The Shark turned away, watching the shadows gather in the corner of the barn. “Be careful what you do, Cat-lover. Those of us who live in Purgatory are good haters and we eat our foes. Sham no less than I.”
“Whom does she hate?” Kerim said softly.
“Ah, my Sham hates many people, but she channels and controls it. She follows rules, picking and choosing her victims. Those rules keep her sane, while the rest of us rot in our own well of hatred and despair.” When the Shark turned back to Kerim, old anger robbed his eyes of the blandness that created the illusion of stupidity. “But I owe her my protection—and there are no rules to my hatred. If you hurt her, I will find you.” Kerim noticed that the thick accent had disappeared as well and the Shark’s Cybellian speech was as refined as any at court.
Kerim nodded his head wisely. “Your protection includes suggesting her to us, knowing—I assume—that this investigation would lead her to confront a demon?”
The Shark shrugged, resuming his don’t-ask-me-I’m-an-idiot expression. “She asked me to help her find the demon. Since it appeared the creature was tied to the Court in some way—it seemed the best way to fulfill both of your requests.”
THE WIZARD KEPThis workroom in a remote part of Purgatory where only the most miserably poor people lived. The land was littered with the cardhouse remnants of warehouses that a generation of the salt sea air had rotted virtually to the ground. Here and there, a few boards had been scavenged and erected into crude shelters.
A heavy sea mist hung in the air, clinging to the low places and robbing any hint of color from the area. It was a mist thick with despair and untold tragedy; Sham had never seen this place without it.
She shivered and wrapped the ragged cloak she’d borrowed from the stables more tightly around her. This area was controlled by one of the most ruthless ganglords of Purgatory and she knew that in a few days his gang would sweep through here and knock the shelters down, taking the few possessions the occupants still had. On the ground, a human femur lay forsaken, a mute warning for those who cared to heed it.
It was odd, she thought, with a touch of bitterness, that people could create horrors greater than any presented by demons or ghouls. The Old Man had said that the same atmosphere prevailed in old battlegrounds even after centuries had passed. Places that absorbed too much violence had a propensity for collecting ghosts. When she let herself listen, she could hear the dead moaning in the winds. The horse she was riding tucked its head and scooted closer to the other animals from the Reeve’s stable, as if it, too, could hear the echo of misery in this place.
They were a strange-looking band, but they blended nicely with the few ragged souls who scurried in the shadows. The Shark’s brilliantly colored velvets were as much a warning as clothes. Only a fool or a very dangerous man wore clothing like that here, and a fool would never have made it this far. Sham spared a thought to wonder where he’d learned to ride; as far as she knew he lacked the benefit being the offspring of the Captain of the Guard.
Kerim rode easily, looking every inch a warrior. The comfortable way his hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed sword would not escape someone looking for an easy mark. Most surprising to Sham was the ease with which Dickon had shed his civilized mannerisms with his civilized clothing; he looked as dangerous as either of the others. With a faint breath of amusement, she realized that she was the least imposing member of the party.
As they rode on, the buildings began to rise again, built of reclaimed lumber and brick and stuck together with slabs of mud, bits of rope, and a few rusty nails. A whore gazed at them with dull eyes, knowing that such a well-dressed party would wait until nightfall before indulging in the product she sold.
The Shark stopped the horse he rode in front of a hastily cobbled building with blankets draping the windows and a few of the larger holes. Sham felt a momentary twinge of surprise that no one had stolen the blankets before she noticed the magical warding that surrounded the building.
As the Shark swung out of the saddle, a small group of urchins broke from the safety of the shadows to hold the horses. They weren’t as skinny as the rest of the children in this area, so Shamera felt it safe to assume the Shark had imported them. If he had thought that far ahead, he probably had other, more lethal minions in hidden nearby. Feeling more optimistic of their chances to make it back to the Castle without incident, Shamera dismounted.
Getting the Reeve off the horse was easier than getting him on had been. Watching his face, Sham thought that he would pay for the unaccustomed riding. With Dickon on one side and the Shark on the other, the Reeve managed the trip from the horse to the building supporting much of his own weight.
Once inside they found themselves in an earth-floored room, empty except for two chairs and a clear crystal globe that hovered waist-high in the center of the room without visible support. Shamera frowned momentarily at the chairs; she had expected nothing more than a bench—chairs were for nobles who could afford the woodcrafter’s high prices and lived where such things wouldn’t be stolen.
The Reeve settled comfortably in one of the chairs, and Dickon and the Shark stood next to him. The other chair faced the Reeve’s and was obviously meant for the wizard. Shamera took a step back to lean against the wall, but before she got to it, the back of her head hit something with an audible crack.
Rubbing the sore area, she turned and examined the apparently empty space behind her suspiciously. As she frowned at the wall, she noticed a subtle blurring around the edges of the room—she whispered a few arcane words.
The illusion of emptiness slid to the floor like so much water, leaving behind several bookcases packed with a few books and obscure paraphernalia, a bench set against one wall, and a wizard wearing a hooded robe watching them from the far corner of the room. She bowed to him and took up a seat on the bench. The hooded figure cackled merrily and shuffled out of the corner. Sham felt a brief tingle of his power as the hovering globe rose to the ceiling and began to emit light.
She snorted. “We are not all barbarian Easterners to be impressed by a magelight trick that I could do before I could talk.”
“Oh,” croaked the mage hoarsely, leaning heavily on his black staff as he shambled further into the light. “A sorceress. I’d heard that one was looking for the demon.”
“Itold you so, wizard. I don’t lie,” answered the Shark in a cold voice.
“Aieh.” The old man’s shoulders shook with mirth and he turned to Kerim. “You see, you see how easy it is to annoy a prideful man. Beware pride, boy, it will bring you down.”
“Foretelling or conversing, ancient?” questioned Sham.
The wizard moved to her; the smell of the rich-but-filthy fur robe he wore was enough to make her eyes water. “Conversation, child. I get paid for foretelling. Is that why you came here? I thought you were looking for a demon.”
“Foretelling is a double-edged sword—” replied Sham, “—while trying to avoid a bad fate, it’s easy to create a worse one. We have come to you for your knowledge, not your magic. I need to know what you can tell me about the Chen Laut.”
“And you—” the hunched figure turned to Dickon, “—what do you come here for?”
Sham thought that she caught a glimpse of confusion on Dickon’s usually impassive visage, but it was gone too swiftly to be sure.
“I am the Reeve’s man.”
“I see.” The old one rocked back on his heels. Sham took a step forward fearing that he was going to overbalance himself and fall over backwards, but he recovered.
The wizard limped slowly to the unoccupied chair and fell back into it. He shook his head. “Demons are not pleasant company, my dear.”
Sham assumed that he was speaking to her, though his gaze was focused on the wall slightly to her left. “It chose us, we didn’t choose it—it has been using Landsend as a hunting ground. It killed the Reeve’s brother as well as my master, the former king’s wizard, Maur.”
“The old king’s wizard?”
The time-ravaged mage drew himself up and whispered as if to himself, “And you were his apprentice? I thought he had died long ago—I haven’t felt the touch of his magic since the Castle was taken.”
“He is gone now,” said Sham, though her tone wasn’t as sharp as she’d intended. “The last words from his lips were a warning against a demon called Chen Laut. I need to find the demon and destroy it.”
The wizard nodded, rocking a little in his seat. “The Chen Laut is the demon of the Castle. Long before the present castle stood on its hill, the demon came from time to time—feeding itself before wandering away for decades or centuries. The story of its origin is shrouded in the veil of time, and I know for certain only bits and pieces.”
“We are listening,” said the Shark.
“Aieh, so you are,” agreed the wizard. “Well then, long and long ago, well before the wizard wars, there was a wizard, Harrod the Grey—strong in magic and weak in wisdom—for only a foolish man would bind a demon to him as his servant, no matter what his strength. The spells are difficult and too easily lost in moments of passion or pain.”
“The demon he bound was patient, with the patience of all immortal things. It served its master well, until the man thought of it as a friend as well as a slave. When it had its chance, it killed him—trapping itself here, away from its own kind forever. The wizard called it ‘Chen Laut’—which means ‘gifted servant’ in the old tongue.”
“Do you know how to find it?” asked Sham
“Aieh.” The old man stared vaguely at the carved handle of his staff for a moment. “I think perhaps it may find you as it did Maur.”
“Are there any other stories?” asked Kerim. “Every Southwoodsman I’ve ever met has stories about some sort of magical creature or the other.”
The wizard snorted with surprised laughter. “Have you heard of the demon of the Castle? No? It is an obscure tale in truth; more because of the efforts of the rulers of Landsend than any lack of evidence or interest, hmm. He’d have nobles leaving in droves—unless they were Easterners, too sophisticated to believe in such errant nonsense.” He chortled to himself for a while.
“Would there be records?” asked Sham. “If this is something that has happened before, maybe someone has come closer than we have to solving it.”
Kerim shook his head. “I don’t know. When I got here, a lot of things had been destroyed. I sent what was left to the temple for safekeeping—Talbot can have some of his people go through them and see.”
“If we find the demon,” said Sham slowly, “what can be done with it?”
“Those wizards who know of demons and such are hunted down by their own kind. I have told you what I can about the demon.” With a wave of his staff, the room filled with greasy, odoriferous smoke.
Coughing, Sham ran for the door and tugged it open, allowing the smelly fog to escape the malformed little cottage. When it had cleared, the mage was gone and illusion once more cloaked the interior of his workshop.
“WELL,”SAID SHAMERA, as Dickon and the Shark helped Kerim onto his horse, “the good news is that we know something of the Chen Laut. Unfortunately, if the mage was correct, it has survived at least a thousand years during times when mages of my strength were as common as church mice in Landsend. We still don’t know how to find the thing—or kill it when we do.”
“Do you think he told us all he knew?” asked Kerim.
It was the Shark that answered with a wry grin. “Haven’t been around Sham long, have you? Getting a straight answer out of a wizard is like waiting for a fish to blink—it won’t happen. He probably knows quite a bit more that he’s not telling you—but you’d need a rack to get it out of him.”
Dickon had been riding quietly behind the Reeve, staring at the ground. He cleared his throat and said, “Isn’t anyone else surprised to find that Lord Halvok fancies himself a wizard?”
“What?” asked Kerim sharply.
“I said—” repeated Dickon slowly, as if to someone who was extremely slow of thought, “—don’t you think it’s odd that Halvok thinks he’s a wizard?”
“You believe the old wizard was Halvok?” asked Shamera.
The servant frowned at her. “I admit that his impersonation of an old man was good, but under the hood of his cloak he was clearly Lord Halvok.”
Kerim looked at Sham. “I didn’t see Lord Halvok.”
The Shark had begun to smile, looking at Dickon. “An Easterner? How strange, I thought that the magic had been bred out of you all.”
Sham, ignoring the Shark, muttered a few words and held out her hand, “What am I holding, Dickon?”
The servant frowned at her, but he answered. “A stone.”
She looked at the frog resting on her hand, it blinked lazily twice and then disappeared, leaving a small rounded stone in its wake.
“What does that mean?” asked Kerim thoughtfully.
Sham shrugged, putting the stone back in her pocket and urging her horse back toward the Castle. “I suppose that it means that Lord Halvok is a wizard—a clever one.”
“And?” asked Kerim, while Dickon looked uneasy.
The Shark chortled. When Sham cast a stern look at him, he straightened his face, but his shoulders still shook with mirth.
“Who would have thought it,” he said. “An Eastern-born wizard.”
“Maur,” said Sham softly, “—always maintained that Easterners or Southwoodsmen, all are the same beneath the skin. It seems he was right. Dickon is mageborn, my lord, and it seems he has a talent for illusions.”
ELEVEN
Sham opened the door to her room cautiously, but it was empty. Breathing a sigh of relief she stepped in and shut the door behind her; she had not been looking forward to explaining her dusty tunic and trousers to Jenli.
She stripped rapidly out of the filthy garments, stuffing them in the trunk. The ever-present ewer of water near the bedside took care of the grime on her hands and face, then she searched unsuccessfully for another dress she could don without help. After the second time through the wardrobe, she pulled one out randomly and tugged it over her head.
Struggling and contorting she managed to button all but the top few buttons. Sham surveyed the result in the polished bronze mirror dubiously. Made of pale yellow silk, the gown resembled a shift rather than a dress. Fine lace, made for a child’s gown edged the neckline and shoulder straps. It wasn’t the gown that bothered her, but the body it covered.
She set an illusion to cover the healing wound on her shoulder and several bruises she didn’t remember receiving. After twisting around for a minute or so, she decided she’d covered the worst of the contusions and any left were bound to be attributed to rough play rather than disassembling furniture and chasing wizards through Purgatory. Dickon had promised to bring dinner to the Reeve’s room, and since she had missed breakfast and lunch, she wasn’t about to miss dinner.
As she was running a brush through her hair, her gaze fell on the trunk lid, and she realized she’d forgotten to lock it. Frowning, because securing her possessions was second nature, Sham quickly took care of it before entering Kerim’s room. Still puzzling over her unusual oversight, she forgot to make certain Kerim was alone.
The Reeve had also taken the time to change his garments, and he bore little resemblance to the rough warrior who dared cross the heart of Purgatory. He sat regally imprisoned in his chair, staring coldly at the Eastern nobleman who confronted him. Neither of them seemed to notice Sham’s presence.
“Do you always listen to gossiping stableboys, my lord?” Kerim sounded irate.
“Of course not,” replied the noble in fussy tones, “but my man reports that there was indeed a body discovered in the stables with that weird, blind boy of yours.”
“The stableman’s body was in several pieces—not something a boy of Elsic’s age would be capable of doing.” Kerim’s voice lowered to a warning purr that caused the nobleman to take a step backwards. “I suggest you be careful what you repeat in p
ublic; lest you find yourself looking a fool—or worse. It might, for instance, become known that your coffers aren’t as golden as they appear. Odd how tradesmen attend to such rumors so closely.”
Without looking away from the other man, Kerim held out his hand toward Sham. “Come here, my dear, Lord Arnson was just taking his leave.”
She hadn’t been aware he’d noticed her, but she recovered quickly, stepping forward with a bright smile. “Kerim, would you finish buttoning this for me? Jenli wasn’t there, and you ripped the shoulder of the dress I was wearing—it’s positively indecent.” She shrugged slightly so the unbuttoned gown hung even lower, giving the flustered nobleman a wide, empty smile.
She didn’t bother looking at Kerim for his reaction to her lie. After the servants had discovered the mess the demon had made of her room in its first attack, Kerim had begun to enjoy his newly enhanced reputation; she had no doubt that he’d follow her lead.
“Of course,” answered Kerim in a voice that made Shamera shiver involuntarily, and not from fear. That man wielded his voice as well as he did his sword. “Come here and I’ll take care of that. Youwere leaving, my lord?”
The nobleman started, and took his eyes off the neckline of Shamera’s dress that was sagging even further as she knelt before the Reeve. “Yes, of course.”
Kerim finished the buttons and waited until the door shut behind the nobleman before dropping his loverlike manner.
“I cannot abide fools,” Kerim growled. “I can’t fathom how an idiot like that managed to win as many battles as he did.”
“Being ruthlessly brutal can sometimes be as effective as intelligence,” commented Sham, idly staring at the closed door. She hadn’t recognized his face, but Lord Arnson was well known in Southwood for ordering the slaughter of children in several northern villages. Perhaps she could arrange to meet him in a dark corner somewhere. One more victim of the demon . . .