The Demon King

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Amon blinked at them. “How did all this happen?”

  The man shrugged. “Search me. This young girl come in looking for her sister, said she was being held in the cells. Sergeant Gillen, he took the girl down to the pit.”

  “A young girl? Who did she want to see?”

  “It was one of them Raggers what Sergeant Gillen’s been interrogating. The next thing I know, all hell’s broken loose and the prisoners are demanding a way out or they’ll cut Gillen’s throat.”

  Well, Amon thought, that’d be a shame, to sacrifice Sergeant Gillen for the good of the realm. Aloud he said, “Who’s their spokesman?”

  “That girl and her sister, I guess. We didn’t know what to do, so we been waiting for word from the captain.”

  “Captain Byrne sent me to—um—investigate.” Amon poked his head into the corridor. The prisoners had stuck torches on either side of the gate, blinding him so he couldn’t see beyond them. “You! In the cells! This is Corporal Byrne. I need to talk to you.”

  “Corporal Byrne? Really?”

  It was Raisa’s voice, and Amon nearly collapsed from relief. He had no idea what she was up to, but she was alive at least, and out of Cuffs’s hands. Now all he needed to do was get her out of there without giving away her identity and raising lots of questions they didn’t want to answer.

  “Yes,” he said. “Ah—who are you?” It seemed like the safest question.

  “I’m Sarie’s sister, Rebecca,” she said, hesitating a little over the name.

  “I’m the officer in command,” he said, feeling foolish as he said it. “Truce for a meeting?”

  He heard a flurry of conversation, more like an argument, and then a new voice said, “You come to us. Unarmed. Hands raised. Try anything and I’ll spit you like a pig.”

  “I wouldn’t do it, sir,” someone said behind him. “They’ll just take you hostage too. We’d best starve them out, I say.”

  Amon unsheathed his sword and handed it to one of the guardsmen. “I’m coming,” he called. “Unarmed. Under truce,” he added, just as a reminder. All the while wondering how this would end. Wondering what his father would do.

  He walked slowly down the corridor, hands in the air. When he reached the gate, he paused. A girl’s rough voice said, “Come ahead,” and he passed between the torches, skin tingling, expecting at any moment to feel the prick of a blade.

  When he entered the cell block, Amon was nearly overwhelmed by the stench of urine and unwashed bodies and the metallic reek of blood. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that he was surrounded by nearly two dozen prisoners of all ages—from children to one cadaverous, matted-haired old man who stared down at his hands, muttering to himself. Several were slumped against the wall, looking ill or injured.

  Two prisoners stepped forward. One was a taller girl wearing an ill-fitting guard uniform. Her face was layered in bruises, her nose badly broken, and those were just the injuries he could see. Alongside her was Raisa, carrying a short sword and clad in trousers and shirt, her hair stuffed under a boy’s cap like some knight’s errant page. Her neck was mottled with bruises and there was a jagged cut over her cheekbone. She looked up at him, green eyes wide, and her finger to her lips. “I’m Rebecca,” she said, in case he’d forgotten. “This is Sarie.”

  At that point Amon didn’t know whether to embrace her or throttle her. So he took a middle path. “Where are Sergeant Gillen and the other guards?” he asked.

  “They’re safe put away in the cages,” the tall girl, Sarie, said, grinning smugly. “Like the animals they are.”

  “What is it you want?” Amon asked.

  “We want safe out of gaol, for one,” Sarie said. “We want the Guard to quit trying to make us confess to something we didn’t do.”

  “We want Gillen reassigned,” Raisa said. “Send him to the borderlands, where people fight back.”

  “Kill ’im!” somebody shouted from the back of the crowd. “Then there’s no chance he’ll come back.”

  “Ah.” Amon cleared his throat. “Could I speak with Rebecca a minute? In private?”

  Sarie looked from Amon to Raisa and shook her head. “If you got something to say, say it to all of us.”

  Amon’s mind raced. “All right. I can bring you out of here, but you’re going to have to give up your weapons, and I’m going to have to take you out under guard.”

  Loud protest erupted from all sides.

  “Listen to me!” For a small person, Raisa had a commanding voice. “Listen,” she repeated. “I know you’ve reason to hate bluejackets. But I know Corporal Byrne, and I know he wouldn’t lie to you.” Then she turned to Amon and demanded, “Why do we have to give up our weapons?”

  Amon leaned in close and spoke so only Raisa could hear, ignoring the dirty looks from the others. “Because it can’t look like I’m setting you free,” he said. “The Bayars have eyes and ears everywhere. They don’t care about dead Southies, but if it looks like I’m loosing criminals on the streets, they’ll use it against my da.”

  Sarie pushed her way between them. “Who are you, anyway?” she asked Raisa. “How come you and this bluejacket are so chummy? You say Cuffs sent you, but he may be dead for all I know. I’ve not even seen him for a year.”

  Amon was losing patience. “If you all don’t want to come, fine. You stay here, but Rebecca’s coming with me.” There was more grumbling all around, and he added, “Take it or leave it.”

  This was followed by a clamor of “Put ’im in the cage with Gillen!” and “We’re leavin’ it, then!”

  But Sarie raised her hand for silence, her eyes locked on Amon’s face. “Fair enough,” she said. “But we’ll take our shivs wi’us, hid under our coats.” She stowed her dagger under her jacket. “And I’m keeping the girlie close to me. Try anything, and she’ll be the first one down.” She put an arm around Raisa and drew her in close, her other hand resting on her weapon.

  Amon’s impulse was to rip Raisa free and drag her away with him, but she looked at him and shook her head, a movement so slight, Sarie missed it.

  “All right,” he said. “Let me . . . give me a minute.”

  He ducked through the doorway, between the torches, and walked back toward the front, painfully aware that his back made a tempting target.

  Back in the duty room, the other guards peppered him with questions, and he had to hold up a hand for silence.

  “They want an audience with the captain,” Amon said. “To tell their grievances. I agreed. So we’re going to bring them out under guard.” Ignoring the muttering of surprise and muted protest, he scanned the crowd and chose out his cadets. “Mick, Hallie, Garret, Wode, Kiefer, come with me.”

  “You want us to jump ’em soon as you’re clear of the cells?” one of the bluejackets asked, fondling his club.

  “No.” Amon looked around the room, meeting every eye. “Nobody so much as touches his weapon. I mean to get them out of here without spilling blood. Any soldier that makes a move on them will be brought up on charges.”

  There was another mutter of protest, but Amon thought they’d follow orders.

  They made a rather odd procession, like refugees from some poorly planned and provisioned war. Twenty-five or so prisoners limped, shuffled, and swaggered at the center, loosely ringed by Amon’s mostly beardless cadets. They marched through the duty room and out the door, crossed the courtyard, and turned onto South Bridge. Guards stared at them, perplexed, as they streamed across. Citizens cleared out of the streets ahead of them, but peered out of windows and leaned out of doorways after they’d passed.

  Amon’s racing heartbeat slowed a bit once they’d made it to the other side of the river. They marched straight down the Way of the Queens until they were out of sight of the guardhouse.

  “Turn here,” he commanded, veering off into a side street. They walked a ways farther, made another turn, and Amon brought the parade to a halt.

  “All right,” he said. “You’re free to go. Just don
’t land in gaol again, all right? That’d be hard to explain.”

  Most of the prisoners melted quickly into the shadows and were gone.

  But Sarie blinked at him, then glanced around, suspicious to the bone. “Just like that? You’re springing us? How come?”

  Because your princess heir commands it, Amon thought of saying. Because I’m a fool. Because I still haven’t figured out how to say no.

  “Because you’ve been ill used,” Amon said. “Because some of us don’t believe in beating a confession out of a person.”

  “Such a pretty speech, Corporal.” And just like that, Cuffs was there with the rest of the Raggers. The Gray Wolves bunched up, prickling with weapons.

  “No worries,” Cuffs said, grinning. “Cat and me just came to meet and greet.” He nodded toward another Ragger, a tall Southern Islander with a scowl on her face.

  “Let’s go,” Cat said, and all of the Raggers, including the three held by the Guard, bled into the surrounding streets. All of the Raggers but Cuffs.

  He came and stood before Raisa, sketching out a little bow. “Rebecca,” he said, “bravo. I do think you’re a Ragger at heart.”

  “She’s not,” Amon said, pushing between them. “If by that you mean she’s a thief and kidnapper.”

  “Amon,” Raisa said, laying a hand on his arm.

  “I’m thinking your girlie don’t seem that happy to see you,” Cuffs said, shaking his head sadly. “I thought she’d be all over you with happiness, and not even a chaperone kiss.”

  “I’m thinking you should answer for taking her,” Amon said. “I want to know what you . . .” He swallowed hard. “I want to know if you’ve hurt her in any way.”

  “I’m fine,” Raisa interjected, pressing her fingers into the flesh of his arm. “He never touched me.”

  Amon looked down into her face. She raised her eyebrows, signaling him to leave off.

  “What about the dead Southies?” Amon went on, not able to help himself. “Convince me you weren’t involved.”

  “You going to put me on the rack, then, like the others?” Cuffs asked, still smiling, though it looked kind of frozen to his face. “Yank out my fingernails? Smash my—”

  “You stop it!” Raisa said sharply. “Amon is not a torturer. He was the one who freed your street runners from gaol. If not for him, I—”

  “They’re not my street runners,” Cuffs interrupted.

  “Fine,” she said, glaring at him.

  “Fine,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  Amon was beginning to feel a little extraneous. “You know Gillen’s going to come after you again,” he said to Cuffs. “It’d be better to turn yourself in.”

  “Would it? Let me think about it . . . No thanks,” Cuffs said. “I’ll be off, then. Good luck with your girlie, mate. I think you’ll need it.”

  And before anything more could be said, he’d turned the corner and was gone.

  Aflame with anger and embarrassment, dizzy with relief, Amon whistled for his triple, and they assembled around him, jittery as colts.

  “First of all, great work, everyone,” Amon said. “You should all be proud to have pulled this off without any bloodshed.” The Wolfpack elbowed each other and grinned. “Second of all, nobody says a word to anybody about what happened over here. Don’t ask questions, because I can’t answer them. This is the queen’s business. The fewer who know about it the better.”

  Their faces fell, and Amon knew hopes of tavern bragging and free rounds of drinks were evaporating.

  “Now. We’re going to take Rebecca back to the castle close,” Amon said. “Fall in.”

  Amon marched his little army back to the Way and turned toward Fellsmarch Castle. The guardsmen walked a few paces ahead and behind, giving Raisa and Amon a little space in which to talk.

  “What’s going on?” Raisa whispered. “Is my mother furious or worried or both?”

  “Furious,” Amon said. “The queen is fuming, and Lord Bayar is making all kinds of threats. But not for the reasons you’d guess. My da and Lord Averill told her you went back to Demonai for a week for some kind of name day clan ritual.”

  Raisa blinked at him. “They did? Why did they say that?”

  Amon cleared his throat. “My da is worried that if news gets out about you spending the night with a streetlord, your prospects for marriage might be . . . diminished.”

  She stared at him. “I’m the blooded princess heir of the Fells,” she declared through gritted teeth, those green eyes dark as the deep ocean. “Any prince or noble in the entire Seven Realms should be thrilled to marry me. No questions asked.”

  Her voice was getting louder and louder, and Amon put his finger to his lips. “Shhh. I agree, and Da agrees, but the southern princes have . . . old-fashioned ideas about women,” he said. “They think brides should be . . . pure . . . when they come to . . . Bones, Raisa, just trust me, all right?”

  His face was flaming. He shouldn’t be having this conversation with the princess heir of the Fells. It was just wrong.

  “And we want to keep those options open since we think, I mean, Da thinks it might be more advantageous for you to marry south than to marry someone within the realm . . .”

  “And he thinks this because . . . ?”

  “Well. Because we may need allies when the Ardenine wars are over,” Amon said lamely. And Lord Bayar seems to be against it, he added to himself.

  “So now the captain of my Guard and one of his officers are laying plans for whom I should marry,” Raisa said in that quiet voice that meant trouble. “And dithering over my reputation like two old aunties.”

  “Anyway,” Amon said hurriedly, hoping to bring this conversation to a quick close, “he thought it best if we avoid that whole thing by—”

  “By lying to his liege queen?”

  “Well, yes. Basically.” Amon cleared his throat, feeling the blood rush to his face.

  She paced along, taking two steps for his one, her dark brows drawn together. “So nobody knows about ...about the trip into Southbridge, and the kidnapping, or anything?”

  “Different people know pieces. The Queen’s Guard has been searching for a girl named Rebecca. My triple thinks you’re my . . . sweetheart.” He looked over at Raisa. “What does Cuffs know?”

  She shrugged. “He thinks I’m your sweetheart too, I guess,” she said wryly.

  Amon felt a spark of optimism. “So maybe this will work,” he said. He glanced over at her, wanting to ask for a rundown of everything that had happened since she was grabbed from the temple.

  Something had happened between them, of that he was certain, and he didn’t like it. One overnight with Cuffs Alister, and Raisa had turned into some kind of outlaw. So he said, “Are you ...are you sure you’re all right? That ... Cuffs ...did he ...?”

  “Me? I’m fine,” she said distractedly. “But we’ve got to do something about the Guard. They’re torturing people. That old man who came out with us? He had been down in the pit for fifteen years. Mac Gillen is a heartless brute.”

  “So you went into the guardhouse . . . to rescue them?” Amon was still trying to understand.

  “I went in to see if what Cuffs said was true. He told me he wouldn’t submit to the queen’s justice because there is no justice. And he was right.”

  “Not everyone’s like Gillen,” Amon said, feeling the need to defend the Guard. “And you can’t believe what Cuffs says. He’s accused of murdering eight people.”

  “But it was true. What he said. And I don’t believe he did those killings. He thought the Raggers did it. And he hasn’t been with the Raggers for a year.”

  Maybe it was all an act for your benefit, Amon thought, but didn’t dare say it aloud. “If not him, then who?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said irritably. “You’re the one in the Guard.”

  “Don’t forget,” he said, “he sent you in to rescue his friends. How would it be if you’d escaped from a streetlord only to be killed by your
own Guard?”

  “I didn’t escape. He let me go. And he didn’t send me. I went on my own.”

  “But you can’t take chances like this,” Amon exploded. “Things are unstable enough as it is. We can’t risk a change of succession.”

  “The succession, the bloody succession. Well, if you ask me, the lineage of queens is like a chain around my neck,” Raisa muttered. “I’m no good to anybody if these kinds of things are being done in my name. And I expect you to help me stop it.”

  With that she strode on in silence, hands fisted at her sides.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Demons in the Street

  Han didn’t know whether to hope his mother was home or not. It might be a long time before he saw her again, but he just didn’t think he could deal with more drama.

  He wrinkled his nose as he mounted the stairs, catching a whiff of cabbage cooking, a scent that always meant hard times.

  When he pushed open the door, Mam and Mari looked up from the book they were reading.

  A book?

  “Han!” Mari squealed, scrambling to her feet. She charged across the room and fastened herself to his leg like the lamprey eels from faraway oceans he’d read about in one of Jemson’s books. “I’ve got a book all my own! Speaker Jemson handed them out. He said the Princess Raisa bought them for us. He says I can keep it.”

  “That’s great, Mari,” Han said, distracted, looking over Mari’s blond head at Mam, hoping for a clue. His mother’s expression mingled relief and apprehension.

  “Thank the Maker,” she said. She crossed the room and pulled him into her arms, awkwardly patting his back. “The Guard’s looking for you,” she said, smoothing down his hair. “They been all over Ragmarket, asking after you. Sergeant Gillen, he’s in a fury. They said you busted some Raggers out of gaol.”

  How come he always got the blame? “Not exactly,” he said, thinking Mam must have been really worried to skip the lecture. “Have they been here?”