The Demon King

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Lording over all was Fellsmarch Castle, with its soaring towers, a monument of marble and stone. It stood isolated, surrounded by the Dyrnnewater, untouchable as those who lived within its walls.

  The City of Light, it was called, despite its long winter nights. There was even a period of time, around solstice, that the sun never rose at all. But on every other day, the sun flamed over Eastgate in the morning and kindled Westgate at the end of the day.

  The Spirit Trail snaked down into the city and emptied into the first of a series of squares, the legacy of some long-ago royal architect. Connecting the squares was the Way of the Queens, the broad boulevard that ran the length of the city and ended at Fellsmarch Castle.

  Han did not follow the Way of the Queens. Like it or not, he had business in Southbridge. He turned off into a series of ever-narrowing streets, burrowing deeply into a part of the city the queen never traveled to. As he left the Way behind, the buildings grew shabbier. People swarmed the streets, pinch-faced and wary-looking, prey and predators. Garbage moldered in the gutters and spilled out of bins.

  The air reeked with the mingled stinks of cooking cabbage, wood smoke, privies and slop jars dumped into the street. It would be worse come summer, when the heat thickened the air into a dangerous soup that gave babies the croup and set old people coughing up blood.

  At Southbridge Market, Han managed to unload the snag-wort for a decent price, considering it was worthless. He could’ve sold it at Ragmarket, but didn’t want to risk it so close to home, where someone might remember him.

  Leaving the market, he put on his street face and strode quickly and purposefully past the fancy girls and grifters and street-corner thugs that would be on you at any sign of weakness or fear. “Hey, boy,” a woman called, and he ignored her, as he ignored the glittery nobleman who tried to entice him into an alley.

  Southbridge was the infection that festered under the seemingly healthy skin of the city. You didn’t go there at night unless you were big and well armed, and surrounded by big, well-armed friends. But daytime was safe if you used your head and kept aware of your surroundings. He wanted to clear Southbridge before it got dark.

  To be fair, some might call Han’s own neighborhood a dangersome place. But in Ragmarket he knew who to watch out for and where they stayed. He only needed a few steps on anyone to disappear into the labyrinth of streets and alleys he knew so well. No one would find him in Ragmarket if he didn’t want to be found.

  His destination was The Keg and Crown, a decrepit tavern that clung like a mussel to the river’s edge. The bank underneath had been undercut by centuries of spring floods, and it always seemed in imminent danger of tipping into the river. His timing was good—the common room was just filling up with the evening trade. He’d be out of the way before things got too rowdy.

  Han handed Lucius’s bottles to Matieu, the tavern keeper, and received a heavy purse in return.

  Matieu stowed the bottles in the back bar, out of reach of his more aggressive customers. “Is that all you have? I’ll have this lot sold in a day. Goes down smooth as water, it does.”

  “Have a heart. I can only carry so much, you know,” Han said, pulling a pitiful face and working his aching shoulders with his fingers.

  Every tavern in Fellsmarch clamored for Lucius’s trade. Lucius could triple his production and sell it all, but he chose not to.

  Matieu eyed him speculatively, then groped under his massive belly for his purse. Extracting a coin, he pressed it into Han’s hand, closing his fingers over it. A princess coin, by the shape and weight of it, called a “girlie” on the street. “Maybe you could speak to him. Convince him to send more bottles my way.”

  “Well, I could try, but he has a lot of long-standing customers, you know . . .” Han shrugged his shoulders. He’d spotted a plate of meat buns on the sideboard. His sister, Mari, loved meat buns. “Uh . . . Matieu. Got any plans for those buns?”

  Han left The Keg and Crown whistling, a girlie richer, with four pork buns wrapped in a napkin. It was shaping up to be a good day after all.

  He turned down Brickmaker’s Alley, heading for the bridge over the Dyrnnewater that would take him into Ragmarket. He was nearly through when the light died in the passageway, as if a cloud had passed before the sun.

  He looked ahead to see that the exit from the alley was now corked with two bodies.

  A familiar voice reverberated off the stone buildings to either side. “Well, now, what have we here? A Ragger on our turf?”

  Bones. It was Shiv Connor and his Southies.

  Han spun around, meaning to beat it back the way he came, and found two more grinning Southies blocking his escape. This meeting wasn’t random, then. They’d been laying for him, had chosen this place on purpose.

  There were six Southies altogether, four boys and two girlies, ranging in age from a year or two younger than Han to a year older. He’d have no room to maneuver in the narrow alleyway, no way to protect his back. It was a mark of respect, recognition of his name in Southbridge.

  That was one way to look at it.

  In the old days, he’d have had his seconds with him. He’d never have allowed himself to get in a fix like this.

  He thought of saying he wasn’t with the Raggers anymore, but that would just mark him as an easy victim, someone without protection or turf of his own.

  Han’s hand found the hilt of his knife and he pulled it free, palming it, though he knew it would do him no good. If he was stripped of his purse and badly beaten, that’d be a lucky outcome.

  Han put his back to the alley wall. “Just passing through,” he said, lifting his chin, feigning a confidence he didn’t feel. “Meaning no disrespect.”

  “Yeah? Well, I mark it different, Cuffs.” Shiv and his gang formed a loose semicircle around Han. The streetlord was redheaded and blue-eyed, his face pale and beardless as a fancy girl’s, marked only by the purple gang symbol on his right cheek and an old knife scar that dragged his left eye down at the corner.

  Shiv wasn’t big, and he was no older than Han. He ruled by virtue of his skill with a blade and his willingness to cut your heart out while you slept. Or any other time. A complete lack of a conscience made him powerful.

  Shiv’s blade glittered in the light that leaked from the street. His hands were scarred; he’d been badged as a thief by the bluejackets before he’d smartened up. He was the best blade man in Southbridge, and the only one better in Ragmarket was a girlie—Cat Tyburn—who’d replaced Han as streetlord of the Raggers.

  “You been doing business in Southbridge, and we want a whack of the takings. You’ve been told,” Shiv said. The rest of the Southies jostled forward, grinning.

  “Look, I’m not the bag man,” Han said, falling into his old patter flash. “Who’d trust me with that kind of plate? I just deliver. They settle up on their own.”

  “Product, then,” Shiv said, and the other Southies nodded enthusiastically. Like Shiv would be sharing.

  Han kept his eyes on Shiv’s blade, adjusting his stance accordingly. “Lucius won’t pay a tariff or a dawb. And if I short anybody, I’m gone.”

  “Fine by me,” Shiv said, grinning. “He’ll need somebody to take over. No reason it can’t be us.”

  Oh yeah? Han thought. Lucius is particular about who he partners with. But now wasn’t the time to say it. “All right,” he said grudgingly, as if giving in. “Let me talk to him and I’ll see what we can work out.”

  Shiv smiled. “Smart boy,” he said.

  That must’ve been some sort of signal, because suddenly they were all over him. Shiv’s blade slashed up toward Han’s face, and when he parried that, those on either side seized his arms, slamming his wrist against the wall until he dropped his knife. Then an older boy, a southern islander, took to smashing Han’s head against the wall, and Han knew he’d be done, maybe for good, if the boy kept that up. So he went limp, dragging him to the ground. Shiv kicked him hard in the ribs and somebody else punched him in the fac
e. Nasty but not deadly.

  Finally he was yanked upright by the arms and held there while Shiv patted him down. Han resisted the temptation to spit in his face or kick him where it counted. He still hoped to survive the day.

  “Where’s your stash?” Shiv demanded, turning out Han’s pockets. “Where’s all those diamonds and rubies and gold pieces everybody talks about?”

  It would do no good to tell Shiv that the legendary stash never existed, save in street tales. “It’s gone,” Han said. “Spent, stolen, and given out in shares. I got nothing.”

  “You got these.” Shiv scraped back Han’s sleeves, exposing the silver cuffs. “I heard you was a fancy boy, Cuffs.” Seizing Han’s right forearm, Shiv yanked at the bracelet, practically dislocating Han’s wrist. Furious, the gang leader pressed the tip of his knife into Han’s throat, and Han felt blood trickling under his shirt. “Take ’em off.”

  The cuffs had been Han’s trademark during his time as streetlord of the Raggers. Shiv wanted them as trophy.

  “They don’t come off,” Han said, knowing with a numbing certainty that he was about to die.

  “No?” Shiv breathed, his face inches from Han’s, alive with anticipation, tears leaking from his damaged left eye. “That’s a shame. I’ll take off your hands, then, and see if they’ll slide over the stumps.” He looked around at his audience, and the other Southies laughed in a ragged sort of way. “But don’t worry, Stumps. We’ll give you begging rights this side of the bridge. For a cut of the takings, that is.” His laughter was shrill and slightly mad, like an out-of-tune song.

  Shiv withdrew his knife from Han’s throat and continued the search, giving him time to think about it. He found Han’s purse and cut it free, taking a little skin with it. Stuffing the swag under his shirt, he grabbed Han’s carry bag and began sorting through it, tossing his trade goods on the ground. Han’s spirits sank even lower. There was no way Shiv would overlook Matieu’s purse. And no way Han could make up that kind of money.

  It wouldn’t be his problem after he bled to death.

  But it wasn’t Matieu’s purse that Shiv pulled out of the bag. It was Bayar’s amulet in its leather wrapping.

  “What you got here, Cuffs?” Shiv asked, his eyes alight with interest. “Something pricy, I hope?” He unfolded the leather and poked it with his finger.

  Green light rippled through the alleyway, burning Han’s eyes, temporarily blinding him. With an ear-splitting blast, Shiv and the Southies were flung back against the opposite wall like rag dolls, smacking the stone with a solid thud. Han went down hard, ears ringing.

  He rolled to his knees. The amulet, apparently undamaged, lay on the ground just in front of him, still emitting an eerie green glow. After a moment’s hesitation, Han dropped the leather wrapping over it and slid it back into his carry bag.

  As he scrambled to his feet, he heard shouted orders and boots pounding over the cobblestones at the Southie end of the alley. He looked back. A clot of blue-jacketed soldiers jammed the entryway. The Queen’s Guard. Han had a history with the Guard. Time to be gone.

  He glanced at Shiv, who had heaved himself upright, shaking his head dazedly, surrounded by his cronies. No way to get his own purse back, but he still had Matieu’s, and the Guard might slow the Southies down. It was a chance to come away alive. He’d take it.

  Han sprinted down the alley, away from the guard and toward the river. Behind him, he could hear screamed threats and orders to halt. He thought about taking refuge in Southbridge Temple at the west end of the bridge, but decided he’d better try and get clean away. He cleared the alley, ran past the temple close, fought his way through the line for the bridge, and pounded his way across. He didn’t stop running until he was well into Ragger turf. Then he took a circuitous route, careful to make sure no one was following.

  Finally he turned onto Cobble Street, limping over the uneven pavers. Now that he felt safe, he surveyed the damage. He hurt all over. The skin stretched tight over the right side of his face said it was swelling, and he could scarcely see out of his right eye. A sharp pain in his side suggested a rib was broken. He carefully explored the back of his head with his fingers. His hair was matted with blood, and there was a goose egg–sized lump rising.

  Could be worse, he told himself. Ribs could be wrapped, at least, and nothing else seemed to be broken. There was no money for doctors, so anything broken would stay broken, or heal any way it pleased. That’s how it worked in Ragmarket. Unless Han was fit enough to climb back up Hanalea and put himself in Willo’s hands.

  He stopped at the well at the end of the street and sluiced water over his head, rinsing off the blood as best he could and combing his hair down with his fingers. He didn’t want to scare Mari.

  All the while, his memory tiptoed around what had happened in Brickmaker’s Alley. Maybe he was addled. He’d hit his head, after all. He could swear he’d seen Shiv take hold of the amulet and then it sort of exploded. Just as Bayar said it would.

  He could feel the ominous weight of the jinxpiece in his carry bag. Maybe Dancer was right. Maybe he should’ve buried the thing. But the fact was, if not for the serpent talisman, he’d be in a world of trouble. Maybe dead.

  Ha! he thought. Don’t fool yourself. You’re in a world of trouble anyway.

  He’d reached the stable at the end of the street, so there was no putting it off any longer. Inside the stable, Han sniffed the air experimentally. There was nothing of supper. Instead it stank of manure, damp straw, and warm horses. He’d have to muck out the stalls tomorrow. If he could even get out of bed.

  Some of the horses poked their heads out of their stalls and whickered in recognition, hoping for a treat. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I got nothing.” Haltingly, he climbed the old stone staircase to the room he shared with his mother and seven-year-old sister.

  Han eased open the door. From force of habit, his eyes flicked around the room, meaning to locate trouble before it came flying at him. The room was chilly and dark, the fire nearly out. No sign of Mam.

  Mari was lying on her pallet by the hearth, but she must have been awake because her head popped up as soon as he came in. A big smile broke on her face and she flung herself at him, wrapping her skinny arms around his legs and burying her face at his waist. “Han! Where’ve you been? We’ve been so worried!”

  “You should be asleep,” he said, awkwardly patting her back and smoothing down her ragged tow-colored hair. “Where’s Mam?”

  “She’s out looking for you,” Mari said, shivering, teeth chattering with fear or cold. She returned to her bed by the fire and wrapped the threadbare blanket around her thin shoulders. She never seemed to have enough fat on her to keep warm. “She’s in a right state. We was scared something happened to you.”

  Bones, he thought, feeling guilty. “When did she go?”

  “She’s been out all day, off and on.”

  “Did you have supper?”

  She hesitated, considering a lie, then shook her head. “Mam’ll bring something home, I reckon.”

  Han pressed his lips together to keep from spilling his thoughts. Mari’s faith was somehow precious to him, like a dream he couldn’t let go of. She was the only person in all of Ragmarket who’d ever believed in him.

  He crossed to the hearth, pulled a stick from their dwindling supply, and laid it on the fire. Then he sat down on the thin mattress next to his sister, keeping his face turned away from the firelight. “It’s my fault you got nothing to eat,” he said. “I should’ve come home earlier. I told Mam I’d bring you something.” He dug in his pocket and fished out the napkin with the buns. He unwrapped them and handed one to Mari.

  Her blue eyes went wide. She cradled it in her fingers and looked up at him hopefully. “How much of it do I get?”

  Han shrugged, embarrassed. “All of it. I brought more for me and Mam.”

  “Oh!” Mari pulled apart the bun and downed it in greedy bites, licking her fingers at the end. Sweet, spicy sauce smeared her
mouth, and she ran her tongue over her lips, trying to get the last little bit.

  Han wished he was seven again, when all it took was a pork bun to make him happy.

  He handed her another, but as she took it, she got a good look at him. “What happened to your face? It’s all swollen.” She reached up and touched his face with her small hand, like it was delicate as an eggshell. “It’s getting purple.”

  Just then he heard the weary clump, clump, clump up the stairs that said Mam was home. Han eased into a standing position, bracing himself against the wall, concealing himself in the shadows. A moment later the door banged open.

  Han’s mother stood in the doorway, her shoulders permanently hunched against a lifetime of bad luck. To Han’s surprise, she was wearing the new coat he’d picked up in Ragmarket a week or two before, thinking it would serve him well the next winter. On her it nearly swept the ground, and she had a long scarf wrapped around her neck. Mam wore layers of clothes even in fair weather, a kind of armor she put on.

  She unwound the scarf from her neck, freeing her long plait of pale hair. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked more defeated than usual. She was young—when Han was born, she’d been no older than Han was now—but she looked older than her years.

  “I couldn’t find him, Mari,” she said, her voice breaking. Han was stunned to see tears streaking down her cheeks. “I’ve been everywhere, asked everyone. I even went to the Guard, and they just laughed at me. Said he was likely in gaol, that was where he belonged. Or dead.” She sniffled and blotted her face with her sleeve.

  “Um, Mam . . .” Mari stammered, looking over at Han.

  “I’ve told him and told him to stay off the streets, not to run with the gangs, not to carry money for that old Lucius, but he don’t listen, he thinks nothing can touch him, he . . .”

  I’m dog dirt, Han thought. I’m scum. The longer he waited, the worse it would get. He stepped out of the shadows. “I’m here, Mam.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry I’m late.”