by Dave Duncan
Something hissed briefly. Toby tore his attention from the hexer and glanced around the stuffy little room, trying to locate the noise. The roof was very low, the beams barely clearing his head. A ladder in one corner led up to a hatch. The single chair, a table with a striped tablecloth on it, and the remains of a meal, shelves with dishes and pots, an empty coal scuttle, a basket of dirty washing, a desk heaped with papers, an untidy dresser— this kennel was the apothecary's home. The low ceiling had been put in to make a sleeping loft overhead. There was no other door and no window, which explained the stale stink of the place. The extravagance of candles must be Valda's doing. She had made free with her host's hospitality, placing them on table, desk, shelves, even on the floor. The leaden casket on the table was hers, familiar from the dungeon in Castle Lochy.
Hiss! again.
The noise had come from the stove. He looked up. A dark stain disfigured the planks above it. "Blood?"
"Blood," Valda agreed. "Krygon is a messy killer."
He fought down a heaving sensation in his belly. He must not let her see how much she frightened him. "Is that our host up there?"
"And hostess, too, I think. I don't know if there were children—go and look if you are interested."
He shook his head, then yelped in pain as something slammed against his hand. The creature had returned, bringing one of the chairs from the front shop, and had taken the opportunity to strike him with it in passing.
"Krygon, put the wood on the fire," Valda said wearily, "and do not harm the man again—unless I tell you to, or am in danger."
Without a word, the creature proceeded to rip the chair apart and stuff the fragments into the stove. Watching it snap the long members without even putting them over its knee, Toby was impressed, horribly impressed. He knew he could not do that. That was the legendary demonic strength he had seen kill Crazy Colin. Demolition complete, the husk took up a heavy metal poker to mix the new fuel with the hot embers. When it straightened, it turned in his direction. He saw the glitter of eyes within the hood and remembered what Father Lachlan had said about hatred. He would have no chance against that monster, no matter which of them held the poker.
Another drop of blood hit the stove and hissed.
"Now," Valda said, as if coming to business. "I underestimated you, Master Strangerson. I do not recall ever being so wrong about any man before. I thought you were an ox and you turned out to be a notable opponent. I shall take no chances with you in future."
Not an ox, a mule. "Call it a draw and let me go."
She smiled wistfully. "I would, if that were possible. You have certainly earned it. Alas, though, you have something of mine that I cannot give up. Will you please explain to me how you bested me so thoroughly?"
She had abandoned the mocking contempt he remembered. She lacked even the air of a lady addressing a peasant, although she was a very great lady and he an extremely low peasant. His liege lord, Fergan, could not defend him against dangers of her sort—nor against many others, truth be told. Toby had found himself a lord to follow—a good, honest lord, he thought—but one without any real power. This foul hag, on the other hand, could work miracles. She was addressing him as an equal, which felt immensely flattering and also extremely dangerous. He told himself to remember her creatures, the depths of her villainy. A man must never cooperate with such wickedness! The diamond tiara and the painted toenails were the real Valda, not the goodwife dress.
"All I know is that you tried to turn me into one of those." He gestured at the hooded creature that stood with folded arms, still holding the poker and staring at him malevolently.
"No!" she said sharply. "I may be evil by your ways, but I do have standards of my own. I appreciate beauty, for example, and the fitness of things. Even kings do not use gold for chamber pots. I expect you dislike being described as beautiful." She smiled and his heart turned over. Her attention was as potent as strong drink. "Rugged? Virile? At the moment, of course, you are a disaster, but you were an exciting and striking young man before and you will still be an imposing one when you have healed. I shall make sure you heal without too much disfigurement. I would not waste such quality manhood on demonic incarnation. Krygon, let him see."
Toby opened his mouth to protest that he did not want to see, then realized that he would be wasting his breath.
The creature clattered the poker down on the stove and stripped, dropping its robe to the floor. The husk was . . . had been ... a man. Its age was no longer evident, and certainly did not matter now, but perhaps around forty. He had probably been a scrawny specimen, even in his prime. Now he ... it... was a ruin. A few rags still hung on the wasted frame, but they did not hide the filth, dried blood, open sores, the infestation of vermin. The creature's face had been blackened with soot at some time—Toby had thought the four in the dungeon were masked—and it was bearded. There was something wrong with its jaw. One side of its chest was caved in, with jagged ends of ribs protruding from rotted flesh. It leered at him, showing broken fragments of teeth and more bone. The stench of death filled the room.
Toby gagged and edged backward. "How does it live?"
"It doesn't in any normal sense." Valda sounded bored. "It likes to roll in mire and torment itself, because its original owner feels the pain, while it does not. It was in better shape a week ago, but then you dropped a mountain on it. It can't eat; it is almost used up. I shall have to find another husk for it soon, or put it back in its bottle. Won't I, Krygon?"
The thing tried to speak, but the ravaged mouth produced only a slobbering mumble. It nodded its head eagerly.
"So there is a demon for you, Tobias. You see why I would not have wasted your splendid physique on one of those. Never mind . .. you are not cooperating. I realize you have no cause to cooperate with me, and I need your cooperation to discover what went wrong and correct it. Time is short. Dumbarton is under siege, so I must adjust your attitude without delay."
"Siege?" A moment ago he had moved. His feet had obeyed him... No, it was still hopeless, because Krygon could control him at a distance. There was no way he could get out of range fast enough to escape.
Valda rose from her chair. "Siege in a manner of speaking. Normally I wouldn't dare bring an incarnate like Krygon into a warded town, but the tutelary is fully occupied at the moment." She stepped to the table and opened the metal casket. "Oreste is on his way here. He will be accompanied by a whole retinue of creatures, many of them far more steeped in evil than Krygon. Dumbarton has worse worries than me—or you."
Father Lachlan had gone to pray to the tutelary. No help there? The hexer might be lying, of course. She had made her headquarters just inside the burgh limits. Was that significant?
"Krygon, freeze this man."
Instantly, Toby felt a coldness, but even more he felt all his muscles go rigid. He could not even blink. He could breathe, but only with a huge conscious effort, as if his chest were bound with iron hoops.
"I need a lock of your hair," Valda murmured, rising and going to the table. "You will forgive me if I don't trust you just yet?"
At the edge of his field of view, he saw her produce the gold bowl he had seen her use before, and the dagger with the yellow stone. She began doing things, clinking bottles, but at that angle he could make out no details. One thing he could see clearly was the leer of satisfaction on the walking corpse. Its mistress had forbidden it to harm Toby, but it was enjoying his frantic struggle not to suffocate.
"Oreste is after you, of course," she said absently.
All his attention was concentrated on just breathing, and he could not move his lips or tongue to speak anyway.
"And for me also, but mostly you now. He picked up my track when I returned to this country, and he tracked me to Fillan, so he knows about you. You won't have heard of him. He is a cunning adept, very skilled and dangerous, but he is bound to serve Rhym. Rhym is the one you know as King Nevil. Now..."
She strode over to Toby with the dagger and cut
a curl from his head. She took it back to the table. He thought she put it in the bowl and then cut a lock of her own to accompany it, but he could not be sure. She poured liquid from a vial. She said something in a guttural language, of which the only intelligible word was the first: "Krygon." Whenever she gave the creature orders, she began with its name.
"We must complete our business here," she said, "and speedily begone. Whether Oreste or Dumbarton itself is victorious, we must take to the sea before a decision is reached. Neither can track us over the sea—not that the tutelary would, of course...."
She made passes with her hands, speaking more words of gramarye. She came back into view, moving to the stove and placing the bowl on it. Then she lifted the silver chain over her head and held the sapphire high, speaking again in the strange tongue, although this time the words were so soft that Toby could barely make them out. He was close to fainting from lack of air. The demon seemed able to judge his strength exactly, so that he was convinced every breath must be his last and yet he could always force one more. His head swam.
Bluish fire flickered in the golden bowl, sending up faint curls of smoke. The glow brightened as the hexer lowered the sapphire, spinning in small circles within the fumes. Hideous blue light surged to fill the room like a fog, drowning out the candlelight, making Krygon in its rotted rags look more than ever like a corpse. Even Valda lost her humanity for a moment and became a leaden mannequin. Then jewel clinked against metal and the room plummeted back into gloom.
"We'll give it a minute to cool," her voice said quietly. The chair creaked as she resumed her seat. "Fortunately, there are several ships in the harbor at the moment. I shall enjoy a voyage with you, Tobias, once your face has lost its resemblance to an offal bucket. Even if you are still you, I promise you some lessons in the arts of joy. You will be a rewarding pupil."
He could see her again. He felt he was fighting for his life, even though he knew the battle was a fake. The demon had been forbidden to hurt him, but its orders did not say it could not keep him on the very edge of suffocation indefinitely, gradually releasing the pressure as his strength faded. He wondered if Valda had even noticed. If nothing else, she ought to see the lake of sweat around his feet.
He could sweat, but he could not weep, although he knew he was lost. From now on, the hexer would do whatever she wanted with him and he would be helpless to resist. There would be no demonic strength this time, no mystical dum ... dum... He would no longer be King Fergan's man; he would be hers. Whatever power had been in the amethyst was lost to him.
He had been a fool! When he should have been fleeing the country, he had dallied in Inverary Castle until the price on his head was raised so high that every eye in Scotland was looking out for him. Right from the start, he had been a fool to refuse Lady Valda. How could he ever have hoped to evade so great an adept? When she had offered to employ him, at his trial before the laird in Filian, he had spurned her, instead of falling on his knees with tears of joy and gratitude. Even earlier—when he had met her on the road to Bridge of Orchy and first sensed her power, he should have knelt at her stirrup and pledged his heart to her service, in the vain hope such a worthless trifle could be of interest to her. When she had sought him out in dreams, he should not have resisted her call. She was a great lady, with wisdom and power such as he could not even comprehend, and he was a brainless serf, a worthless bastard, ignorant and dimwitted ...
"That should be long enough," Valda said. "Krygon, release him."
The invisible bands vanished. He lunged forward and snatched up the sapphire from the bowl even before he had finished drawing his first free breath. He stood there in bewilderment, gasping for air, the jewel clutched in his clumsy muffled fist, loops of chain hanging free. No, that wasn't right. . . .
Valda chuckled. "Hang it around your neck, boy! It has to be next to your skin."
Oh, of course! He looped the pendant over his head so the jewel was on his chest, dangling just above the fold of his plaid. Then he sank to his knees, very conscious of being a clumsy, stupid, sweaty oaf unworthy even to exist in the same room with so courtly a lady, consort of royalty.
"I have been very wicked to cause you so much trouble, ma'am. I beg you to forgive me, although I know I do not deserve forgiveness. Is there any penance I can do, anything to try and make amends?"
She smiled. "Do you know the Tartar ceremony of obeisance?"
"Not in detail, ma'am."
"Do what you know of it."
He scrabbled forward on hands and knees and began to humble himself before her ... then stopped. The sapphire had swung away from his chest. He straightened again, turned the chain around so the gem lay against his back. Then he was free to crouch down and put his face on the floor.
"I lift your foot?" It would be sacrilege even to touch her.
"Correct."
He took her ankle carefully between his broken fists and laid her foot on his head. It weighed nothing.
"I don't know the words, ma'am!"
"Swear to be my man, in body and mind and soul, to serve me in all ways, to the death."
He swore willingly. She removed her foot.
"Good. Now stand up."
He rose and then, because he felt it was disrespectful to make her crane her neck to see him, he backed away, almost to the door. He would feel happier kneeling in her presence, but she had told him to stand.
Valda smiled. "From this day forward we are partners?"
"No, ma'am! I am your slave!" He had found a far worthier and more potent liege than the outlawed rebel king. She would protect him, and he would serve her to his final breath.
He was her man.
She shrugged, seeming satisfied, and settled back in the chair. "And now you will tell me how you upset my plans so drastically! Do you know what you cost me, Tobias? I have spent many years collecting my little pets, teaching them to hate, training them to serve me. You buried two of them when you pulled down the mountain."
"I am sorry!" he cried.
She chuckled. "You will not offend again. Now tell me—"
A bell tinkled in the apothecary's shop. Valda straightened.
"Krygon, who is that?"
The creature mumbled words that made no sense to Toby, but the lady seemed to understand. "You despicable trash!" she snapped. "I shall make you suffer. And what has he been doing since?"
More gibberish.
She bit her lip and looked at Toby. "Did you understand that?"
"No, ma'am." He had failed her already. How useless he was!
"It says a boy followed you here. He has been prowling around, trying to find another way in, or a window to spy through. There isn't one, of course. This useless near-dead thing did not tell me—demons will obey no farther than they must, whereas mortals like you are eager to please in any way they can. Krygon, go ... No, Tobias, you go. If the boy knows you, your face will not alarm him. Bring him here."
Toby ran. The outer room seemed dazzlingly bright, and despite his eagerness to do what the lady wanted, he paused a moment at the window to let his eyes adjust again. The street outside was just as foggy as before. A man plodded by in the center of the street, leading a horse and cart, and they were gray wraiths.
As soon as they had gone, he unbolted the door and opened it a crack. He peered out at the salty mist. There was no one there.
He could guess who the boy was. He was a devious brat, that one! He would have rung the bell and then retreated to a safe distance until he saw who or what came to answer.
Toby warily put his head out, reluctant to be seen. A few ghostly pedestrians were visible through the fog, but if he could not make them out, they could not see him clearly either.
"Hamish?" he called. "Hamish!"
A face appeared out of a doorway two stores along.
Toby waved. "Come on! It's me!"
Hamish came, but slowly, one step at a time. He looked ready to bolt at any second, and the sickly pallor of his face exactly matched the
fog.
"You all right, Toby?"
"I'm fine! Come on in."
Hamish shook his head violently. "Who else is in there?"
Toby laughed as convincingly as he could. He certainly must not let Hamish Campbell go racing back to the others to raise the alarm. "Friends, believe it or not! We were just about to have breakfast. Come and join us."
Hamish stopped just out of reach and regarded Toby with extreme suspicion. "What friends?"
A couple of women carrying bundles on their heads were emerging from the fog, progressing from pale gray clouds to solid shapes. Tune was running out by the second.
Toby glanced around and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Friends of Master Stringer's."
"Oh. Well, I won't come in, thank you." Hamish stretched out a hand, palm up, offering Granny Nan's amethyst without coming an inch nearer to Toby than he had to. "I just thought you might need this. Er ... what's that chain around your neck?"
5
Toby shouldered the door closed behind him and inarched across the shop to the back room, clutching Hamish to his chest with one brawny arm and keeping his other hand over the boy's mouth. The boy kicked and squirmed helplessly, feet well off the floor.
"Smoothly done, Tobias," Valda said, sounding amused. "What have you brought me?"
The praise sent a rush of pleasure through him. "A whelp named Hamish Campbell, ma'am. But he's got a demon in his hand."
The hexer jumped to her feet. "Does he know its conjuration?"
