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? Tab-by!” 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, whatare 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 urn. 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 façade 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 didthat 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 servingwoman 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 purposefully 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 BEARSyou 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 boots 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 coming, 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 l
ooked 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 beggarsblessing 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.