. The narrow path running between the pasture wall and the castle was newly paved with wooden slats. Since the area did not look well traveled, Shamera assumed that the boardwalk had been built to facilitate the Reeve’s wheeled chair.

The path followed the walls of the castle as they bent and turned with a pattern known only to a collection of long-dead builders and ended, after an abrupt turn, in the stableyard.

Sham’s attention was immediately drawn to a high-roofed structure filled with heaping mounds of hay where a small, milling crowd gathered. There was a man on the roof, which puzzled her slightly as he didn’t seem to be doing anything useful.

“I fetched him, Stablemaster!” bellowed the man who had brought them from the public hall.

A wiry old man broke away from the crowd of stablemen, most of whom had turned their attention to the approaching Reeve and away from the cause of the tumult.

As Kerim led Sham nearer to the hay barn, she realized the person on the roof was not a man at all, but a young boy apparently ten or eleven summers old. His skin and hair were so fair that they appeared white. He sat, seemingly oblivious to the noises from below. His feet dangled over the edge of the roof and he held his chin on his hands—the epitome of dejection.

“Thank you for corning, Lord,” said the Stablemaster in Cybellian. His voice was so thick with an odd Eastern accent, Sham had difficulty understanding him.

“What caused this?” asked Kerim with a frown.

The man frowned in return. “Me, sir. I caught the lad in with your stallion again.”

“After I talked to him last time?” asked the Reeve.

The Stablemaster nodded. “The stallion’s been in a foul temper lately; he kicked his groom yesterday. Scorch has never been an easy horse, and he hasn’t been getting as much work as he’s used to. None of us would see the lad hurt, and I suppose I was harder on him than I should have been.”

Kerim nodded and began moving again. The stableyard wasn’t smooth, and the tires of the chair caught in the rough dirt. Sham moved behind it and added her weight to the struggle. Kerim waited until he was directly below the boy before speaking.

“Unless you can grow wings, Elsic, your seat is a bit too high for my comfort,” commented the Reeve in a casual tone.

The boy started, “Sir?”

“Come down, lad.” Kerim’s voice was soft, but held enough steel that the boy reached down and grabbed a large beam under the roof and somersaulted off the edge.

Someone near Sham swore. She watched with a connoisseur’s appreciation the lithe, comfortable way the boy descended. She’d had enough experience at similar activities to know that he was making it look a lot easier than it was. He swung easily from one horizontal beam to another until he reached a vertical support that he shinnied down.

As he dropped lightly to his feet, Sham noticed for the first time that boy wasn’t the albino he first appeared—his eyes were so dark they appeared almost black. She also revised his age upward. Like the street children that she was familiar with, he was merely small for his years. His odd coloration caused her to frown thoughtfully.

“Come here,” said the Reeve.

Sham slanted him a glance. The boy had come down readily enough, he didn’t need another reminder. It wasn’t until Elsic reached out to touch the Reeve’s chair before crouching down on his heels that Sham realized that Kerim’s words had been directions rather than commands. Like the Old Man, the boy was blind.

“I hear that you have been getting into trouble again,” said Kerim in a reasonable tone.

Elsic’s face looked even sadder then before. “He won’t hurt me. He’s lonely and he likes me.”

The Reeve sat quietly a moment, rubbing his jaw. Finally he said, “Under most circumstances I would agree with you, but since I’ve been stuck in this chair he’s not been worked as he ought to be. The Stablemaster does what he can, but Scorch is a war horse. He kicked his groom yesterday.”

Elsic frowned, hesitated, and then said, “His groom chews beggar’s-blessing when the Stablemaster isn’t looking. Horses don’t like it when people act odd.”

“The groom is lucky Scorch didn’t take off his head if he was on ’blessing,” agreed Kerim. “Did you hear that, Stablemaster?”

The old man grunted. “I caught him at it once. If he’s still doing it, he can do it at someone else’s stables.”

That coloring ... Sham reached out and touched the boy lightly on the shoulder. Her hands almost hurt with the force of his magic.

He straightened and cocked his head. “Who are you?”

Sham glanced around at the crowded stableyard. “I am a friend of the Reeve,” she answered finally, and then in a soft tone that went no further than Elsic and the Reeve she said, “I am a wizard.”

Elsic smiled gravely.

“My lord,” she said, “I think he’s safe enough with your warhorse. I doubt that it will hurt him.”

The Reeve looked at her carefully, frowning, and then turned his gaze to the boy. Slowly he nodded his head. “Be careful, then, boy.”

Elsic grinned widely. “Yes, lord.” He swallowed and then said in a soft voice, “Sometimes it’s good to be with something so arrogant and sure of himself. It makes me feel safe.”

The Reeve sat forward, “Has anyone been bothering you?”

“No one, Lord,” said Elsic quickly. “It’s just ... there’s something wrong here, something very old and evil.” The boy’s face lost all expression as he spoke, and he turned to Sham and met her eyes with uncanny accuracy.

His voice quieted so that Sham was fairly certain that no one but she and the Reeve could hear him. “It knows who you are, mage, and the threat that you represent to its intentions. It wants the Reeve more than it has desired anything in a thousand years. Be very careful.”

“I will,” she agreed, as a chill crept up her spine. She wondered, having heard him speak, how the Reeve could dismiss any warning Elsic chose to give him—but then Easterners were like that.

The boy nodded his head and turned away, disappearing without another word into the enclosed stables. The Reeve looked at Sham for a moment, then he turned his chair around, and she hurriedly moved behind it to help push. Neither spoke until they were alone on the narrow walk.

“I found him, a little more than a year ago, washed up on the sands exposed by the Spirit Tide.” Kerim paused. “He was sitting quietly, humming a little, wearing nothing but a finely woven kilt.”

He fell silent momentarily, stopping his chair and gazing at a mare and her spotted filly. “I suspect that someone left him there to die because he is blind. The people here have an unnatural fear of blindness—they see it as a sign of evil magic.” Kerim smiled without humor. “He didn’t speak for a long time. I don’t think his native language is Cybellian or Southern, but he learned both very quickly. Elsic tells me that he cannot remember anything before he woke up here.

“I kept him with me in the Castle at first, but I was distracted by the business of running Southwood. I didn’t notice some of the nobles were tormenting the boy until Dickon pointed it out to me.” Kerim sighed, and shook his head. “Elsic has a way with animals, and the Stablemaster is a kind man who holds absolute control over his lads, so I gave Elsic into his keeping. I hope that he’s become enough of a fixture around the stables that when ...” The Reeve’s hands tightened involuntarily on the arms of his chair, but he continued calmly enough, “—when I’m no longer here, no one will hurt him for being the way he is.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” promised Sham softly. “If there is a problem, there are places that he can be made safe. Wizards are used to strange creatures and would do him no harm.”

“How do you know he’ll be safe with Scorch?” Kerim asked.

Sham shrugged. “Selkies have a way with animals.”

He gave her a narrow glance.

Sham smiled and continued amiably. “Selkies are one of the seafolk. They generally appear in the shape of white seals with dark eyes—a better form for swimming than a man’s body. I imagine. No seaman who wants to live long would dream of spearing a white seal—ask Talbot. They are said to be a race of warriors, as harsh to their own kind as they are to others. When one is too old or wounded, they attack him, driving him away or killing him upon a whim. I would not think they would allow a blind child to live past his first hours unless his mother was very clever.”

He seemed to be taking this calmly enough, so she continued. “His people don’t use human magics. They have access to knowledge I do not. I would take any warning he chooses to give you very seriously.”

Kerim’s lips quirked into a smile and he shook his head, “I don’t think that I should ask this question; if Dickon were here, he’d disown me. What did Elsic mean when he said the demon wanted me?”

“Assuming magic is real?” asked Sham with raised brows.

Kerim sighed theatrically, and nodded.

Sham shook her head. “I don’t know. Was anything specifically happening to you when the killing started?”

“Hmm ... that would be about eight months ago. It was about that time that I moved Elsic to the stables. A good friend of mine died of the wasting sickness.” He closed his eyes briefly and leaned back. “My mother dismissed the cook. My favorite mare foaled. My back started hurting.”

“That was when your back trouble started?”

Kerim nodded. “I wrenched it on the way back from Fahill’s funeral.”

“Lady Sky’s husband?”

The Reeve nodded shortly, and then began to push himself forward again. “Come. If we hurry we’ll have time to eat before Brath and his entourage invade my chambers.”

Indeed, Dickon had just finished taking the dinner trays out when someone knocked on the Reeve’s door.

“I’ll get it,” said Sham.

The high priest waited in the hall with the aesthetic-looking Fykall a step behind him. Brath nodded at her as he entered. “You may leave us, Lady Shamera.”

She glanced at Kerim who made a negative motion with his hand. Shutting the door alter Fykall was inside, Shamera said pleasantly, “I am sorry, Lord Brath, but my lord has a headache and I promised to do something about it as soon as you’re gone.” She brushed by both churchmen and sat down gracefully in the chair nearest Kerim, leaving the visitors to occupy the chairs opposite him.

“You said you have a letter for me?” asked Kerim.

Lord Brath gestured to Fykall, who pulled a sealed courier’s envelope out of his purse and handed it to Kerim. “As you see, I have not broken the seals.”

Kerim looked up and raised an eyebrow, “I doubt that you could have done so, Lord Brath. The Voice has methods to prevent his letters from straying.” With a finger, he touched the seal and it opened readily without use of a letter opener.

Sham leaned sideways, shamelessly reading over the Reeve’s shoulder. There were two sheets of paper in the courier’s pouch. The first was a plain sheet of paper with a quick scrawl that said merely:

The second paper was embossed and official. The scribe’s art had been practiced so heavily that Sham had to stand up and walk directly behind Kerim in order to read it. It was folded so she couldn’t see the top third, but the meat of the letter was decipherable.

As Sham was connecting Terran of the first letter to the Voice of Altis, Kerim began to read the official letter out loud. When he was finished, he looked up at the high priest.

His voice softened from the official tones in which he’d read the letter. “I will, of course, keep the original. If you would have a copy, Fykall is welcome to stay and render it for you.”

The high priest stood stiffly, looking much older than he had coming into the chambers. “That won’t be necessary. Lord Kerim. Come Fykall, there are things to be done at the temple.”

The little priest nodded, but before following his retreating superior he reached out and patted Kerim’s shoulder twice in gentle sympathy.

Sham waited until the door closed and said, “Trust a churchman to take all the joy out of putting him in his place.”

Kerim eyed her unfavorably. “Don’t make light of any man’s pain.”

She tossed her head. “That was not pain you saw, but thwarted ambition. I have no sympathy to spare for Lord Brath—he has no mercy for those in his power.”

Kerim watched her face; he’d known too many people consumed by hatred to watch while it consumed another victim.

“Perhaps you are right; he doesn’t deserve our sympathy. But, Shamera, if we do not feel it—how are we better than he is?”

She snorted and strode to a small table that held a pitcher of water and several cups.

As she filled a cup with water she said, in an apparent change of subject, “You know, I have always wondered why there was never an official injunction against magic since Altis dislikes it so.”

“And you accuse me of gross ignorance,” he mused.

She turned toward him, cup in hand, and said, “Excuse me?”

“Even if magic were real, there would be no injunction against it. As far as I know Altis has never handed down a directive one way or the other.”

She frowned. “After the Castle fell, Lord Brath declared magic an anathema to Altis and incited the soldiers to kill anyone who might be a mage.”

“Fear makes idiots of us all at some time or the other. Brath was officially reprimanded for his part in the deaths after Landsend was taken.”

She set the cup down without drinking from it and wandered aimlessly around the room. “I don’t like him.”

“Brath? Neither do I. He’s an arrogant, self-righteous, self-interested worm,” he agreed lightly.

She tilted her chin up. “If he were drowning I wouldn’t throw him a rope.”

“The question is—” said Kerim slowly, “—would he throw you one?”