The Demon King

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “Call me Rebecca Morley, young sir,” Raisa said, rising. “How do I look?”

  “It’d be better if you’d dressed as a boy,” Amon said. “It’d be better if you were ugly.”

  She guessed that was some kind of compliment.

  “I fooled the mistress of kitchens, you know,” she said, rather smugly.

  “Hmmph,” was Amon’s comment.

  “Let’s pretend we’re sweethearts meeting after work,” she said, taking his arm. “Why didn’t you wear your uniform?”

  He snorted. “One guardsman on his own is more a target than protection.” Amon steered her onto the Way of the Queens. “We’ll take this through Ragmarket all the way to the bridge,” he said.

  “I was hoping we’d get to see something of the neighborhood,” Raisa said as he marched her straight down the middle of the street.

  “You’ll see more than you want to see, before we’re done.” He gently extricated his right arm from her grip and moved her to his left side. “So I can get at my sword,” he explained when she looked up at him questioningly.

  Blood and bones, he’s jumpy, Raisa thought.

  “What did Mother Elena say?” Raisa asked, nearly trotting to keep up with Amon’s long legs. “Will she be able to send one of the traders to meet with us?”

  “She said she’d see what she could do,” Amon said. “She wouldn’t promise more than that.”

  I can’t do this on my own, Raisa thought. It was hard enough to sneak out this one time.

  There was little of twilight in the Vale. Once the sun extinguished itself behind Westgate, darkness ran in rivulets through the streets, quickly flooding the entire city. Close to Fellsmarch Castle, the lamplighters circulated, igniting the magical lanterns that lined the Way. But as they proceeded south, even on the Way, there were fewer street lanterns, and many of them appeared to be broken or disabled or simply not attended to.

  Near to the castle, garbage was picked up and stowed away. But here, people pushed it out their doors, and it sat on the sidewalks, stinking.

  At first there were people all around them, but the others peeled away in twos and threes into side streets and alleys, and soon Raisa and Amon were walking alone. Every block or two, a tavern spilled light and music onto the street, and patrons huddled in the doorways, talking loudly, spitting into the gutter, clutching mugs of ale.

  Sometimes girls stood on the porches, watching them pass by. They wore flashy clothes and lots of paint, but Raisa guessed that some were younger than her. They looked at Amon appraisingly but did not speak to him with Raisa on his arm.

  “Are those fancy girls?” she asked Amon.

  He only grunted in reply. Raisa tried to imagine walking this street by herself, and shuddered. She shifted her carry bag on her shoulder, acutely conscious of its valuable contents and feeling more and more like a target.

  The houses seemed to be buttoned up tight, shades drawn, as if unwilling to draw attention to themselves by leaking light into the streets.

  A fine rain began to fall. Amon ignored it, but Raisa shivered, pulling her cloak more closely around her. “Where is everyone? It’s not late. There should be people on their way home.”

  “Most people are too smart to be out in this neighborhood after dark,” Amon said, sliding her a significant sideways look.

  “How do people get around, then?” Raisa asked.

  “They don’t.” Amon was in one of his monosyllabic moods.

  “What about the Guard?” Raisa asked.

  “The Guard can’t be everywhere,” Amon said. “And in Ragmarket, some say the Guard’s been bought off.”

  “Bought off?” Raisa frowned. “By whom?”

  “Like I told you before. Streetlords.” Amon seemed distracted, focused on the streets around them. What with the rain and the lack of streetlights, it was dark as a cellar. Raisa was beginning to think Amon had been right: this wasn’t such a good idea. A rat skittered across the cobblestones ahead of them, and Raisa flinched backward.

  “Just a rat,” he said calmly. “You get used to them.”

  Just a rat, she repeated to herself. After all, there were rats in the palace. Human and otherwise. Could be worse. Could be much, much worse.

  But when the wind slammed a shutter against a building, Amon ripped his sword free in a heartbeat. When he’d identified the source of the noise, he rolled his eyes and stowed his blade away again, but kept his hand on the hilt.

  As they neared Southbridge, Raisa glanced aside, into an alleyway where an unshuttered window splattered light on the wet pavement. She saw a flicker of movement, as if someone were walking parallel to them a block over. Now she watched, and down the next cross street she definitely saw someone slipping from shadow to shadow. And there! The same thing, on the other side.

  Raisa’s heart began to hammer. “Someone’s following us,” she hissed, gripping Amon’s arm.

  But this time he seemed unconcerned. “It’s all right,” he whispered back. “We’re almost to the bridge. Raggers won’t follow us into Southbridge.”

  “But didn’t you say the Raggers just killed a half dozen Southies? In Southbridge?” she persisted, struggling to remember the gang names.

  “Just stay close,” he murmured.

  Raisa was annoyed at his muted reaction. “Amon Byrne! Did you hear me? We’re being followed! There’s two or three of them on either side of us. I’m sure of it.” Raisa groped under her cloak and drew her belt dagger.

  Amon’s eyes widened. “Where did you get that?” he asked.

  “At Demonai. It’s clanwork.”

  “Well, put it away. You won’t need it.”

  And then it hit her like a runaway horse cart, and she stopped dead in the street. “You know who’s following us, don’t you?” she said, swinging around to face him. “Don’t you? Who are they?”

  “Who are who? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his gaze flicking to left and right.

  “Who is it? The Guard?”

  He adopted what he probably took for an innocent look, but Amon had always been a hopeless liar. “Why would the Guard be following us?”

  “You there!” Raisa called. “Show yourselves! I command it!”

  “Shhh,” Amon hissed a little frantically.

  “Then tell me who they are.”

  “Well.” He cleared his throat. “They’re ...friends of mine. Cadets in my triple.”

  As a corporal, he commanded a triple of nine guards.

  “I told you, I—”

  “They don’t know who you are.” Amon said. “I told them I needed to walk my sister to temple through Ragmarket and asked if they would provide escort. I said you were rather shy around young men, and so they should try and do it unobserved.”

  Raisa could tell he was rather proud of the story he’d created.

  “Your sister! How could they possibly believe I’m your sister? She’d make two of me.” Amon’s sister, Lydia, was near as tall as he was.

  He flexed his hands nervously. “Well, you’re my other sister. The . . . ah . . . short, religious one. I told them you’d gone as a dedicate at a young age. “ Amon seemed to realize he wasn’t doing himself any good. “So, shall we . . . ?”

  “You may as well call them in,” Raisa said, her voice brittle and cold. “No need for them to skulk down alleys.”

  “All right.” He whistled a long low sound. It must have been a preplanned signal, because moments later, Raisa heard running feet as the guard closed on them. She couldn’t say what made her do it, but she waited until they were about ten feet away, then gripped Amon’s lapels and pulled his face down for a long passionate kiss.

  She found she liked kissing Amon. His lips were warm and firm—not hot like Micah’s, and not at all like Wil Mathis’s sloppy, wet technique. It took Amon a while to break away, and when Raisa looked up, they were encircled by six gawking young cadets in civilian dress, all close to their age.

  “So . . . ah . . . Co
rporal,” one of them said. “You’re right fond of your sister, I guess?”

  Amon’s face was flaming. “Sorry. She has these fits sometimes,” he growled. “She got hit in the head when she was little.”

  “I’m Rebecca Morley,” Raisa said, delivering a little curtsy to the cadets. “Who are you?”

  “We call ourselves the Gray Wolves,” a cadet said. She was a tall sturdy girl a few years older than Raisa. “Or sometimes the Wolfpack. I’m Hallie Talbot.”

  The others gave their names—Garret, Mick, Keifer, Talia, and Wode.

  Now traveling as a group, they crossed South Bridge without further incident and entered the temple close.

  It was like crossing into another world. The temple was surrounded by herb, vegetable, and dye gardens, quilted with torchlit pathways, a serene sanctuary amid the squalor of Southbridge.

  A fair-haired girl in a long dedicate robe greeted them at the door, with a bobbing curtsy.

  “We’re expected,” Raisa said. “We’re here for a meeting with Speaker Jemson.”

  “There’s a trader already arrived,” the dedicate said, eying the guardsmen in their dripping cloaks as if they were sweet buns on a plate. “He’s with Speaker Jemson in the study. It’s just down the hallway on the right. May I take your cloaks?”

  They piled their sodden rainwear into her arms, and she practically staggered under the weight.

  “Shall we wait out here?” Garret asked Amon, obviously leery about being drawn into some kind of philosophical discussion.

  “Yes,” Raisa answered for him.

  Amon looked at Raisa. “Shall I . . . ?”

  “Come with me,” she said. “I think you should know what I’m up to.”

  “Finally,” he muttered ungraciously as they turned into the hallway. “That would be a first.”

  “You should talk,” she said back. “Brother of mine.”

  Speaker Jemson’s study reminded Raisa of the temple library in Fellsmarch Castle—lined with bookshelves, warmed by a cheerful fire. Two men were seated by the hearth in large comfortable chairs—one in the garb of a clan trader, the other in speaker’s robes. They seemed to be immersed in a lively discussion—almost a debate.

  When they entered, the trader rose and turned toward them.

  Raisa stopped in her tracks. “Father! You’re back!”

  “Briar Rose!” Averill crossed the space between them with a few long strides, folding her into his arms. She pressed her face against his doeskin shirt, breathing him in. He always smelled exotic—of deerskin and spice and fresh air and faraway places. By the Maker, she’d missed him.

  “I reached Demonai Camp day before yesterday. When Mother Elena said you’d sent for a trader, I couldn’t resist coming,” he said. Holding her out at arm’s length, he grinned at her. “Raisa, I’ve seen you in leggings and I’ve seen you in court dress, but I can’t say I’ve ever seen you quite like this.”

  “I’m in disguise,” she confessed happily, setting her carry bag on the table and stripping off her wet cloak.

  “But you’re wearing Elena Cennestre’s gift?” he said, touching the Demonai amulet he wore around his neck.

  So her father and grandmother had been talking about her. She nodded and fished the Running Wolves ring from under her bodice.

  “Good,” he said. He took a breath as if he wanted to say something more, but apparently thought better of it. He looked travel weary, and his graying hair needed cutting.

  Speaker Jemson had stood also, and when Raisa turned her attention to him, he bowed respectfully but somehow warily. “Your Highness, Lord Demonai wouldn’t tell me the purpose for your visit, but we are honored to have you here at Southbridge Temple.”

  Raisa extended her hand, and he kissed it. “We’ve never officially met,” she said, “but I’ve heard you speak at temple several times. I was impressed with what you had to say about your school and about our responsibility for ministering to the poor. You suggested that the aristocracy could be doing much more. “

  Jemson colored slightly, but he did not flinch, which Raisa liked. “Ah. Well, Your Highness, I hope you did not take my words as too harshly critical of the queen and council. It’s a topic I’m passionate about, however, and—”

  “Your words were critical, Speaker Jemson, and maybe rightly so,” Raisa said. “In Fellsmarch Castle, we’re insulated against the hardships our people experience every day. We don’t ask questions as we should, and if we do ask questions, those who surround us often tell us what we want to hear.”

  “I suppose that must be true,” Jemson said, in the manner of a man who knows he should guard his tongue but can’t restrain himself. “But it’s frustrating to those of us who are immersed in this city, who see how great the needs are, every day. We can’t help but wonder why so much money goes to support the army and the wars in the south. It seems to me that we have no dog in that fight.”

  “I don’t know much about it,” Raisa admitted, embarrassed. “I want to learn more so I can make good decisions when the time comes. That’s one reason I’m here. But I’d also like to do something in a small way to aid your ministry.”

  “Aid us how?” Jemson asked, looking nonplussed.

  She glanced at Amon, who stood by the door as if guarding it. “Corporal Byrne has been very ...ah ...frank with me about the problems in Southbridge and Ragmarket.” She put her hand on her carry bag. “I would like to provide funds to support your school and to feed the hungry.”

  Jemson raised both eyebrows. “You’ve brought a bag full of gold through Southbridge?” he asked.

  “Well, not exactly.” She looked at her father. “This is where you come in.”

  “I was sure I had a purpose here,” Averill said.

  Raisa unfastened the flap on her bag and dumped the contents onto the table.

  Jemson, Averill, and Amon gaped at the pile of jewelry and art objects.

  “Father, you’re the best trader I know,” Raisa said. “Could you take these things to market and sell them for as much as they will bring? Then give that money to Speaker Jemson for his ministries.”

  Averill leaned over the table, fingering the jewelry, holding precious stones up to the light, picking up one object, then another. He looked up at Raisa. “This is high quality, most of it,” he said. He held up a diamond brooch, a gift from some minor lord in Tamron. “Except for this one. It’s cut glass.” He tilted his head. “Where exactly did these come from?”

  “Well ...” Raisa hesitated. “They’re gifts for my name day. They’re coming in by the wagonload, so . . .”

  Averill laughed, that deep belly laugh she loved. “So you’re selling off the dreams of your hapless suitors, Raisa?”

  “Well.” Raisa shrugged. “It’s not like I’d marry someone because they gave me a bauble.” She frowned and nudged the Tamron brooch with her forefinger. “Though I will not marry someone who takes me for a fool.”

  “Then my work is done, daughter,” Averill said, laughing again.

  It was such a relief to hear someone laughing for a change. It made Raisa feel that maybe things weren’t so bad after all.

  “It’s not like I’ll have much to say about who I marry anyway,” Raisa said, half to herself. She looked up at Averill. “So, Father, how long do you think it will take you to turn this lot into money?”

  He thought a moment. “Marisa Pines market day is a week away. That attracts more flatlander traders, so you might get a better price. Though I’ll take them to Demonai Market if you want me to sell them a greater distance away. Perhaps you don’t want anyone to recognize their hand-chosen gifts on the sale table.”

  “I don’t care,” Raisa said bluntly. “I kept back the pieces that had historic, personal, or political value. Most of these were probably chosen by proxy. None of these gifters have even met me, so it’s not like they’re emblems of undying love. This is a better use for it than sitting in my vault.”

  Speaker Jemson’s face was alight with
plans. “Even a little money could make a huge difference. There are so many things we need at school, so many students who could attend with a little help. We’ll put books into the hands of children who’ve never owned one before. We’ll call it the Briar Rose Ministry in honor of you, Your Highness.”

  “Oh, no,” Raisa said, wondering how her mother, the queen, would react to this. “I’d rather keep this quiet. It’s just something I thought I could do on my own . . .”

  “But don’t you see, Raisa,” her father said, “if people know you’re contributing to Southbridge Temple school, it will make it the stylish thing to do at court. It will attract more donations, beyond your own. People will even donate in your name. If you’re willing to let them know about it, that is.”

  “Oh.” Raisa hadn’t thought of that. Once again she felt caught between her two strong-willed parents. “Well, I suppose. If you think it would help.”

  “Splendid,” Jemson said. “Perhaps you could come back during the day and meet some of the students. It would do them good to see their benefactor. It would send the message that they are important, that their rulers haven’t forgotten them.”

  Raisa nodded. “Well, right. I’d like that. And maybe we could eventually connect them with apprenticeships and clarkships in the castle close.”

  “We’ll need to speak with your mother about that,” Averill said. “When the time is right.”

  Raisa couldn’t help wondering what would happen now that her father was home; how much her father knew about Marianna’s relationship with Gavan Bayar.

  How much did she know about it herself?

  She took Averill’s hand. “Are you coming back with me to court, Father? Does Mother know you’re back?”

  Averill nodded. “Aye. I’ve sent word to the queen.” He hesitated for a heartbeat, then added, “I’m to be at Kendall House until space can be found in the keep.”

  Kendall House was within the castle close, but at some distance from Fellsmarch Castle itself.

  Raisa blinked at him. “Until space can be . . . What about your old apartments? What’s wrong with them?”