The Demon King (12 page)

“Hey, Matieu,” Han said. “I’ve come for the empties.”

Matieu froze, staring at Han as if he’d seen a demon. Sliding the knife into his apron pocket, he retrieved the bottles from behind the counter and set them on the bar, never taking his eyes off Han.

“What’s going on?” Han asked, sliding the bottles into his carry bag. “It’s strange outside. Nobody on the streets except for the Guard, and plenty of them.”

“You haven’t heard?” Matieu squinted at Han.

Han shook his head. “Heard what?”

“Half a dozen Southies went down last night,” Matieu said, pulling out his knife again. “And that’s a lot, even for this neighborhood. The bodies was scattered all around the waterfront, left for show. So people are jumpy, thinking the gang war is starting up again.”

“Went down how?” Han asked, staring at him.

“Now isn’t that the odd part,” Matieu said. “Wasn’t your typical knifing or clubbing. They looked like they’d been tortured, then garroted.”

“Maybe somebody looking for their stash,” Han said, trying for casual, though it wasn’t easy with his mouth gone dry.

“Mayhap.” Matieu waggled his knife at Han, curiosity wrestling with caution all over his face. “Thought as you might know something about it.”

“Me?” Han fastened down the flap on his bag. “What would I know about it?”

“Ever’body knows you’re streetlord of the Raggers. And ever’body knows the Southies roughed you up th’other day. Looks like payback to me.”

“Well, ever—everybody’s wrong,” Han said. “I’m out of that.”

“Ri-ight,” Matieu said. “Just remember—I don’t want no trouble.”

Han hoisted his bag over his shoulder. “Believe me, I don’t want trouble either.”

But trouble had a way of finding him. As he walked out of The Keg and Crown, he just had time to notice it had begun to rain again, before someone grabbed him by the collar and slammed him up against the stone wall of the tavern.

Bloody Southies! he thought. He kicked and struggled, trying to make himself a moving target, expecting at any moment to feel a knife slide between his ribs. But his captor kept him pinned to the wall with one hand while ripping his bag free with the other. The bottles clanked as the bag hit the ground. Then he was crudely patted down one-handed, and relieved of his several knives. And his purse.

Finally his attacker slung him around and smashed him against the wall, face out this time. Han found himself staring into a familiar face, sallow and unhealthy-looking, with thin cruel lips drawn back from yellow rotten teeth. His breath was staggeringly bad.

It was his old nemesis, Mac Gillen, sergeant in the Queen’s Guard. And behind him, another half dozen bluejackets.

“Hey! Give me back my purse,” Han said loudly, figuring it was best to raise the topic early and often.

Gillen punched him hard in the stomach, and the breath exploded from Han’s lungs.

“Well now, Cuffs, you’ve done it this time,” Gillen said, taking advantage of Han’s inability to speak. “I knowed just who was responsible, and I knowed just where to find you. Had to wait a bit is all.”

“I…don’t know…what you’re talking about,” Han gasped, doubled over, arms wrapped protectively over his midsection.

Gillen gripped Han’s hair and yanked his head up so they were eye to eye. The sergeant had put on weight since Han had last seen him, and now his soiled uniform gaped between the buttons.

At least somebody’s eating well in Southbridge, Han thought. “Who’s been beating on you, Ragger?” Gillen demanded. “Wasn’t the Southies, was it?”

“Nah,” Han said, falling into his old habit of making a bad situation worse. “It was the Guard. I wouldn’t pay up.”

Everybody knew the bluejackets would leave you alone if you paid protection to the right person. And Mac Gillen was the right person.

Wham! Gillen brought his club down on Han’s head, and he fell to his knees, biting his tongue and seeing stars. He covered his head with his arms.

“Stop it!” someone shouted, Han didn’t see who. It must’ve been one of the other bluejackets. Or Matieu, come to his aid?

But Gillen was in a blood rage, totally focused on Han. “You did for those Southies, didn’t you, Alister? You and your friends.” Wham! This blow fell on Han’s forearm with bone-shattering force, and he screamed.

“Now you’re going to confess, and then you’re going to swing for it, and I’m going to be there to watch.”

“I said stop it!” The same voice, but right on top of them now. Startled, Han wiped blood from his eyes and looked up to see the club descending again, but it never connected. It flew sideways and Gillen yelped in pain. Han slumped back against the wall, eyes closed, head lolling sideways, at the same time gathering his feet under him.

“You hit him again and I’ll crack your skull,” his benefactor said. “Back off.”

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Gillen bellowed. “I’m in command here. I’m the sergeant. You’re just a corporal.”

“Back off, Sergeant Gillen, sir,” the corporal said sardonically. “In the Queen’s Guard, sir, we don’t beat confessions out of prisoners on the street.”

“Naw,” one of the other bluejackets said, snorting with laughter. “We usually take ’em back to the guardhouse first.”

“Are you all right?” A soldier squatted next to Han, looking anxiously into his face. Peering through his lashes, Han realized to his surprise that his benefactor was young, no older than he was. The baby bluejacket’s face was pale with anger, and a lock of straight black hair fell down over his forehead.

Han blinked away a double image, and said nothing.

“You could’ve killed him,” the corporal said, looking up at Gillen, his face twisted in disgust. Huh, Han thought. This one must’ve missed his Guard orientation. He had starch, at least, to cross Gillen.

“You listen to me, Byrne,” Gillen said. “Maybe you’re the son of the commander, and maybe you go to the academy. That don’t mean nothin’. You’re still just a boy. You don’t know these streets like we do. This ’un’s a cold-blooded killer and a thief. Just never been caught red-handed before.”

Byrne stood and faced Gillen. “Where’s your proof? He got beat up? That’s it?”

Good one, Han thought, silently rooting for the blueblood corporal, but knowing better than to say anything aloud.

Gillen nudged Han with a foot, none too gently. “They call him Cuffs,” Gillen said. “He’s the leader of a street gang named the Raggers. They been feuding with the Southies for years. Two days ago, the Southies caught Cuffs on his own in Brickmaker’s Alley. If the Guard hadn’t showed up, he’d be dead a’ready.”

Gillen grinned and ran his pale tongue over his cracked lips. “Would’ve been a service to the community if we’d let them finish the job. Them poor devils we found yesterday—you saw what was done to ’em. Had to be the Raggers. No one else would take the Southies on. It’s a revenge killing for sure, and this ’un’s responsible.”

Corporal Byrne looked down at Han, swallowing hard. “Fine. We take him in for questioning. He confesses or he doesn’t. No beatings. Any confession you beat out of a person doesn’t mean anything. They’ll say anything to make you stop.”

Gillen spat on the ground. “You’ll learn, Corporal. You can’t coddle a street rat. They’ll turn on you, and they have teeth, believe me.” He turned to the watching bluejackets. “Bring ’im along, then. We’ll see to him back at the guardhouse.” The way he said it gave Han the shivers. This do-gooder Corporal Byrne wouldn’t be there every hour of every day.

“One other thing, sir,” Byrne said. “Maybe you should give him back his purse.”

Gillen leveled a look of such vitriol at Byrne that, despite everything, Han had to stifle himself to keep from laughing. Gillen reached into his coat and pulled out Han’s purse, made a show of digging through it to make sure he didn’t have any weapons in there, then jammed it back into Han’s jacket pocket.

No telling how long it’d stay there.

Two bluejackets grabbed Han’s arms and hauled him upright, and the pain was blinding. His left forearm felt like it was packed with shards of glass. They draped his arms over their shoulders and began dragging him between them. Han hung, limp as a rag, trying not to pass out, his mind racing furiously, leaping from thought to thought.

Could the Raggers have done for six of the Southies? Why would they? Not on his account, not even for old time’s sake. Anything that splashy always brought unwanted attention from the Guard. Everybody knew that.

If not them, who?

Whatever had happened, he couldn’t expect fair treatment at the guardhouse. They needed someone to pin this on. He’d dance to whatever tune they played, and he’d end up at the end of a rope. He thought of Mari waiting for him back at the temple, of Mam scrubbing laundry at Fellsmarch Castle. They’d be the ones to pay. He couldn’t let that happen.

By now they were passing Southbridge Temple, turning onto the bridge over the river. Han groaned loudly, scuffling his feet in the dirt as if to gain a purchase.

“Hey! Watch yourself,” one of the bluejackets said, tightening his hold on Han’s upper arm.

Han groaned again. “Ow! My head! It hurts. Leggo!” He struggled to free his arms. “I don’t feel so good,” he said, allowing a trace of panic to enter his voice. “I’m serious! I’m going to spew!” He clamped his mouth shut and blew out his cheeks suggestively.

“Not all over me, you’re not!” his bluejacket captor said. Gripping Han’s collar and the waist of his breeches, the guardsman propelled him to the stone wall that lined the bridge. “Spill it into the river, boy, and make it quick.”

Han braced his good hand on the wall, then slammed his head back into the guardsman’s face. The bluejacket screamed and let go of him, blood pouring from his broken nose. Han boosted himself atop the wall and squatted there, looking down at the debris floating on the water.

“Stop him!” Gillen screeched behind him. “He’s getting away!”

Hands clutched at him as Han launched himself from the wall, executing a flat, shallow dive that took him as far as possible from the stone piers of the bridge. Somehow he managed to miss hitting any of the boats crowded together in the narrow channel, and sliced into the water closer to the north shore. He surfaced, spitting out a mouthful of the filthy water, gagging for real this time.

Good he could swim, courtesy of his summers with the clans. Not many city boys could.

“There he is!” He heard Gillen’s voice carrying across the water. “You on the water! Five girlies for the one what catches him.”

Five girlies! He’d just about turn himself in for that.

Han submerged again and swam blindly toward the Ragmarket shore, kicking strongly to compensate for his useless right arm, eyes closed tight against the murky water. When he raised his head to check his position and correct his crooked progress, a clamor of voices said he’d been spotted. Then he went under again and managed to lose himself amid the motley of watercraft and floating garbage.

Finally he reached the docks on the Ragmarket side, slid underneath, and waded through the shallows to where the dock met the shore. There he huddled between the pilings, shaking, teeth chattering.

The noise of the search faded as the Guard spread its net wider and wider. Until finally Han couldn’t hear it at all. Still, he waited for dark before he slipped out from under the dock and waded to shore.

EYES AND EARS

The day after the fire on the mountain, Raisa spent all morning with her language tutor, trying to wrap her tongue around soft southern vowels. Tamric was a sloppy language, given to imprecision and double meanings. Made for politics. Raisa much preferred the hard focus of Valespeech, or the subtle nuances of the clan tongue.

As they were finishing, the queen’s messenger brought a request that Raisa join her mother for midday in her suite. This was unusual enough that Raisa wondered what kind of trouble she was in.

When the privy chamberlain ushered Raisa into her mother’s rooms, she found a table set for two. Her mother was seated by the fire, her pale hair loose, a glittering silk shawl draped around her shoulders. The queen always seemed to be cold. She suffered like a delicate flatland flower transplanted into an inhospitable climate. By contrast, Raisa felt like a tough alpine lichen, dark and stubborn and low to the ground.

Raisa bobbed a curtsy, looking around as she did so. “Mama? Is it just us?”

Marianna patted the seat beside her. “Yes, sweetheart, it seems as though we’ve scarcely had a chance to talk since you returned from Demonai.”

Praise the Maker, Raisa thought. Lately it seemed she never had the chance to be alone with her mother. Lord Bayar was always around. This was her chance to speak to the queen about the issue of the mercenaries. Maybe she could even persuade her mother to intervene and order Captain Byrne to assign Amon to Raisa’s personal guard.

Raisa sat down next to her mother, and Marianna poured tea from a thick jug on the table.

“Are you quite all right after that dreadful scare up on Hanalea?” the queen asked. “I had trouble sleeping last night. Shall I ask Lord Vega to come attend you?” Harriman Vega was the court physician.

“I’m fine, Mother,” Raisa said. “A few bumps and bruises is all.”

“Thanks to the Bayars,” Marianna said. “We are so fortunate in our High Wizard, and young Micah seems to have inherited Lord Bayar’s talent, don’t you think? And his good looks,” she added, laughing girlishly.

“They are impressive, those Bayars.” Raisa took a long sip of tea, recalling her encounter with Micah in the corridor, and wondering when and whether to bring it up.

“How are your studies going?” Marianna asked. “I worried you might have forgotten everything you knew, having been isolated up in the camps so long; but I’ve had good reports from the masters.” She sounded mildly surprised.

“Well.” Raisa shifted uncomfortably. You married a clansman, Mama, she thought. Do you remember why? When her parents were together, it seemed like she did. But now her mother sounded like a mouthpiece for Gavan Bayar’s continual digs and slanders.

“I don’t think I suffered for being at Demonai,” Raisa said. “You know the clans are great for reading and storytelling and music and dance,” she said. “Even ciphering. I spent a lot of time working in the markets.”

“Well, I can’t say I approve of that,” Marianna said, frowning. “The future Queen of the Fells, learning to be a shopkeeper?”

“Oh, Mama, I learned so much,” Raisa said. “It’s all about learning to read people, and knowing when to give in and when to stick to a price. You have to be able to judge quality on the fly and decide what your high price is. Plus, you learn to walk away from a bad deal, no matter how much you want something.”

Raisa leaned forward, gripping her skirts, willing her mother to understand how the delicate give and take of trade and negotiation fueled her. How the flicker of an eye or a sheen of sweat on a trader’s upper lip revealed more than he intended. And how letting go of greed and desire allowed her to present an unreadable face in the tough and tumble world of the markets.

The queen listened, fingering the bracelet on her slender wrist, but Raisa could tell she wasn’t in a buying mood. Raisa forced herself to settle back into her chair. “Anyway, it wasn’t a waste of time,” she said lightly.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Marianna said. She paused as Claire carried in a silver tray, set it on the table, and left again. The queen stood. “Well, then,” she said. “Let’s eat, shall we?”

Raisa’s mother seemed to find it easier to say what was on her mind with food between them. “Your sixteenth name day is coming,” she said abruptly as Raisa picked apart her puffpastry fish pie.

“Is it really? I hadn’t realized,” Raisa said, rolling her eyes. “Magret is going swaybacked carrying in the suitor gifts.”

Her mother smiled. “We expect your debut to attract considerable interest,” she said, in her element now that the discussion was about marriages and parties. “Given the war in the south, the successions are, shall we say, in question. Many southern princes will see marriage to a northern princess as a means of solidifying their position in the south, and also as a kind of refuge in case the worst happens.” She looked directly at Raisa. “We don’t want to fall into that trap.”

“What do you mean?” Raisa asked, pausing with a sweet bun halfway to her mouth. She’d never heard her mother say two words together about politics.

“Well, you won’t know how things will turn out. Depending on how the war goes, you may be marrying a king or a fugitive.”

Raisa shrugged. “I’ll be queen on my own account. I don’t need to marry a king.”

“Precisely!” Marianna said, smiling and taking her first bite.

“I don’t understand,” Raisa said. “Precisely what?”

“We should avoid a southern alliance,” Marianna said. “Things are just too unsettled. There’s little to gain and much to lose. We could be drawn into their wars.”

“Well,” Raisa said, thinking of what Amon had said, “the southern wars won’t last forever. Maybe we should wait and see who wins. Then decide what alliance would be most advantageous. A southern marriage may be just what we want. We may need friends when they turn their attention to us.”

Marianna blinked at her as if she’d begun speaking Tamric. “But we don’t know when that will be,” she said. “We cannot afford to sit on our hands in the meantime.”

“We could be preparing for it now,” Raisa said. “A lot of our people have gone as mercenaries in the south, since the money’s good. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to try to bring them home and use them to build up our own army?”

The queen wrapped her shawl more firmly about her, as if it were armor. “We have no money for that, Raisa,” she said.

“We could get rid of the foreign mercenaries we have now,” Raisa said. “That should free up some money.”

“That’s easier said than done,” the queen said. “They hold positions of command. General Klemath relies on them to—”

“I didn’t say it would be easy,” Raisa said. “I just think it’s something to consider. It costs more to buy foreign soldiers, and people fight better when they’re defending their own homes and families. And having all these foreigners here might be risky.”

“Where did this come from?” Marianna asked, frowning. “Is this something you heard at Demonai Camp?”

That was royal code for Is this something you heard from your father? From your grandmother Elena?

Just between us, Amon had said. And she didn’t want to get him or Captain Byrne into trouble. “No, it’s just something I’ve been thinking for a while.”

“Right now you should be focusing on your studies,” Marianna said. “I’ll be considering who might be the best match for you and the Fells. We can’t delay your marriage until the southerners stop fighting. That may never happen.”

“But there’s no hurry,” Raisa said. “You married young, but there’s no reason I should. You’ll rule for a long time yet. I’ll probably be an old crone with my grandchildren around me by the time I come to the throne.”

Marianna fussed with her shawl. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “Sometimes I think I’m not long for this world.”

It was an old weapon, familiar since Raisa was a little girl. Still effective.

“Stop that!” Raisa snapped, then added, “Please don’t say those things, Mama. I can’t stand it.”

When she was little, Raisa used to creep out from the nursery to watch her mother sleep, afraid that she would stop breathing if Raisa wasn’t there to intervene. The fact that there was something ethereal, almost otherworldly about her mother only reinforced Raisa’s fears. Yet she knew Marianna wasn’t beyond using this tactic to get her own way.

“It would just ease my mind if I knew the question of your marriage was settled,” Marianna said with a sigh.

Raisa had no intention of seeing anything settled very soon. Marriage was just another kind of prison to put off for as long as possible.

She’d been looking forward to a long season of flirting and wooing and kissing and clandestine meetings involving desperate declarations of love.

Negotiation. Give and take. Redirection.

Ah, redirection. That had always worked well with the queen.

“I’ve been thinking about my name day party,” Raisa said, though she hadn’t been, really. “I have some ideas about a dress, and I wanted to see what you thought.”

And so they spent a half hour discussing the pros and cons of satin versus lace and black versus white versus emerald green, flounces versus overskirts, tiaras versus beaded snoods and glitter net. Then moved on to debating a tent in the garden versus a party in the Great Hall.

“We’ll need to meet with Cook to discuss the matter of the menu,” Marianna said, when they’d about worn the topic out. “If we make some decisions now, it will save us considerable trouble in the end. Now, some of it will depend on the guest list, of course…”

“Amon’s looking forward to the feast,” Raisa said, thinking to turn the conversation in a direction she favored. “I’m glad he’s back.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Amon Byrne,” the queen said in a tone of voice that never meant good news.

“What about Amon?” Raisa asked, already defensive.

“Magret said you and Corporal Byrne had a secret meeting late last night in the glass house,” Marianna said, absently turning a ring on her finger.

“It was hardly secret,” Raisa said. “We haven’t seen each other in three years. We wanted to catch up, and I didn’t get a chance to talk to him during dinner.”

“You told Lord Bayar you had a headache,” Marianna said.

“I did have a headache,” Raisa lied. “What of it?”

“And then you slipped away to meet Corporal Byrne,” the queen said. “How does that look?”

“I sat with him in a public place with my nurse along,” Raisa said, her voice rising. “You tell me. How does that look?”

“Magret says the two of you left her in the maze and slipped off on your own,” Queen Marianna said.

“Magret fell asleep on the bench, and we chose not to disturb her,” Raisa said. “You know how she gets when you wake her up. I had to go back to get her this morning.”

That was gratitude for you. Magret had been rather testy, complaining about aches and pains in her old bones from sleeping on the stone bench all night. Which maybe explained why she’d run to Queen Marianna to tell tales. Raisa had counted on her to stay quiet to cover up falling asleep on the job. You never could tell what people would do.

Marianna cleared her throat. “And then Corporal Byrne was seen leaving your room later that night.”

Raisa shoved back her chair, which made a loud scraping sound. “Who said that? Did you get a report on me this morning or what? Were you having people follow me around?”

“I was not having you followed,” Marianna said in her very reasonable voice. “But the High Wizard came to me this morning. He said that Micah went to look in on you because you’d not been feeling well, and he saw you and Corporal Byrne outside your room…”

And this merited a visit from the High Wizard? What business was it of his? “So it’s all right if Micah Bayar comes creeping around my room, but Amon—”

“Micah was concerned about you, darling. It was understandable that—”

“Micah practically attacked me in the hallway, Mother! He’d been drinking, and he grabbed my arm, and Amon had to escort him back to his room.”

“Don’t be overdramatic, Raisa,” Marianna snapped. “Micah was surprised, that’s all, to find that you and Corporal Byrne had…arranged a tryst.”

The irony was, Raisa and Micah had been meeting on the sly. And a marriage between them was expressly forbidden by the Naéming. This whole conversation made no sense.

Raisa stood, her napkin falling to the floor. She should have known better than to think her mother would support her against the Bayars. She was on her own, as usual.

“We’re talking about Amon,” Raisa said. “He’s eaten at our table hundreds of times. Why do you keep calling him Corporal Byrne? And as for Micah, ask around. He’s cut quite a swath among the ladies-in-waiting and the serving girls. In fact, there are stories that—”

“Micah Bayar comes from Aerie House, a well-respected, noble family,” the queen said. “They’ve been on the council for over a thousand years. On the other hand, the Byrnes—”

“Don’t say it!” Raisa interrupted. “Don’t you dare. Edon Byrne is captain of your Guard. Are you saying Amon doesn’t come from a respected family?”

“Of course he does, Raisa,” Marianna said, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “But he’s a soldier, and his father’s a soldier, and his father, back generations. They’re good at what they do. But that’s all they’ll ever be.”

Marianna paused to allow this to sink in. “I know Amon has been your friend. But now that you’re older, you need to appreciate the differences between you, and how impossible this all is.”

“How impossible what is?” Raisa quivered with indignation. “I’m not planning to marry him. I know all about my duty to the line. But Amon’s my friend, and even if it turned into more than that, it’s nobody’s business but my own, as long as it doesn’t affect the succession. Which it won’t.”

“But it might,” her mother went on. “Do you have any idea how this looks, at a time when we’re planning your marriage?”

Raisa opened her mouth and the words came pouring out as if they’d been dammed up in there for years. “If you’re worried about how things look, you should worry about you and the High Wizard.”

Marianna surged to her feet, the shawl spilling to the floor. “Raisa ana’Marianna! What do you mean?”The reasonable voice had disappeared.