Time's Demon

by D. B. Jackson

  You fight to live, to win. It doesn’t have to be pretty.

  Albon’s words, whispered in his mind in the master’s voice.

  Moar’s man slashed at him, but this strike was slower, less powerful. Cresten stood his ground, parried. His counter nearly severed the man’s head from his neck. The tough collapsed in a heap of blood and flesh and forgotten steel. He didn’t move again.

  Still gripping his sword, Cresten reclaimed his pistol and stepped between the curtains. Moar was still on the street, resting on one knee, his bloodied leg stretched out to the side. Cresten spotted the pistol, dove as a tongue of flame brightened what remained of the shop’s window. The report thundered an instant later. The bullet struck the wall above him.

  Moar bellowed his frustration. Fighting through fear, Cresten forced himself up. He dodged around the counter, flung open the door, and charged the man. He pounded at Moar with his sword. Moar blocked the strike, but had to drop his pistol and powder to do so. Cresten kicked the flintlock away. Moar waved his blade at Cresten, the attack weak and ineffective. Blood glistened on his breeches and on the cobbles beneath him.

  “Why did you kill them?” Cresten asked.

  Moar laughed. “Why should I tell you?”

  Cresten hammered at him. Moar blocked the first blow, but couldn’t fight off the second. Cresten’s blade bit into his shoulder. Moar dropped his sword, and Cresten snatched it up before he could recover it.

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll kill you. Like I killed your men. All three of them.”

  I’ve killed three men tonight.

  His stomach knotted at this. He would pay a price for spilling blood, for the things he had seen. Quinn, Claya, the white-haired woman… Not yet, though. Not until he was away.

  Moar eyed the shop and then Cresten, calculation and pain in his gaze.

  “You killed the two in there?”

  “That’s right. Palace boy, remember?”

  “There’s gold enough to go around, you know. Mine.” Moar tipped his head toward the shattered window. “Hers. Quinn’s and the smugglers’.”

  “I have Quinn’s, and I’ll take yours when you’re dead.” Moar flinched. “There’s no need for that. I need new men. Quinn trusted you. And I’ve use of a Spanner.”

  “At the first opportunity, you’ll put a knife in my back.”

  “I think you’re right,” said another voice.

  They both turned. Moar looked more puzzled than frightened. He didn’t understand how much more perilous his situation had grown.

  Droë sauntered to them, hair shining, moonlight in her milky eyes.

  “You shouldn’t trust him,” she said, glancing up at Cresten. “You should let me have him.”

  “Maybe I will. First, I need information.”

  Her smile could have rimed the cobblestones and storefronts. “I can help with that.” She played with a strand of hair. “I heard the shots. Others did, too. I’m faster, of course, but they’ll come before long.”

  “What is she talking about? Who is this?”

  Droë considered him. “He’s rude. So many of the men you deal with are rude.”

  “He’s worse than rude. He tried to kill me. He killed the man I worked for, and the serving girls in the tavern, and the woman who owned this shop.”

  “Why?” she demanded in a rasp.

  “He hasn’t told me.”

  She stepped closer to Moar, baring her teeth. Moar recoiled. Fear distorted his features.

  “What are you?”

  “I can take his years,” she said. “One at a time, until he tells you what you want to know. I’d be glad to do it.”

  “A time demon. You’re friends with this… thing?”

  “Very rude indeed.” Her rasp had deepened, slurring her words.

  “That’s right,” Cresten said. “Now, why did you kill them? Why did you want me dead?”

  Moar didn’t answer.

  “Help yourself, Droë.”

  She grinned, then blurred to Moar and attached herself to his throat. That same shifting, oily glow surrounded them. Moar cried out, flailing at her. Then the light was gone and Droë stood off a few paces. Moar held his hands to his neck. His chest heaved. His face might have appeared leaner, more deeply lined.

  “That was one year,” Cresten said. He looked to Droë for confirmation. “You should have enough left to make this a very long night.”

  Moar cast a desperate look at the Tirribin. “It was a stone, a gem. Very valuable.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you would kill for it.” He thought of the men he encountered on the wharf, the first with that odd accent, the second without it. “You even killed the smugglers, didn’t you?”

  Again, Moar faltered.

  Droë flew at the man, latched on to his throat again. Moar wailed. Droë retreated, hunger in her wide, pale eyes. Moar sagged and let out a choked sob.

  “It was stolen from Milnos,” he said. “A royal gem, revered for centuries. I was to send it on to a man in Vleros.”

  Of course. The accent of the man on the Kelp Runner. He hailed from the Bone Sea – probably Vleros.

  “Why?” Cresten asked him.

  Moar gazed up at him. This time, he didn’t have to say a word.

  Droë coiled to attack again, but Cresten stopped her with a raised hand.

  “It’s all right. He doesn’t have to answer. I understand.”

  “You do?” she asked.

  “He means to start a war. That’s all it would take, isn’t it? The alleged theft of a priceless heirloom.”

  Moar nodded.

  “Who wants this war? Who hired you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Cresten flicked a glance toward the Tirribin. He might as well have pressed the barrel of his flintlock to Moar’s brow.

  “I swear to you! I was paid, told what to do. That’s all. I don’t know who it was.”

  “How did they pay you?”

  “Courier. A lad from a ship.”

  “Dead now?”

  Moar didn’t reply.

  “You can have his years, Droë.”

  “No! I have gold. Heaps! You can have it all!”

  “Your gold is meaningless as long as you’re alive and this scheme of yours goes on. You’ve killed to preserve the secret. We both know you’d kill me, too.” He nodded once to the demon, and turned away.

  A strangled cry, the frenzied scrape of cloth and flesh on stone, and Cresten’s faint shadow cast onto the shop wall by shifting, colored light. In the short time it took Droë to feed, the first inkling of a plan came to him: a place to go, someone who might be glad to see him.

  “I should leave you,” Droë said when she was finished, her voice still husky with need. “That wasn’t enough to sate me.”

  Cresten faced her, unafraid, certain she wouldn’t harm him. “I understand. You should know, though, that I have to leave Trevynisle. Others may be hunting for me. And I have no place to stay, no humans left here who know me or care about me.”

  Her brow creased, the expression of a hurt child. “You have me.”

  “You’ll always be my friend,” he said. “But I can’t stay here. I want… I want more of a life than Trevynisle can give me.”

  “Very well.” She sounded distressed. “Farewell then. I really must go.”

  She didn’t wait for his reply, but blurred away toward the waterfront. At the same time, men appeared at the other end of the lane. Cresten bent over Moar’s body, trying not to look at the dead man’s face. And failing. Cresten could see every contour of his skull, the desiccated lips pulled away from his teeth in a permanent grin.

  He searched the man’s pockets, found a ring of keys, several rounds of gold, a few treys and quads, and a small blade. The parcel wasn’t here. Cresten took the keys and money, and also took Moar’s powder purse to replace the one he had emptied. Then he fled.

  The men shouted for him to stop. A few briefly gave chase, but all of them halted in
front of the shop.

  Cresten didn’t stop running until he reached Moar’s house. The windows were dark, making him wonder if Moar had killed his own family. He considered trying a key, but first he pounded on the door with a closed fist.

  Someone stirred within the house. Candlelight illuminated the edges of the shuttered windows flanking the door.

  “Don’t you have your bloody key?” a woman’s voice demanded from within. The door flew open. “I was–”

  Seeing Cresten, she clamped her mouth shut. It was the same dark-eyed woman he’d seen earlier. Belatedly, Cresten realized that he had an open wound on his arm, blood on his breeches and who knew where else.

  “He’s not here.”

  Cresten met her glare. “I know.”

  They stared at each other, his reply hanging between them. Understanding smoothed her scowl, deadened the anger in her eyes. A tear ran over one cheek. She swiped at it and looked away.

  “Damn,” she whispered. “You were there?”

  “Yes.”

  Too long a hesitation.

  She regarded him again, features hardening. “You killed him.” Before he could answer, she added, “I’d wager he gave you no choice.”

  Cresten dug into his pocket and produced the coins he had taken from Moar.

  “This was–”

  She gave a hard shake of her head. Tears flew. “I don’t want it. There’s blood all over it.”

  “You’ll need it. You and the child.”

  That gave her pause. Cresten held the coins out to her. After a moment, she took them.

  “You’re young,” she said.

  Not after tonight.

  “I suppose.”

  “Don’t grow up to be like him,” she said. She withdrew into the house and started to close the door.

  “Wait!”

  She stopped.

  “I need to come in, to search for something. I think he left it here tonight. It’s… it’s important. If others learn that you have it, they’ll come here.”

  The woman smirked. “You fear for our safety?”

  “No. I’m thinking of myself. I want it.” He pulled Moar’s keys from his pocket, and held them up for her to see. “I could wait and steal it from you. I’d rather not.”

  She stared at the keys and then at him. Finally, she stepped out of his path and motioned him into the house.

  “His study is this way.”

  Cresten followed her along a narrow hallway to a door at the back of the house. She tried to open it, but it wouldn’t give. She glanced back at him and held out her hand. Cresten gave her the keys. After unlocking the door, she moved aside and allowed him to enter the room. It was small, cluttered. The parcel sat in the open, atop a sheaf of papers on a standing desk.

  Cresten took it and turned.

  “That’s all?” the woman asked.

  “That’s all.”

  “You work for Quinn, don’t you?”

  “I did. Quinn’s dead. Your father killed him, along with everyone else who worked in the Brazen Hound.”

  She showed no surprise, but glanced at the wound on his arm. “Did he do that?”

  Cresten shook his head. “One of his men.” He exhaled. “I’m sorry that–”

  She cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Just go.”

  He stared, and she suffered his gaze. At length, he tucked his chin and left her. As he exited the house, he slipped the parcel into his carry sack. Then he loaded his flintlock.

  Cresten crept through the city, wary of every shadow, alert to every sound. He had given his name to the men on the ship, and the man who spoke to him upon his return to the vessel knew it as well. He would have to leave that name here. Trying to secure passage on a ship from Windhome’s wharves might cost him his life. He veered at the next corner. Instead of walking to the waterfront, he made his way to the city gate. Along the way, he paused in a deserted alley to change out of his bloodied clothes. He left them in a pile on the stone.

  The gate guards asked him a few questions. Where was he going? Why was he leaving so late in the evening? What did he have in his carry sack? The lies came easily. He’d had a fight with his father, the last in a long sequence. He was going to live with his uncle on a farm near the southern shore. His sack held all his belongings. This last, of course, was true. The guards let him pass.

  Only when he had covered some distance along the track to Ghell, the next port town along Trevynisle’s western coast, did it occur to him that this was the first time he’d been away from Windhome since his parents sent him to the palace all those years ago.

  Cresten walked through the night, reaching Ghell the following morning a bell or two past dawn. He had coin enough to buy himself breakfast at an inn. From there, he went to the waterfront and secured passage on a Kant headed to Belsan, on Aiyanth, by way of isles in Sipar’s Labyrinth. Belsan wasn’t his final destination, but this ship, the Isle Strider, out of Bellisi, was leaving soonest, which mattered to him most.

  “What’s waitin’ for you in Belsan?” asked the Strider’s first mate, as he made a careful count of Cresten’s payment.

  “Nothing. In time I’ll be going to Caszuvaar.”

  The man, narrow-shouldered and lean, looked up at that. “Caszuvaar? We’re not headin’ there.”

  “I know. I’ll find passage there once we reach Belsan.”

  “You could sail out of Windhome, and get there direct.”

  “Probably,” Cresten said. “I hear Windhome is a long walk.”

  The sailor shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s your coin. One of the crew will show you where to stow your things, and where you’ll be sleeping. You know anything about crewing a ship?”

  “No, but I’m willing to learn.”

  The man grinned. “Good on you, lad. You oughta fit in fine.” He started to turn, but stopped himself. “What’s your name?”

  Cresten had pondered this as he walked. Chances were no one would think to hunt for him here, or in Belsan, or Caszuvaar. But he couldn’t be certain, and he wouldn’t risk his life by clinging to a name his father had poisoned for him years ago. Cresten Padkar, he’d decided, ceased to exist the moment he left Windhome.

  The men who might be after him would know that Quinn was dead. They had no reason to ask after him. And Cresten now realized that for all the man’s faults, Quinn had been a friend. Other than Albon, he’d been the closest thing to a father Cresten ever had.

  “My name is Quinnel,” he said. He liked the sound of it, and couldn’t help but smile as he tried on his new identity. “Quinnel Orzili.”

  He voyaged through waters and visited lands he had only known from books and Windhome lessons. He swabbed decks, cleaned holds, mended sailcloth, and learned all he could about sailing ships. He ate fish he had never heard of, sampled fruits that were unlike anything he had ever tasted, and taught himself the difference between the wines of Miejis and Brenth.

  He worked on two more ships after the Isle Strider, and at last came to the Bone Sea and Milnos, a land of arid mountains, sprawling vineyards, and dark green groves of blacknut trees.

  Life on ships had been to his liking, save for three days of stormy waters in the Oaqamaran Sea. That, though, had been enough to convince him that his future lay on dry land. He left this last vessel with no regrets, and followed a broad stone lane from the wharf, through the city of Caszuvaar, to the royal palace, perched on a gentle rise above the lanes and buildings. Palace guards, in smart uniforms of green and blue, stopped him at the gate. They appeared more amused than alarmed by his presence – a lone boy in worn clothes, his hair long and wild, his Northisler’s skin darkened further by sun and wind. Perhaps they thought he had approached on a dare from unseen friends.

  “My name is Quinnel Orzili,” he told them, respectful but uncowed. “I would like to speak with your King’s Spanner, Fesha Wenikai.”

  The woman to whom he directed his request glanced at the older soldier beside her.

  This man aske
d, “Does she know to expect you?”

  “No. But if you tell her that a certain beetle she knows has come to speak with her, she’ll see me.”

  “‘A certain beetle.’”

  “That’s right.” He hoped she would remember him, that she would consent to see him. He tried to conceal his doubts.

  The man nodded to the younger soldier, who strode into the palace. The guards who remained watched Cresten but said nothing to him. Before long, the young woman returned and whispered briefly with her superior. They searched his pack, made him leave his flintlock and sword at the gate. To Cresten’s relief, they ignored the parcel he had taken from Paegar’s home.

  The young soldier escorted him into the palace, across courtyards of red stone and past fountains and sculptures and elaborate gardens.

  Milnos had long been allied with Oaqamar, and so Cresten had viewed the isle as an enemy, a kingdom in which he hoped never to serve. It hadn’t occurred to him that the palace of Caszuvaar could be so magnificent.

  They entered a tower through an arched portal, climbed a broad marble stairway, and followed a corridor past paintings and busts to a door made of pale, veined wood. At a knock from the soldier, someone within the chamber called, “Enter.”

  The guard opened the door for Cresten and waved him inside.

  Wink stood in the middle of the room, looking much as he remembered, save for the robe she wore, which was green satin, trimmed in silver.

  “Spanner Wenikai,” he said, bowing to her.

  “It really is you.” She walked closer, scrutinizing him. “You’ve grown. You’re not a kid anymore.”

  “You’re one to talk.”

  Wink grinned, glanced down at her robe. But she sobered quickly. “What are you doing here, Cresten? Why aren’t you in Windhome? You’re not old enough to be a court Spanner.”

  “No, I’m not. And it’s not Cresten anymore.”

  For a half-bell and more, as they sat near an open window, he shared with her nearly all that had befallen him since her departure from the Travelers’ Palace. A few times she interrupted him with questions, but mostly she listened in silence, staring out the window toward the Bone Sea.