“No, you fool. Walk them. And tell the sergeant to note your time of arrival and find some work for you. We’ll have no southland slackness here.”
He led off his troop at a canter which rapidly became full gallop. Borrick, a man with a florid face and a moustache flaring high to cover the greater part of his cheeks, said, “Get a move on, boy. The lieutenant’s not a man to cross, and I’m not going to cross him on your account. You too, in the yellow dress. And no veil.” He looked to his companion, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t believe it, would you?”
• • •
We had more than an hour’s hard walk, urged on by Trooper Borrick with occasional suggestions of moving us faster with the point of his sword, before we reached a palisaded camp. The lieutenant and his troop overtook us as we arrived; he had some prisoners and a couple of loose horses in tow and looked even more pleased with himself. After consulting a senior officer, he announced we were to be sent on to General Ramsay, who I presumed was the ruler of this territory. It was a relief to hear we were being provided with horses for the final stage.
The camp was in open country, but it was not long before the road was lined with houses and soon we were in a town. The houses seemed more closely packed than in the south and had, I thought, a meaner look, but my view may have been influenced by the weather, which had gloomed badly. It was colder, too.
In the center of the town, a grim building rose higher than the rest and looked out on a square about a hundred yards across. At the far side, a towerlike structure stood more than three times higher. There were some, Mordecai had said, whose Demons appeared from old chimney stacks. We were in the territory of the Stack people.
I could do no more than register an impression of this before our horses clattered through an arch into a courtyard. It was nothing like the courtyard at the villa: There were no lawns or gardens, nothing in any way decorative. Massive gray stone walls were studded with small, ugly windows. It might have looked less forbidding on a better day, but it wasn’t easy to imagine the sun ever shining on such a barrack.
We were handed over to a man in gray uniform, who locked us in a ground floor room furnished with a table and one chair, with nothing relieving the grubby brown walls except a barred window that overlooked the courtyard. From time to time figures shuffled across it, and I commented to Paddy that the women all wore black.
She nodded. “Black hats, black dresses—black shoes, probably, if the dresses weren’t too long to see them. And black coverings over their faces.”
“Veils?”
“They must be.”
We had a closer view when the guard ushered in a woman bringing food. The black dress draped her like a tent, and her hair was tucked in under a broad-brimmed hat, her face invisible behind black muslin suspended from the brim. One could not tell even whether she was old or young. She put down the tray and left without speaking.
The food was disgusting—an almost cold stew of gristly meat, disintegrating potato, and slimy onion—but we were too hungry to spurn it. After that we sat and waited. Eventually the guard came back and told us we had been summoned to the General’s presence.
The room we were taken to was more than a hundred feet square, and the General’s chair stood on a dais against the rear wall. It was a large chair, but he needed every inch of it. He was tall and broad, and his folded hands rested on the swell of an enormous belly. One leg, in a crimson knee-high stocking, was supported on a cushioned stool. His tunic was crimson too, with short sleeves revealing plump, hairy arms. His fat face sported a ginger moustache with waxed and curled ends, and his neck was heavily jowled. Yet the center of his face—a triangle of long, narrow nose, pinched mouth, small eyes set close—gave an impression of meagerness.
When we got within a couple of yards of the dais, the guard pushed me hard in the back. I staggered but kept my footing. He put both hands on my shoulders and forced me to my knees.
“No manners, eh, boy?” General Ramsay’s voice was also fat: loud and hearty. “That makes it certain you’re from the south. Which town?”
“From no town, sir.” He frowned, and I went on quickly, “From the Western Isles.”
“Ah.” He looked at me with sudden interest. “The Western Isles, you say? And of about the right age. Fourteen?” I nodded, and he stroked his moustache. “A boy of fourteen from the Western Isles . . . it’ll bear looking into.”
He turned to Paddy. “As for you . . . no veil! I suppose that could be expected with a girl from the south. But I wouldn’t expect even a southland wench to wear so scandalous a color.” He stared hard. “Nor show her legs. And as mannerless as the boy, seemingly. Were you not taught that a female curtsies to her master?”
“No,” Paddy said. “No one has taught me that.” Her voice was stiff.
“I see.” He leaned forward, straining over his belly. “Well, you will have chance to learn—that lesson, and others.” He said to the guard standing behind us, “Give her to the women to be properly dressed. And tutored. Secure the boy in one of the upper rooms. When I say secure, I mean it. You’ll answer if anything goes wrong.”
Paddy was handed over to another guard and taken toward the rear of the building. I was led upstairs and installed in a room a little bigger than the first and a little less stark: It had a narrow bed as well as a chair and table, and a fireplace which, though empty, showed evidence of past fires. The guard gestured toward a bell-pull beside it.
“That’s in case you need anything, but I’d think twice before you use it. Less trouble you give, less you get.”
He was a wiry little man with a thin black moustache; he cocked his head to one side as he studied me.
“Seems the General has an interest in you. I don’t know what it is, but I wouldn’t bank on profiting from it. He changes his mind frequent, and quick. Keep your head down, and do as you’re told. That’s been my policy through life, and I’ve seen off plenty who thought they knew better. From the Western Isles? Where’s that, then?”
I explained briefly, and he shook his head. “Can’t think why that should take his fancy. What’s your name?” I told him. “Well, Ben, why do you think he wants you kept so special safe?”
I said I had no idea—and didn’t. I doubted if General Ramsay even knew Sheriff Wilson’s name, and he was plainly no friend to Pengelly—a bitter enemy, if the routed cavalry meant anything. The guard shrugged.
“Anyway, it’s naught to me. I’ll not give you a hard time, so long as you give me an easy one. If not, I warn you’ll know all about it. No more trouble than’s necessary—that’s my policy. I’ve always kept my head down, but I’ve carried no man’s can, nor will a boy’s.”
He moved to the window. “You’ve an outside view to see the world go by. Market day tomorrow, and a Summoning at nightfall. You’ll have a good sight of the Demons.” He laughed. “And a sight right now of what came of last week’s Summoning. Never mind, they’ll clear it by dusk and freshen the air.”
I waited until he had left before going to the window. At first I could see nothing out of the ordinary: a couple of carts drawn by weary horses, people walking by, children bowling hoops, a sweeper leaning on his broom—normal sights of a normal afternoon.
But looking further off, I saw something else. At the foot of the tower there was a wooden contraption, not unlike the stocks on Sheriff’s. This one, though, was not designed to hold its prisoner face down, but face up, staring skyward. There was someone in it now.
What was also different was the absence of the usual jeering onlookers. People in the square seemed to give that quarter a wide berth, in fact. No one I saw went within thirty yards, and one man made a considerable detour to avoid it.
Realizing that, I realized something else: During the time I had been looking out the figure that lay there had not moved. And this was not the immobility of sleep: I was staring at a corpse.
• • •
The sky continued leaden, and the wind blowing in through my c
ell window stayed cold. I thought of warmer and sunnier days, and of Mordecai. He had given me the gun, his own inheritance, and within a day I had lost that too. Most likely it would lie in the hedge where I had thrust it until winter stripped the bramble of leaves, and then be a lucky find for a sharp-eyed passerby.
I had the knife still, and fingered it in my pocket. I supposed I ought to be employing it in some enterprise such as cutting the lock out of the door, but did not feel inclined to try. It was a very solid-looking door.
A woman brought supper—bread and cheese and sour milk—and the guard with the thin moustache stood by while I ate. He told me he had a boy of his own, a year younger than I was.
“Joe Johnson, like his father, and grandfather before that. He’s a good lad. I can tell you he won’t get himself in trouble, traipsing off to foreign parts.”
His was not company I would have chosen under better conditions, but he seemed, apart from his callousness about the body beneath the tower and his passion for staying out of trouble, as amiable as one could expect of a landsman. He also seemed more than willing to talk, and there were things I might usefully learn. I asked about his son, and he answered with ready pride. The boy was a good runner and could use his fists. He had the makings of a guard, when he was older.
“And it’s no bad job for a man.” He spoke from the window. “Better than many. I see they’re taking that one away, which means it’s an hour past sunset, if there was a sun to see. Better than corpse-carrying certainly, especially a corpse six days dead.”
“What happened to him?”
“What do you mean, what happened to him?” He turned from the window. “Condemned to the Demons. What else?”
“Why? What did he do wrong?”
Johnson scratched his head. “The General did say, but I don’t rightly recollect.”
I asked further and learned more. Condemnation to the Demons, unknown in the south, was a common occurrence here. Two weeks would be an unusual interval to pass without a sentencing, four unheard of. And it was the General, not the Summoner, who did the condemning.
The matter-of-fact way in which Johnson detailed the procedure was almost worse than gloating would have been. The victim was condemned prior to the Summoning and, following the appearance of the Demons, was roped to the Demons’ Chair. After that the crowd dispersed to their homes and no one ventured out again, because during the night the Demons returned. This time they were seeking blood, and though a sacrifice had been prepared for them there was no certainty some other morsel of humanity might not prove tempting.
So doors were bolted, shutters tightly drawn. Those living close by would hear the howling of the Demons and, for a while, the screams of the victim. Not for long. In due course silence fell again, and the good citizens thanked the Dark One that they were spared, and went to bed.
I was both horrified and fascinated. “What do the Demons do to them?”
“Shred their hearts within their living bodies,” Johnson said. “You can tell by their faces next morning. Though no one looks close, not even the corpse-carriers. But their wrists are always bloody. That’s from struggling to get free, when the Demons swoop.”
• • •
Market day provided a livelier view from my window. The square was thronged with carts and rows of stalls. The Demons’ Chair stood empty, and people no longer avoided that area. A stall had been erected right beside it from which sweetmeats were being sold. I heard the cry of the salesman—“Toffee apples! Peppermint candy!”—and felt my stomach turn.
I thought of the life we had known in the Isles, and of our carefree wanderings with the gypsies, and wondered that this scene could be part of the same world. I wondered about Paddy too, and asked Johnson when he next appeared. He shrugged indifferently. She was being trained for a servant; as a southlander she’d have plenty to learn.
It would be unwise, I reckoned, to show too much curiosity, so I left it at that. Or to try to do things too quickly. The best plan was to gain Johnson’s confidence over a period of days, at the same time gleaning as much as I could about the general situation. Neither my own confinement nor her being instructed in a servant’s duties was a great hardship. Eventually, if we caused no bother and kept our wits about us, there would be an opportunity for meeting and working out a way of escape. We had plenty of time for it.
Toward the end of the afternoon market activity slackened, and the traders started packing up unsold wares and dismantling their stalls. Carts had entered the square that morning along several roads, and I expected a similar exodus, but though they formed up in lines they did not move off. Instead the tradesmen left them and made their way toward the gate leading to the General’s house. They were joined by townspeople; soon there was a crowd converging on it.
As I was wondering about this, the door was flung open and Johnson stood there. In a brisker, more peremptory voice, he said, “General’s court. Everyone attends. Look sharp!”
He ignored my questions as he shepherded me downstairs and through a milling mass to a place at the front of the hall. The General’s chair was empty, but there was a note of excitement and expectancy in the hum of voices. And there was the smell of a mob: unwashed and sour. Apprehension prickled the back of my neck. Why had I been brought here? Everyone attends, Johnson had said, but that might have been a way of making things easier for himself—he boasted of his skill in avoiding trouble. I moved, and his grip tightened on my arm.
There was a green door in the wall behind the dais, and the hum increased as it opened. Two guards appeared, followed by General Ramsay and a small boy similarly dressed in crimson, then two more guards. The guards took up posts on either side as he lowered his bulk into the chair; the boy put the stool in position and carefully raised the General’s foot to rest on it.
The General’s raised hand brought silence.
“Market day,” he said, “and Demon’s night to follow. That’s the custom of our land and the will of the Dark One. It’s also custom that a court be held to sentence evildoers.” He rubbed his cheek. “Bring in Harold Openshaw.”
Two of the guards went out and returned, half leading, half dragging a small, thin man, gray in both hair and face and sweating with fear.
“Harold Openshaw,” the blustering voice declared. “Well known as a thief. Twice convicted, and now caught a third time, robbing from the Widow Galbraith. A month at hard labor for the first offense, two months for the second. What would you expect for the third but the Demons’ Chair?”
Openshaw opened his mouth but said nothing. His hand, his whole body, was trembling. The General touched his cheek again.
“Count yourself lucky, then, that tonight’s culling has a riper candidate. Three months at hard labor.” He nodded to the guards. “Take him out, and bring her in.”
She wore a shapeless black gown and her face was hidden by a veil. But this one was not dragged but walked defiantly between the guards, and I knew her walk as well as I knew those hidden features. I started to cry out, and Johnson’s hand slapped hard across my mouth, stifling me.
General Ramsay said, “A wench from the south—her name don’t matter. She came into this decent, law-abiding land wearing a yellow dress, showing her arms and legs, showing her face! Not content with that, she was impudent and insubordinate. She insulted her betters. She even dared lay hands on your General.”
With the boy’s assistance, he stood up, and his face came into the light from the window opposite. When he dropped his hand, you could see the livid scratch-marks.
“Take her away,” the General said. “Make her ready for the Chair.”
• • •
I tried to cry out again as Paddy was led off, but Johnson covered my mouth too closely. General and guards retired, and the crowd started to disperse.
“Have sense, lad. What good will bawling do?” Johnson relaxed his hold. “That’s better. I could tell you were a boy that’s got his head screwed on.”
The hum of excit
ement continued around us. I saw gleaming eyes, ugly laughing faces.
“It’s not easy when someone you know goes to the Chair. It’s happened to me—one of the guards.” Johnson shook his head. “I’d never much liked him, but the Demons’ Chair . . . Yet it does no good to dwell on it. Look at it this way—by tomorrow it’ll be over, and you’ll still have your breakfast to eat. And she was a fool, your friend, when it comes down to it. The General’s a queer one, but it’s not too hard to find the way of doing what he wants. I mean, putting her nails into his face like that . . .”
He ushered me in front of him through the thinning crowd to the stairs. Where the stairs turned on themselves at the half-landing, I stooped down. Johnson said, “What is it, lad? Something—?”
I did not rise but, taking a breath and tensing muscles, swung my body round and threw its full weight behind my flailing arm. As I hit him, Johnson lost balance and toppled backward. I heard a single cry as I pelted down the stairs and out into the square.
9
ONE OR TWO CALLED OUT as I ran from the General’s house, but only from indignation at being bumped into. There were no shouts from behind. I had heard Johnson fall heavily, so he might have knocked himself out, but any confusion that did exist could not last long. If he were not in a condition to launch a pursuit, he had plenty of colleagues who would.
There was muddle in the square, where traders were jockeying for position as they pulled out of line. They would need to get their goods home and unpacked, to be back in town for the Summoning. I dodged between them, at one point causing a horse to rear in the shafts and its owner to swear furiously at me. But that was commonplace anger at a carelessly running boy, and I was probably not the only one.
I had taken the road along which we had traveled the previous day, instinctively choosing a familiar route. I tried to visualize the way ahead: As I recalled, the densely packed houses formed a kind of canyon, enclosing the road. I would be an easy target once a pursuit was launched.
A Dusk of Demons Page 11
