When Demons Walk (22 page)

She ducked under the tapestry, tossing the book in the trunk, which was unaccountably unlocked again, as she passed it to reach her door. She looked at the trunk and frowned, but the knocking resumed.

“Coming,” she called, opening the door.

Talbot ran his eye over her outlandish costume and shook his head. “And here, I've heard ye've become an old maid in your choice of clothing. First time I've seen an old maid wearing orange.”

Sham batted her eyelashes at him and cooed, “Oh, but sir, a woman never likes to be predictable.”

Talbot laughed, stepping in the room at her motion of invitation. “And where have ye stowed the lad, eh? Under the bed?”

“Actually we were taking advantage of the more comfortable furnishings in Kerim's rooms.”

Talbot's eyebrows climbed. “If a man weren't to know
better, I'd say ye were sleeping with him the way you make so free of his rooms.”

Sham flashed the Reeve's Mistress's most enigmatic smile at him without answering the real question in his eyes. Elsic ducked under the tapestry and negotiated the room as if he'd been in it a hundred times rather than one.

“Through with business, Master Talbot?” he asked.

“For the nonce, lad.” Talbot turned back to Shamera. “There's enough evidence of the story the old mage told ye to warrant a closer look, though I haven't found anything interesting yet. I have a few meetings tomorrow as well, I don't dare leave Elsic to my lassies—they'll eat him alive.”

“By all means bring him here. All I'm doing now is reading. Given my material, it's good to have another person here so I don't scare myself silly,” she invited truthfully.

Talbot laughed. “Right. Now if I don't get us home soon, the missus will have thrown the last of supper to the neighbor's dog. Come along, Elsic.”

Talbot tucked Elsic's hand in the crook of his arm and took his leave. Before she shut the door Sham heard Talbot say in a fatherly voice, “Now the missus said she had a nice fat duck to roast. Ye'll want to avoid the gravy if ye can, but ye'll not find better stuffing in all of . . .”

 

T
HE OUTSIDE AIR
was crisp and fresh so Sham pulled her hood lower over her face. The stablemen had seen her in both her guises so she hoped the hooded cloak, aided by the darkness of late evening, would allow her to look like a lady meeting her lover in secret. She'd received the Whisperer's message on her dinner tray, but because it had taken her time to get out of the house unseen she wasn't certain the messenger would still be waiting.

“Ah, such fair countenance should never be hidden away like lost treasure.” The Shark's voice rumbled out of the darkness of the hay barn.

Sham dodged into the shadows where the Shark waited and watched the stableyard warily until she was sure no one was taking undue notice of her actions before snapping
impatiently, “Leave off with the manure; the stable has more than enough as it is. Why didn't you just send another letter?”

He sank into a stack of hay and pulled a strand loose to chew on. “I thought I'd better check on you and see that you don't grow too attached to your feathers—” he nodded at her clothes, “—and forget you are not a peacock, but a fox.”

Sham folded her arms and frowned at him. “What do you have for me, Sir Fox?”

“Halvok studied magic under Cauldehel of Reth for twelve years. I don't know why that little fact escaped all the other times I've asked for information on him, but I got this one from Halvok's half-sister myself.”

Sham raised her brows. “You've been masquerading as nobility again? That's a hanging offense.”

The Shark gave her one of his dangerous smiles. “Ah, but I have some influence with the Reeve. I happen to be very close friends with his mistress.”

“And who was cautioning me a moment ago to remember that the Reeve really doesn't have a mistress?” asked Sham with a grin.

“Guilty,” he replied with a flourishing bow. “I also asked around about the story of the Castle's demon. It seems that there is indeed such a tale, though nothing I heard connects it with the name Chen Laut. I've gotten two or three versions of the story, but most of the particulars fit with the wizard's account.”

Sham nodded. “Good. Talbot's been looking through the old records. It looks like there's enough information to confirm the story Halvok told us.”

The Shark spat the hay strand on the ground. “The third bit of interest that I picked up might be the reason the demon attacked the Old Man. It seems Maur had a run-in with a demon before he became the King's Sorcerer. He'd been called to help a village, where a series of odd murders took place. He discovered a demon, hiding among a group of players who had stopped to winter at the village. He was able to drive it away, but couldn't destroy it.”

“The Chen Laut?” she asked.

“My source didn't know. If it was, Maur might have been able to identify it.”

“The old man was blind,” Sham reminded him.

“If he knew what the demon's human form looked like, he could have described him well enough to identify who it is. It would explain why the demon attacked him.”

“I can feel this pattern coming together,” she said ruefully, “but I feel as if I am looking at the whole picture from the wrong side.”

“I hope you find that demon before it can kill again. I have a feeling that you're not high on its list of favorite people.”

Sham laughed, “I've had that thought several times lately. I'll be careful.”

The Shark snorted, “And
I'll
be a fisherman. Just be smarter than it is.”

 

W
ITH
E
LSIC
'
S MUSIC
in her ears, Sham read the spell to return the demon to its origins for the fifth time. Somewhere beneath the neatly laid out recipe was a philosophy that dictated it. There seemed to be some special significance to the death of the sacrifice beyond the power of death magic.

As she read the spell again, goosebumps crawled up her arms. She ignored it at first, as a natural reaction to the nature of the spell she was exploring. Only gradually did she realize that her nerves were tingling from very real presence of magic. She looked up from her book and noticed Elsic wasn't in the room with her. His music was coming from her room—and it wasn't a harp he was playing.

A chill crept up her spine as she heard the clear tones of Maur's flute. She must have left the trunk unlocked again . . . it wasn't like her to forget to lock her trunk. Yet at least on two occasions and now apparently a third, she'd done just that. Plaguing flute . . .

She tucked her book under her arm and ducked under the tapestry. In her room the magic was so thick, she felt
she might choke on it. She'd known the flute had a nasty habit of calling to someone who could use it. With his magic and musical ability, Elsic would have been especially sensitive to its call.

He played the flute softly, perched on the edge of her bed with a dreamy expression on his face, so absorbed by the music, that Sham thought he probably had no idea of the mounting storm of magic. On the principle that it was dangerous to interrupt someone working magic, Sham sat on the bed next to Elsic, with the intention of breaking his focus on the music slowly.

Unfortunately, he stopped playing immediately.

“I'm sorry . . .” He didn't get the chance to finish before the gathering magic broke free of the fetters of the flute's music and began to shape itself to fire—as all wild magic did. Smoke curled up from the bottom of the tapestry and little flames flickered here and there on the carpets, the upholstery, and anything else marginally flammable.

Instinctively Sham reached for control before her reason told her there was no chance she could work green magic. She started to pull back and look for another way to undo the damage the magic was causing before the smoke in the room became dangerous when two things occurred to her.

The first was that it was only human magic that tended to turn to fire when loosed unshaped; by its very nature, green magic was already shaped before it was called. The second was that when she'd reached for control of the magic, it had responded to her. She didn't waste time wondering why Elsic had called human magic with the flute. The smoke burning acridly in her lungs was reminder enough of the lack of time.

She sought control again. It was difficult to contain magic she hadn't summoned—Elsic was not her bound apprentice—and this was more power than she'd ever used at one time. As she wrestled with it, she was peripherally aware that flames leapt from the bedclothes sparked by the magic escaping her hold.

It struck her that it might be easier to channel the magic into a spell, rather than try to contain it. Deciding a fire in
the fireplace was as likely a candidate for dispersing it as any, she fed the magic into the logs that were prepared for lighting.

This time her effort was much more successful. The wood burst into flame and erupted into glorious fury, burning to ash in an instant. She used the last touch of magic to dispel the random fires and the smoke. In a moment it was quiet in the room—though a good deal warmer than it had been.

“What happened?” asked Elsic in a subdued voice.

Sham laughed a bit shakily. “That is a very good question. The flute is a device designed to allow a magician to gather magic easier and faster than he normally could. Apparently it works for green magic as well as human—but the magic it gathers is still the raw stuff human mages like me use. Human magic disperses itself in flame if the person who draws it can't control it.”

“I suppose that means I shouldn't play it.” The regret in his voice was reflected in his face.

“I suppose not,” she agreed firmly, tucking the flute back inside the trunk and keying the lock-spell into place. The next Spirit Tide she was going to put the stupid flute in the caves where it wouldn't be a problem—she hoped.

 

R
UBBING HER EYES
tiredly, Sham spelled the book closed. Talbot had collected Elsic and left several hours ago. Sometime after that Dickon had brought her dinner with a message from the Reeve. Kerim would stop by after he was through with his meetings, but it would be very late.

Sham was contemplating trying for some sleep when someone knocked gently on her door. It was the outer door so it probably wasn't Kerim, and the knock was too soft for Dickon.

“Who is it?” she called, in the heavily accented Cybellian the Reeve's mistress affected.

“A message for you, Lady,” replied an unfamiliar male voice.

She hesitated, then opened her trunk and set the book
inside. With the trunk carefully relocked, she fluttered, “A moment . . .”

Briefly, she checked her appearance in the mirror. Satisfied that she looked as she should, Sham opened the door.

The man who stood outside the door wore the colors of a Castle servant. In his gloved hands he held a small wooden box that he extended to her. A gift then, she thought, like the others left for her in attempts to curry favor.

She took the box and examined it, as any greedy woman would. The dark wood was covered with a multitude of carved birds, no two alike. She wondered briefly if this was the gift, but as she turned it something rattled in the box.

“You may go now,” she commanded haughtily, deciding she didn't need an audience.

“I am sorry, Lady, but I was told to wait until you had opened the box.”

Shrugging, Sham worked the small catch. Nestled in black cloth was a polished star-ruby set in a gold ring. Her experienced eye calculated how much such a ring was worth: more than the small treasure of gold coins in her sea cave. The man who sent was either a fool or he had a specific favor in mind. There was no note in the box.

“Who sent this?” she asked.

“It was sent in confidence, Lady. I am to see that the gift fits before returning.”

Sham frowned at him, but it was one of Kerim's mistress's frowns: lightweight and frivolous. She didn't really expect that it would affect a servant used to dealing with Lady Tirra. Deciding it was the easiest way to get rid of the man, she slipped the ring in place.

The sleep-spell took effect so fast she didn't have time to berate herself for stupidity. Her frantic attempt to counter the spell ended stillborn.

 

I
MPASSIVELY THE SERVANT
caught the woman before she fell and threw her over his shoulder. He stepped inside her room and shut the door, throwing the bolt. He set the Reeve's mistress temporarily on her bed while he pulled
off the servant's tunic and trousers. Under these he wore a plain brown shirt and loose, dark pants.

Hefting the woman over his shoulder again, he worked the panel opening near the fireplace and stepped into the passage.

F
ykall sighed with more weariness than the end of the day required. He was finding himself more and more discontent in his position as the High Priest's assistant. Even the euphoria of outmaneuvering the Reeve at Lord Ven's funeral had not lasted long.

As a boy he had heard the call of Altis, serving Him faithfully with all the strength in his wiry little peasant's body. Through the years his devotion had paid off, and the little priest had risen quickly through the ranks of Altis's servants. Once, and he remembered the occasion as the most inspiring of his life, he had been allowed to kiss the Voice of Altis's hand. The prophet had smiled at him, spoke briefly of Fykall's service, and sent him to Landsend.

The little man sighed again. Moving the temple cat that had made his rooms its personal domain from the prayer stool, Fykall knelt and bowed his head.

He had come to Landsend with such high hopes—not just because the Voice had sent him here personally. Back in Cybelle, the priests used to tell stories about the Leopard and the miracles he performed in the name of Altis. He'd
been prepared to be awed by a legend and had met, instead, a man—one who displayed very little liking for the temple priests. Although, thought Fykall, dealing with Brath for a decade might give anyone a distaste for the priesthood. Even so, sometimes the little priest wondered if Kerim worshiped Altis at all.

If the Leopard was a disappointment, the High Priest was a tribulation of a different magnitude. How could a man of his position in the church lose the light of Altis's guidance? The High Priest was greedy for wealth and glory—less concerned about the spirit of the temple than he was the gold in the door of his office.

Fykall closed his eyes, uttering a prayer that was so familiar to his tongue that he didn't have to think about it. “Blessed One, grant me the understanding of thy wisdom and the patience to wait for the outcome of thy desire. I thank thee for thy understanding of my imperfections. Amen.”

A warm tingle swept through him, and he knew that if he opened his eyes he would see the glow of Altis' marks upon his hands. But he waited, listening as he'd been taught. Only when the tingle of power had left completely did he open his eyes.

He rose to his feet with a sigh and straightened his white robes fussily until they hung in perfect folds to the midpoint of his calf. Tightening his green belt, he stepped away from the small altar, reaching for the glass of orange juice he habitually drank before sleeping.

Fykall, clean my house.

Shaken, the little priest fell to his knees, not noticing the pain of falling to the hard floor. He hadn't heard Altis' voice since his conversion as a boy, but the deep rumble was just as he remembered. It took a moment for the awe he felt to allow him the meaning of the words.

Clean house? How could this be? Certainly his current assignment seemed to point to Fykall's loss of favor in the eyes of his god, but never would he have thought he would face such a rebuke. The temple servants did the cleaning, leaving the priests to more important labor.

Fykall, clean my house.

Fykall left his room. If he slept first, he was afraid his determination would fail in the night. Perhaps Altis had found the kernel of pride in his heart that had grown as his duties had risen from the mundane. If Altis would have him sweep floors, he would find a broom and begin.

After a moment's thought, he decided the most likely place to find such an instrument was near the kitchens, currently located on the other side of the temple. With his head meekly bowed to the will of his god, the priest took a torch off the wall and began traversing the long, dark corridors.

He took a shortcut through the sanctuary, where workmen had left off for the day. The marble tiles sat in neat piles, and Fykall, momentarily distracted from his mission, noticed with some satisfaction that work was progressing rapidly here.

The flickering torchlight caught a rough broom leaning against the far wall of the sanctuary near one of the doors. Fykall crossed the dark room and picked up the disreputable object doubtfully. The straw end was white and clogged with an accumulation of grout from the tile, and he beat it against the wall in an attempt to dislodge the powdery substance.

Looking at the resultant mess in dismay, Fykall became aware of an unusual amount of noise in the hall bordering the sanctuary. Moved to secrecy by some primal instinct, he snuffed the torch on the floor where the tile was not yet laid. Broom in hand, he walked quietly to the doorway and looked down the long hall that was dimly lit by several torches in wall sconces.

From his position Fykall could see the entrance to the eating chamber where two men stood: members of the High Priest's personal guards in their blue-belted grey robes. The guardsmen were well-trained mercenaries, paid from the High Priest's own pocket because they were an affectation of the Priest rather than a necessity of his office.

Fykall frowned at their presence. He had heard of no official meeting that would require them here at this late hour.

Someone in the eating chamber grunted then swore, and the little priest's carefully plucked eyebrows lowered even further, partially with distaste and partially with puzzlement. The grunt sounded involuntary, as if someone had been hit in the stomach.

Clean my house.

Fykall waited for the guards to look up at the sound of the voice that rang through him. If they turned in his direction, they would see him, but they stared straight ahead. He took a firmer grip on his broom.

The sound of unhurried footsteps came from the far end of the hall, the same way Fykall would have come had he not impulsively taken a shorter way through the construction area. Somehow he was not surprised that the footsteps belonged to the High Priest. The older man's hawklike visage was composed in peaceful pleasantness, one of the expressions he habitually used to impress the masses with his wisdom and faithfulness.

As Fykall watched the High Priest, something changed. For a moment he felt dizzy, and another picture superimposed itself over the High Priest's features when he stopped to speak with the guard. Fykall blinked, and the vision gradually faded, but he retained the feeling of wrongness, of evil that shadowed the representative of Altis in Southwood.

Fykall, clean my house.

Though the voice had not lost its power, it had lost some of its urgency, and Fykall knew what his task was.

“Did you get her?” asked the High Priest.

One of the guards nodded. “She was alone as you said she would be, lord. She awaits you as you'd ordered.”

“Excellently well done. You may go, and take your men with you.” As he spoke, the High Priest walked past the guard and entered the eating chamber.

“Yes, lord,” the guard bowed briefly and summoned his men with a short whistle.

Fykall could have tripped the nearest man as they walked down the hall to the unfinished public access, but none of them noticed him in the sanctuary doorway. Altis, it
seemed, had other battles for him to fight this night.

As soon as the guards turned the first corner, Fykall walked boldly into the hall.

 

S
HAM TWISTED AND
thrust, managing to land her bound feet into one man's stomach with satisfying force before the men were able to attach her to the sturdy chair with their ropes. She wasn't sure where she was, having awakened from the sleep spell slung over a hard shoulder and in the middle of an unfamiliar hall.

The bonds that she wore were made of something that swallowed magic. Struggle as she might, she could find no way of working around them. She took in a deep breath, her body shaking with the force of her fury. A sharp whistle from the hallway drew the guards away as the High Priest entered.

Lord Brath surveyed her with satisfaction. “Ah, an unbeliever, practitioner of evil.”

Sham glared at him, unable to make the reply she wished because of the gag she wore. The best she could manage was a muffled growl.

The High Priest walked back and forth rubbing his hands together lightly. “I had thought to do that, to have you burned as a dangerous heretic who has bewitched our Reeve, but I have decided not to make a martyr of you.”

He turned and faced her. Her eyes widened in horror at what he allowed her to see in his face. She had no doubt that the demon revealed its golem to her deliberately because as soon as it was certain she'd recognized its nature, it became merely the High Priest. She had been wrong, she thought, when she had decided the demon would not dare enter Altis's temple. A creature who would kill Lord Brath was not afraid of Altis—somehow that wasn't reassuring.

“Instead,” he said softly, “I have chosen a different fate for you. As the Reeve's mistress, it will be much easier to accomplish my goals.”

“You will do nothing in the House of Altis, foul thing,” announced a voice from the doorway with a touch of melodrama—not that Sham was in the mood to be critical.

She craned her neck and saw Fykall. He wore his short hair neatly combed and the folds of his linen robes were set with uncommon precision. He carried a rather dusty and battered broom in one hand. The little priest looked calmly at his superior as if he walked in on bound women every other day, something that did not enhance her opinion of Lord Brath.

The golem that wore Brath's semblance turned without haste, and frowned. “Fykall, you have overstepped yourself.”

There was nothing in his voice or face to indicate that Fykall had intruded on something secret.

“How so?” inquired Fykall mildly, sweeping the broom back and forth gently on the floor.

Sham noticed that chalky pieces of mortar were breaking off the straw broom and littering the ground.

“I will speak with you later,” said the High Priest, in obvious dismissal. “Now, I have business to conduct.”

The broom stilled.

“Kidnapping?” queried the little man softly, sounding almost dangerous.

Sham shook her head frantically, but Fykall was looking at the being he must assume was Lord Brath. She wished she could warn Fykall what it was that he faced. She had no wish to see her little broom-wielding defender die.

“She's a heretic, Fykall,” explained the High Priest reasonably. “She has been working evil in the Castle. I have reason to suspect she has had a role in the recent killings.”

“Ah, but that is for a formal court to decide.” As he spoke, the smaller man walked farther into the room, positioning himself between Sham and the High Priest.

Somehow she failed to feel any safer.

“I am afraid she's influenced everyone near the Reeve,” expounded the High Priest. “If she hadn't tried her magics on me, I might never have noticed what she was doing. Can you imagine anyone telling the Leopard that his mistress is an evil sorceress? Or anyone going against the Reeve if he refuses to believe? Then she would be free to
do her worst unhindered. It is necessary to be rid of her before she can do any more harm.”

It sounded convincing, even to Sham. She hoped that the priest listened and left the room.

“Who are you?” question Fykall softly.

Sham stiffened in her chair.

The High Priest raised his eyebrows arrogantly. “I am the High Priest of Southwood, little man. Appointed so by His Grace, The Voice of Altis.”

Fykall shook his head before the other finished speaking. “No. You are not Brath.”

The High Priest's face went blank, as if all the personality the golem had stolen from the man was gone. Sham wondered if it was some choice on the part of the demon or if there was something that the priest had done.

“You have a little power, priest—I wouldn't let it fool you.” Like its face, the golem's voice had lost the intonation that made it that of the High Priest.

The priest shook his head and Sham heard a thread of joy in his voice as he said, “It is not
my
power.”

She speculated that he had been indulging in one of the narcotics that were traded in Purgatory like gold: taverweed maybe, since beggarsblessing didn't generally cause delusions of invulnerability.

“You do not have enough knowledge,” commented the golem, in much the same voice it might have used to speak about the weather. Sham noticed that it was starting to look less human and more like what it was.

“It is not knowledge,” said the little man peacefully, “it is faith, and that I have in abundance.” He straightened and held out his hand, palm forward. Speaking in a commanding voice that echoed in the dining hall, he said, “You will give up the essence that you have unrightfully stolen.”

The golem jerked. Its skin blackened and cracked. Its features lost their elasticity and shape, fading into the crude facsimiles that had been formed of clay when it was made. It shrank slightly in size, looking odd in the robes of the High Priest—though certainly no less menacing for all of that.

“Know this,” said the priest, without taking down his hand. “You have soiled this temple with your presence and killed Our High Priest. The High Priest had forsaken his calling long ago and so had no right to call upon the power of Altis. Your desecration of this temple, however, will not be so overlooked.”

“I am not unarmed, priest,” hissed the creature, crouching low and throwing its hand out in a spinning motion.

It was a spell Sham had not seen before and it hit Fykall and forced him to step back. From behind she couldn't see the effect of the spell, but the little priest swayed like a spider in the wind.

The power of the bindings lessened just a bit, but it was a sign that the demon was turning its attention to other things. She tried another spell, a simple fire spell, to burn the bindings and allow her to help. She knew, even as she cast, that there was not enough power to destroy the bonds . . . then something touched her spell and magnified it. The bindings dropped from her hands and feet in ashes.

As she rose the golem began a second spell, one she'd seen before and, almost without thought, she moved to counter it.
Tides
, she thought, the demon was powerful. It was all she could do to keep the spell from touching Fykall or her.