Patricia Briggs - When Demons Walk

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.”

“What do 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.”

“ All .” 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 owe you. 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.”

The Cybellians had a 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.