Patricia Briggs: When Demons Walk

She wasn’t certain what made her turn away from the waves, but she froze when she saw that someone else was watching the water hit the cliffs. He hadn’t seen her where she crouched on her hidden ledge below him. The crashing waves were deafening, drowning any sound she had made. If she stayed where she was she could probably keep him from noticing her at all. But the water’s magic made her reckless. She slid further toward the edge of her ledge, allowing herself to get a better look at the rider who dared Purgatory at night to see the Spirit Tide.

Unlike Sham, the man was in the open, clearly visible in the silver moonlight. A Cybellian warrior, she thought, outfitted with surcoat, sword, and war horse.

For a disorienting instant terror choked her as she stared at him from the shadows, seeing not a lone man but the bloody warriors who had taken the Castle. The past was too close to her this night. She swallowed the lump in her throat and ran her hands across various weapons hidden on her person. Thus reassured, she took a closer look at him.

The chainmail shirt that extended past his surcoat at wrists and throat was of the highest quality, the links so fine that it appeared to be fashioned of cloth rather than metal. The surcoat itself was of some dark color. He was facing slightly away from Sham, and she couldn’t make out the device on its front. A wealthy warrior then, and a fool.

It had been a long time since she had been the daughter of the captain of the guards at the Castle, but not so long that she’d forgotten how to judge a horse. She ran an assessing eye over this one, an aristocrat from the flared nostrils to the long, dark hair that covered his legs from knees to hooves. Only a fool would take such an obviously valuable animal through Purgatory at night.

The stallion snorted and sidled as he caught her scent in the salt air. He rolled his eyes until the white showed and shook his wet mane fiercely. The impulse to stay hidden came and went, unheeded. The warrior was the outsider here; she had no reason to avoid notice.

With a nearly invisible signal from his rider, the horse spun around on its haunches as the man looked for the cause of the horse’s unease. The stallion blew spray of his own as he snorted impatiently and completed a full circle, giving Sham her first view of the man’s coat-of-arms.

At the sight of the silver and gold leopard emblazoned on the silk she whistled soundlessly and altered her assessment of the man. Wealthy warrior he was indeed, but not a fool. Even the most formidable group of thugs would hesitate to attack the Leopard of Altis, Reeve of Southwood.

Lord Kerim, called the Leopard, ruled most of Southwood in the name of the Voice of Altis and the Cybellian Alliance that the Voice ruled. At the tender age of eighteen the Leopard had led an elite fighting unit to spearhead the invasion through the Great Swamp and across a fair portion of the lands between the Swamp and the Western Sea. People still talked in whispers at the cunning and skill that he’d displayed.

Eight years ago, when the Cybellians had snuffed out all but a hint of rebellion in Southwood, the Voice of Altis had called upon Kerim to become his Reeve, answering only to the prophet himself.

Kerim had been less than a quarter of a century old when he’d taken control of Southwood, and turned it back into a thriving country. With a mixture of bribery and coercion he had made the Southwood nobles and the Cybellians cooperate with each other—resorting to force only once or twice.

Whether as statesman or warrior, there were very few people who would take on the Leopard without a great deal of thought. She had just decided to try and escape unnoticed, when his eyes locked onto hers.

“I like to watch the neap tide come in,” he said in Southern. Nearly a decade of living in Southwood had softened the clipped accent Cybellians brought to the language until he might have been mistaken for a native.

Sham waited where she was for a moment, caught by surprise at the conversational tone the Reeve used—speaking as he was to a roughly garbed, wet street urchin. Deciding finally it was probably safe enough, she scrambled up the rocks until she stood on a level with him. It struck her as she did so that this was an opportunity to attack the Cybellians that might never come again. She looked at the Reeve and remembered the dead that littered the Castle grounds after it had been taken by the invaders. Unobtrusively she slipped her hand toward the thin dagger strapped to her forearm.

But it was more than just the suspicion that he was well able to defend himself against such an attack that kept her blade where it was. It was the sadness in his eyes and the lines of pain that tightened his mouth, both revealed by the bright moonlight.

Imagination, she told herself fiercely as the angle of his head changed and shadows hid his features; but the impression remained. She shook her head with resignation: as she’d noted earlier, the Old Man’s gentleness was rubbing off on her. The Leopard had not been with the army that entered the Castle, and she didn’t hate enough to kill someone who had never done her harm—even if he was an Altis-worshipping Cybellian.

“The Spirit Tide is impressive—” she agreed neutrally in the same language he’d addressed her, “—but hardly worth braving Purgatory alone.” Her tone might have been neutral, but her words were hardly the respect he must be used to receiving.

The Reeve merely shrugged and turned to look at the foam-capped waves, “I get tired of people. I saw no real need to bring an escort; most of the occupants here are little threat to an armed rider.”

She raised an eyebrow and snorted at his profile, feeling vaguely insulted. “Typical arrogant Cybellian,” she commented, deciding to continue as she had begun. She didn’t like to bow and scrape more than was absolutely necessary. “Just because you say something does not make it so. Jackals travel in packs and together can tear out the soft underbelly of prey many times their size and strength.”

He turned his face back to her and shot her a grin that was surprisingly boyish. “Jackals are only scavengers.”

She nodded. “And all the more vicious for it. Next time don’t bring so much to tempt them. That horse of yours would feed every cutthroat in the city for a year.”

He smiled and patted the thick neck of his mount affectionately. “Only if they managed to kill him and decided to eat him. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to hold him long enough to sell him.”

“Unfortunately for you, they won’t know that until they try it.” Despite herself, Sham wondered at the ruler of Southwood. She’d never met a nobleman, Cybellian or Southwoodsman, who would not have taken offense at being reproved by someone who was at the very least a commoner and more likely a criminal.

“Why are you so concerned about my fate, boy?” Kerim asked mildly.

“I’m not.” Sham grinned cheerfully, shivering as a breeze caught at her wet clothes. “I’m concerned about our reputation. If the word gets out that you came through Purgatory without a scratch, everyone will think they can do it. Although,” she added thoughtfully, “that might not be such a had thing. A few nobles to dine on might improve the economy around here.”

The sound of another large wave hitting the rocks drew Kerim’s attention back to the sea and Sham took the opportunity to study the Lord of Southwood, now that she knew who he was.

Though his nickname was the Leopard, there was little catlike about him. As he was sitting on his horse, it was hard to judge his height, but he was built like a bull; shoulders proportionally wide and thick with muscle. Even his hands were sturdy, one of his fingers larger than two of hers. As with his horse, the moonless night hid the true color of his hair, but she’d heard that it was dark brown —like that of most Cybellians. His features, mouth, nose and jaw were as broad as his body.