When Demons Walk

by Patricia Briggs

  Talbot looked at the Cybellian and smiled slowly. “I’d like that.”

  The Reeve turned to speak to Sham and then took two steps forward until he could peer into the windowless bedroom. “Did you see where the boy went?”

  The newly appointed Captain of the Guard shook his head.

  “Nay,” said Talbot, “but that one’s a wee bit canny.”

  At the Reeve’s puzzled look, he explained further. “I mean he has the reputation of being a magician. I’ve seen him here and there, and asked around. Most of the folk in Purgatory leave him alone because he’s a right hand with magic—that includes the guardsmen.” Talbot hesitated then nodded his head at the old man’s slight form. “He seemed pretty upset by the old man’s death. Wouldn’t want to be in the killer’s shoes right now. I’d rather face a crazed boar than anger a sorcerer.”

  Sham watched from a corner of the room that the three men had ignored, thanks to her magic. She wished they would hurry and go; she wasn’t certain how much longer she could hold the spell.

  The Reeve knelt to examine Hirkin’s body. “After the way he threw this thing at Hirkin, I’d be more worried about his knife.”

  Talbot shook his head and muttered something that sounded like “Easterners.”

  LONG AFTER THEthree men had left, Sham huddled on a nearby rooftop and watched the old man’s cottage burn to ashes without scorching either of the buildings next to it. She closed her eyes wearily and shivered in the warmth of her magical flames.

  THREE

  For the past several days Sham had been following the new Master of Security as he haunted the back streets of Purgatory looking, according to the Whisper, for her. The contrariness of it pleased her, and she’d had little enough else to do.

  Neither she nor the Whisper had been able to find out who or what had killed Maur, though they’d found several other victims, ranging from nobleman to thief. Four days ago one of the Whisperers told her that Talbot was looking for her and that she might be interested in what he had to say. It could be something about the Chen Laut, or perhaps something more sinister.

  With Maur gone, she hadn’t continued her attempt to exact vengeance; somehow there was no point in it. The last thieving she’d done was the night Maur died almost three months before. Even so, if Talbot wanted to he could tie her to any number of her past crimes and have her hung. She didn’tthink the Whisper would help him do that, but the Shark was unpredictable.

  She watched Talbot from an abandoned building near the docks as he spoke to an old woman who shook her head. The Southwoodsman was greatly changed. It wasn’t his clothing—brown and grey look pretty much the same no matter how good the fabric. He hadn’t changed the way his grizzled, light-brown hair was pulled back and tied, though she thought his beard might be closer clipped than before. His features were still arranged in a good-natured fashion that made her want to like him despite her suspicious nature.

  The difference, she decided, was that he’d lost the perpetual fear that haunted everyone forced to live in Purgatory: fear of hunger, fear of death, fear of living—and the hopelessness that traveled hand in hand with the fear. Like the Shark, Talbot had become a shaping force rather than another of the helpless vermin who infested Purgatory.

  All her fears of hanging aside, would someone of his current rank spend three days looking for her just to arrest her? She was a good thief, but she was careful too. She never took anything irreplaceable, and never really hurt anyone if she could help it—she avoided anything that would lend urgency to her capture.

  With sudden decision, she stopped following him and climbed easily to the roof of one of the buildings nearby. She skittered cautiously across the moldering rooftop and down into the alley behind it, startling several raggedly clothed youths. Before they decided if she was worth attacking, she was up and over the next building and dropping to the street beyond.

  From the paths Talbot had followed the previous days, she surmised he was headed for one of the taverns she occasionally frequented. She took a path through vacant buildings and twisted thoroughfares, saving several blocks over the distance Talbot would have to cover. Near the tavern, she found an alley he should pass by and settled in to wait.

  When Talbot walked by her, oblivious to her presence, some sense of reluctant caution almost kept her silent. In direct defiance of her instincts of self-preservation, Sham spoke.

  “Master Talbot.”

  She was pleased when her theatrical whisper caused the old sailor to crouch defensively. There was a smile on her face as she assumed a relaxed pose against the brick wall of an abandoned building.

  He straightened and looked at her. Her father had used the same look when she had done something that displeased him. At ten it had made her squirm; now it only widened her smile.

  “The Whisper has it that you have been looking for me,” she said.

  He nodded in response to her question. “That I have, Sham. I was told ye might be interested in doing some work for me.”

  “Youdo know what I do?” she asked, raising her eyebrows incredulously.

  Again he nodded. “Aye. That’s why I’ve sought ye out. We’re needing someone to sneak in and out of the houses. The Whisper gave us a number of folk who might do. Yer name was particularly recommended—” then he smirked at her, “Shamera.”

  She laughed and leaned more comfortably against the wall. “I hope that you didn’t spend too long looking for a thief called Shamera.”

  The Shark wouldn’t have told Talbot, if he’d thought the sailor would spread her identity around. But, she wasn’t certain she cared either way; with the Old Man dead, only his promise kept her in Landsend. In Reth there were no Easterners and a wizard could make a fair living.

  “No.” Easy humor lit his blue-gray eyes. “But I’ve got to admit the purse was sadly lightened by the time I found out exactly who I’d be looking for. I’d never have thought that Sham the thief was a girl.”

  She grinned. “Thanks. I’ve had a few years of practice, but it’s good to know I’m convincing in my role. I take it you got your information from the Shark—he enjoys making people pay twice for the same goods.”

  Talbot nodded. “Dealing with the Shark directly is more expensive than buying the same information from his men, but it’s faster and more complete. ’Tisn’t my gold I’m spending, and the Reeve’s more interested in quality than price.”

  “I’ve heard that the Reeve has been confined to a chair,” said Sham impulsively. She’d liked the Reeve despite his heritage, and was half-hoping the rumor had it wrong.

  Talbot nodded; a shadow of sorrow chased his usual cheerful expression off his face. “Right after the fight with Lord Hirkin. Says he’s got an old injury that’s been worsening since it happened. He’ll stay steady on for weeks and then he’ll have an attack that’ll cripple him up something bad. After a few days it’ll ease off, but he’s never as good as he was when it started.”

  Daughter of a soldier, she knew what confinement in a chair meant. They were used mainly for the old, who had difficulty moving, but occasionally a fighter would have the ill luck to survive a back injury. One of her father’s men had.

  He’d been slammed in the lower back by a mace that crushed his spine. For a summer he’d sat in his chair and told stories to Sham; sometimes even years later she’d call up that soft tenor voice and the visions of great heroes.

  She’d overheard the apothecary tell her father that when a man lost the movement of his legs it interfered with the flow of his vital essences. Anyone who stayed confined to a chair was headed for an early pyre. Some died quickly, but for others it was a slow and unpleasant death. The autumn winds had brought an infection that her father’s man was too weak and dispirited to fight off and he was gone.

  She remembered the Reeve’s lithe strength as he wielded the blue sword and decided that she didn’t like the thought of him crippled in a chair—it was like the wanton destruction of a beautiful piece of art.


  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.

  “His health is one of the reasons that we need ye, girl,” said Talbot gruffly.

  “You’ll have to tell me more of what you want of me before I decide to take on your job.”

  Talbot nodded his head. “I’ll do that. We’ve a killer here at Landsend.”

  Sham said dryly, “I know several dozen; would you like to meet one?” Not by a twitch did she reveal her sudden alertness.

  “Ah, but ye don’t know one like this, I’m thinking,” replied Talbot, shifting toward her. “The first victims seemed random—a spit boy at a tavern near the new port, a cooper, the Sandman. It started, as nearly as I can figure, from Hirkin’s books, seven or eight months ago.”

  “The Sandman?” said Sham, surprised. “I’d heard he’d ruffled some feathers when he took out a contract the assassins’ guild hadn’t approved.”

  “That’s as it may be, but I don’t think the guild had anything to do with his death. He died without a sigh or a squeak while his mistress was sleeping beside him. She woke up to find her man cut to ribbons.” Talbot waited.

  “Like the Old Man,” said Sham, since he’d already drawn the parallel himself.

  “I thought that would snare yer interest,” said Talbot with satisfaction. “The last five victims have been nobles, and the Court is beginning to fret. Himself thinks it might be a noble doing it, and he wants someone to search houses for evidence. If his health were better, the Reeve would have done the investigating himself; instead he sent me to find a thief who would do the job without robbing the nobles blind. Someone who could blend in with them.” Talbot met Sham’s eye. “Ye might as well be knowing that I added to the requirement ’cause I don’t think, myself, that our killer is a noble—though I believe he’s very much at home among the nobles. And we have a source”—there was an odd emphasis on the word “source”—“that says it’s in the Castle at least sometimes and it isn’t human. Himself, being Eastern, dismissed the last part, but is almost convinced of the first.”

  “Whatdo you think the killer is?” asked Sham, lowering her eyes so he couldn’t read her thoughts in them.

  “I think it’s a demon,” he said.

  Sham looked up, and repeated softly, “A demon.”

  “Aye,” he nodded slowly. “A demon.”

  “Why would you think that?” smiled Sham, as if she’d never heard of the demon called Chen Laut.

  “Sailor’s superstition,” he answered readily enough. “I know the stories, and the killings fit. The last noble was killed in his locked room. They had to take an axe to the door to get to him and there were no passages that anyone could find.If it is a man, all ye have to do is search the houses. If it isn’t, I’d rather have a wizard around to deal with it.”

  “You overestimate my abilities,” she commented. “Officially, I’ve not been released from my apprenticeship.”

  “Maur,” said the sailor softly, “was a man who left an impression wherever he went. He came to the ship I served on from time to time—saw to it that I learned to read and write. I’d rather have his apprentice than any master wizard I could name. Besides, the Shark assures me that ye are as capable as any wizard left here in Landsend.”

  “Ah.” Sham wondered how many other people had known who the Old Man had once been.

  “Ye owe the Reeve for yer rescue,” said Talbot softly. “Wizard or not, there were too many people for ye to handle on yer own. Himself pays well, but if that is not enough, add the satisfaction of finding yer master’s killer.”

  Sham’s eyebrows rose and she shrugged, as if it were no great matter—never let them know what bait you’ll jump for or how high. “Maybe you’re right. In any case, I certainly oweyou . When do you want me at the Castle?”

  The former sailor narrowed his eyes at the early morning sun that was creeping slowly to lighten the sky against the rooftops of Purgatory. “His words were, I believe, ‘as soon as you find her.’ I’d be thinking then,now would be a good time.”

  THECYBELLIANS HADa taste for color that was almost offensive to Southwood eyes. The servants of the Castle, Easterner and Southwoodsmen alike, were arrayed in jewel tones of sapphire, ruby, topaz, emerald, and amethyst. Talbot appeared underdressed in his brown and grey.

  One of the blank-faced servants snickered behind them as Sham followed Talbot through the entrance hall. Still walking, she rubbed conspicuously at one of the smaller stains on the front of her leather jerkin. Then she spat loudly on it and rubbed some more while she looked for a better means of retaliation. The carefully placed, bejeweled trinkets that littered every available surface caught her eye.

  Walking slightly behind Talbot, she picked up a gold-and-ruby candlestick from the entrance of a long formal meeting hall and carried it with her the length of the room. She set it down casually on a small table inside the far door, smiling inwardly as a footman sighed with relief—not noticing that the small figurine than had occupied the table was now in a pocket of the full sleeve that covered her left arm.

  The figurine was encrusted with green gemstones that Sham thought might be diamond rather than emerald in the quick glimpse she’d managed before secreting it away. If so, the statuette of the dancing girl was worth far more than the candlestick that she could hear someone rushing to restore to its former position.

  The foolery distracted her from the fact that the last time she’d walked through this hall it had been strewn with bodies, many of whom she’d known. As they passed by the doorway she could still picture the young guardsman who had lain there in a limp heap, blind eyes staring at her. Only a little older than she had been, he’d asked her to dance one evening and talked about his dreams of adventure and travel.

  Sham winked at a timid maidservant who was staring at the lad in the ragged clothes. The maid blushed, then winked back, smoothing her bright yellow gown with calloused hands.

  Talbot led Sham into the private wings. The difference was immediately apparent from the lack of servants standing ostentatiously in the corridors. This was an area of the Castle she wasn’t familiar with, and she felt some of her tension dissolve.

  There were none of the richly woven rugs that were scattered around the floors in the public rooms, but she thought that it might be a recent modification to accommodate a wheeled chair. No small tables littered the halls as they had elsewhere; there was nothing the wheels of the Reeve’s chair would catch on.

  She bit her lip and the little statuette in her sleeve made her increasingly uncomfortable: the Old Man would not have approved. The Reeve had enough things to deal with; he didn’t need to worry that the thief he’d been forced to ask for help was untrustworthy enough to steal from him. She looked for an innocuous little table to set the stupid thing on, but Talbot’s path seemed to be confined to the denuded corridors that twisted and snaked back and forth.

  Finally they came to a narrow hall that bordered the outside of the Castle. On one side was the finished marble that pervaded the castle but the other side was rough-hewn white granite from an earlier age. The hall ended abruptly in a wall with a plain door; Talbot stopped and tentatively rapped on it with his knuckles.

  He raised his hand to knock a second time, but stopped when the door opened smoothly to reveal another one of the bland-faced servants that Sham was developing a hearty dislike for—a dislike that was compounded by the dancer in her sleeve. If it hadn’t been for that bland I-am-a-servant expression she wouldn’t have taken the blasted thing in the first place. She glowered at the wiry man who held the door.

  “The Reeve was expecting you, Master Talbot. Come in.” His voice was as expressionless as his face.

  Giving in to the impulses that had often brought her grief in the past, Sham slipped the statuette into her hand and gave the valet the little dancer with her glittering green eyes and begemmed costume.

  “Someone is bound to have missed this by now.” Her tone was nonchalant. “You might take it to the first long room to the right of
the main entrance and give it to one of the footmen.”

  A brief snort of masculine laughter emerged from a darkened corner of the room. “Dickon, take the stupid thing to the emerald meeting room and give it to one of my mother’s servants before they shrivel with terror.”

  With no more than a slight nod of disapproval, the manservant left the room holding the statuette in two fingers as though it might bite him.

  Sham looked at the expansive room that managed somehow to appear cluttered. Part of the effect was caused by the way the furniture had been arranged to be easily accessible by a wheeled chair, but most of it was the result of the wide variety of weaponry and armament scattered on walls, benches, and shelves.

  “Thank you, Talbot, I see you found her.” As he spoke, the Reeve wheeled into the light that drifted into the room through colored glass panels of the three large windows high on the outer wall. Although the original builders of the Castle had planned on the building being fortified, later Southwood Kings had added a second curtain wall and traded safety for comfort and light.

  Sham was surprised at how unaltered the Reeve seemed. Though confined to the chair, the silk of his thin tunic revealed the heavy muscles in his upper arms and shoulders. Even without the bulk of the chainmail he’d been wearing the night of the Spirit Tide, he was a big man. She couldn’t tell anything about his lower body because it was wrapped in a thick blanket.

  “Have you satisfied your curiosity?” There was bitterness in his voice, though the man’s innate courtesy kept him speaking Southern rather than his native tongue.

  Sham looked up into his face and saw there the changes she hadn’t seen in his body. Pain darkened his eyes to black and made his skin grey rather than the warm brown it had been. Lines she didn’t remember seeing before were etched deeply around his eyes and from nose to lips.