Jemson nodded. “It is possible. What are the implications of that?”
This launched a discussion of something Jemson called social context: how religion and politics influence art, and art in turn shapes opinion. Jemson’s enthusiasm rolled right over some of the younger students, who looked bewildered and excited at the same time.
“Since Hanalea carried clan blood, what are the chances that she was blue eyed and fair haired?” Jemson asked. “It seems more likely she was dark haired and dark skinned.”
“Are there any paintings of Hanalea done by people who actually knew her, sir?” Han asked.
“I don’t know,” Jemson said. “There may be, right here in the archives. Why don’t you look into that and report back to the class?”
That was Jemson, always snaring you into projects that involved time in the library; that would bring you back to class another day.
“Well. Maybe,” Han said.
Jemson nodded, knowing better than to push. “So we have our Hanalea, as she’s represented in history and art. Who else played a role?”
“The Demon King,” Mari said, shivering a little. Several of the other students made the sign of the Maker, to ward off evil.
“Yes, indeed. We have the Demon King, who singlehandedly changed the course of the world by nearly destroying it.” With a flourish, Jemson turned another easel to display another painting. If Han recalled correctly, this one was called The Demon King in Madness. Painted in lurid reds and purples, it depicted a hooded, robed figure outlined in flame. His arms were raised, his fanatical eyes glowed in the shade of the hood, the only aspect of his face that was visible. But Han’s eyes fixed on the demon’s skeletal right hand, which was holding aloft a glowing green amulet. A tangle of serpents. Han’s stomach did a sickening backflip.
“Some say he was the Breaker incarnate,” Jemson was saying. “Others that he was seduced by evil, made drunk by the power associated with dark magic. No one doubts that he was incredibly gifted.”
“What’s that in his hand?” Han asked.
Jemson glanced over at the painting. “It’s an amulet often seen in paintings of the Demon King. It’s thought to be a direct link to dark magic.”
“What happened to it?” Han asked. “Where is it now?”
Jemson turned and frowned at Han, as if trying to parse out the source of the rapid-fire questions. “I have no idea. Likely it was destroyed by the clans immediately after the Breaking, as were many of the most powerful magical pieces. In any event, it’s lost to history.”
“When was this painted?” Han asked. “And who did it?”
Jemson bent and examined the brass plate at the base of the painting. “The artist was Mandrake Bayar, painted in New Year 593.” He squinted at the engraved lettering. “It was a gift of the Bayar family.”
“Bayar?” Han’s heart stuttered. “But how would the artist know about the amulet if it was painted so long after the piece was destroyed?” The other students were staring at him, but he didn’t care.
Jemson shrugged. “It’s a common element in paintings of the Demon King. I’m assuming it was copied from an earlier work.”
Maybe, Han thought. Or maybe it was painted directly from the object itself.
“What was his name?” Han asked.
Jemson’s brow furrowed. “Whose name?”
“The Demon King. Did he have another name? From before.” Han persisted.
“Well, yes,” Jemson said, still looking puzzled. “His birth name was Alger Waterlow.”
For Han, Southbridge Temple was in every sense a sanctuary. It was a toehold in enemy territory, a refuge from the streets when he needed one. He couldn’t help feeling edgy as he left the safety of its walls and ventured into Southbridge, his first visit since the confrontation with the Southies in Brickmaker’s Alley.
Mari begged to come with him. Everything he did seemed to fascinate her, no matter if it was tedious or dangerous or on the hush. Before he left Mari at the library, he extracted a promise from her that she’d stay put. The last thing he needed was to be searching Southbridge for her.
He avoided Brickmaker’s Alley, just in case, and followed the river west from the bridge, wrinkling his nose against the stench. If the Southies came after him, he reasoned, he could jump into the Dyrnnewater. No one who wasn’t in fear for his life would follow him into that cesspool. The pristine river that emerged from the Eastern Spirits became an open sewer in Fellsmarch. It was a thorn in the side of the clans, who considered the river sacred.
The streets were strangely quiet, even for this time of day, and the Queen’s Guard was unusually visible. Han faded away from several bluejacket patrols and had to continually adjust his route to avoid clusters of soldiers on street corners. In Southbridge, guilty or not, you avoided the Guard. It was a tradition handed down through generations.
By the time he reached The Keg and Crown, it was nearly midday. It should’ve been prime for the lunch trade, but only about half the tables were occupied. Matieu stood at the bar, glumly carving plate-size slices off a leg of mutton.
“Hey, Matieu,” Han said. “I’ve come for the empties.”
Matieu froze, staring at Han as if he’d seen a demon. Sliding the knife into his apron pocket, he retrieved the bottles from behind the counter and set them on the bar, never taking his eyes off Han.
“What’s going on?” Han asked, sliding the bottles into his carry bag. “It’s strange outside. Nobody on the streets except for the Guard, and plenty of them.”
“You haven’t heard?” Matieu squinted at Han.
Han shook his head. “Heard what?”
“Half a dozen Southies went down last night,” Matieu said, pulling out his knife again. “And that’s a lot, even for this neighborhood. The bodies was scattered all around the waterfront, left for show. So people are jumpy, thinking the gang war is starting up again.”
“Went down how?” Han asked, staring at him.
“Now isn’t that the odd part,” Matieu said. “Wasn’t your typical knifing or clubbing. They looked like they’d been tortured, then garroted.”
“Maybe somebody looking for their stash,” Han said, trying for casual, though it wasn’t easy with his mouth gone dry.
“Mayhap.” Matieu waggled his knife at Han, curiosity wrestling with caution all over his face. “Thought as you might know something about it.”
“Me?” Han fastened down the flap on his bag. “What would I know about it?”
“Ever’body knows you’re streetlord of the Raggers. And ever’body knows the Southies roughed you up th’other day. Looks like payback to me.”
“Well, ever—everybody’s wrong,” Han said. “I’m out of that.”
“Ri-ight,” Matieu said. “Just remember—I don’t want no trouble.”
Han hoisted his bag over his shoulder. “Believe me, I don’t want trouble either.”
But trouble had a way of finding him. As he walked out of The Keg and Crown, he just had time to notice it had begun to rain again, before someone grabbed him by the collar and slammed him up against the stone wall of the tavern.
Bloody Southies! he thought. He kicked and struggled, trying to make himself a moving target, expecting at any moment to feel a knife slide between his ribs. But his captor kept him pinned to the wall with one hand while ripping his bag free with the other. The bottles clanked as the bag hit the ground. Then he was crudely patted down one-handed, and relieved of his several knives. And his purse.
Finally his attacker slung him around and smashed him against the wall, face out this time. Han found himself staring into a familiar face, sallow and unhealthy-looking, with thin cruel lips drawn back from yellow rotten teeth. His breath was staggeringly bad.
It was his old nemesis, Mac Gillen, sergeant in the Queen’s Guard. And behind him, another half dozen bluejackets.
“Hey! Give me back my purse,” Han said loudly, figuring it was best to raise the topic early and often.
Gille
n punched him hard in the stomach, and the breath exploded from Han’s lungs.
“Well now, Cuffs, you’ve done it this time,” Gillen said, taking advantage of Han’s inability to speak. “I knowed just who was responsible, and I knowed just where to find you. Had to wait a bit is all.”
“I . . . don’t know . . . what you’re talking about,” Han gasped, doubled over, arms wrapped protectively over his midsection.
Gillen gripped Han’s hair and yanked his head up so they were eye to eye. The sergeant had put on weight since Han had last seen him, and now his soiled uniform gaped between the buttons.
At least somebody’s eating well in Southbridge, Han thought. “Who’s been beating on you, Ragger?” Gillen demanded. “Wasn’t the Southies, was it?”
“Nah,” Han said, falling into his old habit of making a bad situation worse. “It was the Guard. I wouldn’t pay up.”
Everybody knew the bluejackets would leave you alone if you paid protection to the right person. And Mac Gillen was the right person.
Wham! Gillen brought his club down on Han’s head, and he fell to his knees, biting his tongue and seeing stars. He covered his head with his arms.
“Stop it!” someone shouted, Han didn’t see who. It must’ve been one of the other bluejackets. Or Matieu, come to his aid?
But Gillen was in a blood rage, totally focused on Han. “You did for those Southies, didn’t you, Alister? You and your friends.” Wham! This blow fell on Han’s forearm with bone-shattering force, and he screamed.
“Now you’re going to confess, and then you’re going to swing for it, and I’m going to be there to watch.”
“I said stop it!” The same voice, but right on top of them now. Startled, Han wiped blood from his eyes and looked up to see the club descending again, but it never connected. It flew sideways and Gillen yelped in pain. Han slumped back against the wall, eyes closed, head lolling sideways, at the same time gathering his feet under him.
“You hit him again and I’ll crack your skull,” his benefactor said. “Back off.”
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Gillen bellowed. “I’m in command here. I’m the sergeant. You’re just a corporal.”
“Back off, Sergeant Gillen, sir,” the corporal said sardonically. “In the Queen’s Guard, sir, we don’t beat confessions out of prisoners on the street.”
“Naw,” one of the other bluejackets said, snorting with laughter. “We usually take ’em back to the guardhouse first.”
“Are you all right?” A soldier squatted next to Han, looking anxiously into his face. Peering through his lashes, Han realized to his surprise that his benefactor was young, no older than he was. The baby bluejacket’s face was pale with anger, and a lock of straight black hair fell down over his forehead.
Han blinked away a double image, and said nothing.
“You could’ve killed him,” the corporal said, looking up at Gillen, his face twisted in disgust. Huh, Han thought. This one must’ve missed his Guard orientation. He had starch, at least, to cross Gillen.
“You listen to me, Byrne,” Gillen said. “Maybe you’re the son of the commander, and maybe you go to the academy.
That don’t mean nothin’. You’re still just a boy. You don’t know these streets like we do. This ’un’s a cold-blooded killer and a thief. Just never been caught red-handed before.”
Byrne stood and faced Gillen. “Where’s your proof? He got beat up? That’s it?”
Good one, Han thought, silently rooting for the blueblood corporal, but knowing better than to say anything aloud.
Gillen nudged Han with a foot, none too gently. “They call him Cuffs,” Gillen said. “He’s the leader of a street gang named the Raggers. They been feuding with the Southies for years. Two days ago, the Southies caught Cuffs on his own in Brickmaker’s Alley. If the Guard hadn’t showed up, he’d be dead a’ready.”
Gillen grinned and ran his pale tongue over his cracked lips. “Would’ve been a service to the community if we’d let them finish the job. Them poor devils we found yesterday— you saw what was done to ’em. Had to be the Raggers. No one else would take the Southies on. It’s a revenge killing for sure, and this ’un’s responsible.”
Corporal Byrne looked down at Han, swallowing hard. “Fine. We take him in for questioning. He confesses or he doesn’t. No beatings. Any confession you beat out of a person doesn’t mean anything. They’ll say anything to make you stop.”
Gillen spat on the ground. “You’ll learn, Corporal. You can’t coddle a street rat. They’ll turn on you, and they have teeth, believe me.” He turned to the watching bluejackets. “Bring ’im along, then. We’ll see to him back at the guardhouse.” The way he said it gave Han the shivers. This do-gooder Corporal Byrne wouldn’t be there every hour of every day.
“One other thing, sir,” Byrne said. “Maybe you should give him back his purse.”
Gillen leveled a look of such vitriol at Byrne that, despite everything, Han had to stifle himself to keep from laughing. Gillen reached into his coat and pulled out Han’s purse, made a show of digging through it to make sure he didn’t have any weapons in there, then jammed it back into Han’s jacket pocket.
No telling how long it’d stay there.
Two bluejackets grabbed Han’s arms and hauled him upright, and the pain was blinding. His left forearm felt like it was packed with shards of glass. They draped his arms over their shoulders and began dragging him between them. Han hung, limp as a rag, trying not to pass out, his mind racing furiously, leaping from thought to thought.
Could the Raggers have done for six of the Southies? Why would they? Not on his account, not even for old time’s sake. Anything that splashy always brought unwanted attention from the Guard. Everybody knew that.
If not them, who?
Whatever had happened, he couldn’t expect fair treatment at the guardhouse. They needed someone to pin this on. He’d dance to whatever tune they played, and he’d end up at the end of a rope. He thought of Mari waiting for him back at the temple, of Mam scrubbing laundry at Fellsmarch Castle. They’d be the ones to pay. He couldn’t let that happen.
By now they were passing Southbridge Temple, turning onto the bridge over the river. Han groaned loudly, scuffling his feet in the dirt as if to gain a purchase.
“Hey! Watch yourself,” one of the bluejackets said, tightening his hold on Han’s upper arm.
Han groaned again. “Ow! My head! It hurts. Leggo!” He struggled to free his arms. “I don’t feel so good,” he said, allowing a trace of panic to enter his voice. “I’m serious! I’m going to spew!” He clamped his mouth shut and blew out his cheeks suggestively.
“Not all over me, you’re not!” his bluejacket captor said. Gripping Han’s collar and the waist of his breeches, the guardsman propelled him to the stone wall that lined the bridge. “Spill it into the river, boy, and make it quick.”
Han braced his good hand on the wall, then slammed his head back into the guardsman’s face. The bluejacket screamed and let go of him, blood pouring from his broken nose. Han boosted himself atop the wall and squatted there, looking down at the debris floating on the water.
“Stop him!” Gillen screeched behind him. “He’s getting away!”
Hands clutched at him as Han launched himself from the wall, executing a flat, shallow dive that took him as far as possible from the stone piers of the bridge. Somehow he managed to miss hitting any of the boats crowded together in the narrow channel, and sliced into the water closer to the north shore. He surfaced, spitting out a mouthful of the filthy water, gagging for real this time.
Good he could swim, courtesy of his summers with the clans. Not many city boys could.
“There he is!” He heard Gillen’s voice carrying across the water. “You on the water! Five girlies for the one what catches him.”
Five girlies! He’d just about turn himself in for that.
Han submerged again and swam blindly toward the Ragmarket shore, ki
cking strongly to compensate for his useless right arm, eyes closed tight against the murky water. When he raised his head to check his position and correct his crooked progress, a clamor of voices said he’d been spotted. Then he went under again and managed to lose himself amid the motley of watercraft and floating garbage.
Finally he reached the docks on the Ragmarket side, slid underneath, and waded through the shallows to where the dock met the shore. There he huddled between the pilings, shaking, teeth chattering.
The noise of the search faded as the Guard spread its net wider and wider. Until finally Han couldn’t hear it at all. Still, he waited for dark before he slipped out from under the dock and waded to shore.
CHAPTER NINE
Eyes and Ears
The day after the fire on the mountain, Raisa spent all morning with her language tutor, trying to wrap her tongue around soft southern vowels. Tamric was a sloppy language, given to imprecision and double meanings. Made for politics. Raisa much preferred the hard focus of Valespeech, or the subtle nuances of the clan tongue.
As they were finishing, the queen’s messenger brought a request that Raisa join her mother for midday in her suite. This was unusual enough that Raisa wondered what kind of trouble she was in.
When the privy chamberlain ushered Raisa into her mother’s rooms, she found a table set for two. Her mother was seated by the fire, her pale hair loose, a glittering silk shawl draped around her shoulders. The queen always seemed to be cold. She suffered like a delicate flatland flower transplanted into an inhospitable climate. By contrast, Raisa felt like a tough alpine lichen, dark and stubborn and low to the ground.
Raisa bobbed a curtsy, looking around as she did so. “Mama? Is it just us?”
Marianna patted the seat beside her. “Yes, sweetheart, it seems as though we’ve scarcely had a chance to talk since you returned from Demonai.”
Praise the Maker, Raisa thought. Lately it seemed she never had the chance to be alone with her mother. Lord Bayar was always around. This was her chance to speak to the queen about the issue of the mercenaries. Maybe she could even persuade her mother to intervene and order Captain Byrne to assign Amon to Raisa’s personal guard.
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