The speaker sat at his desk, inking something onto parchment, his teapot on a little burner beside him. Without looking up he said, “Sit down, Master Alister. Mistress Mari, Speaker Lara is holding forth in the art studio this afternoon. Please join her while I speak with your brother.”
Mari stiffened and opened her mouth to protest, but Han patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Go on,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll come find you when I’m done.”
Han sat in silence for a few minutes while Jemson continued with whatever he was writing. When the master had finished, he sifted sand over the page and set it aside. Then he looked up at Han for the first time.
The speaker looked somehow older than he had the day before, his face hollowed by new pain and disappointment. “Would you like some tea, Master Alister?” he asked, fetching down a mug from the shelf behind his desk.
Han sat forward in his chair. “What is it? What’s happened?”
Jemson poured for him, anyway. “They found two more bodies this morning,” he said.
“Southies?” Han asked.
Jemson nodded.
Han licked his lips, his dinner sitting heavily in his stomach now. “Same as before?”
Jemson nodded again. “They’d been tortured. Burned in different places. It was kind of hard to tell what actually killed them. Maybe they died of fright.”
“You saw the bodies?”
Jemson turned his mug in his hand. “They brought them here, hoping we could identify them. I knew both of them. Josua and Jenny Marfan. A brother and sister. They used to come to temple before I lost them to the streets. I always hoped they’d leave that life. Like you have.”
The speaker gave him a long significant look, and Han knew he was waiting for him to volunteer something. Jemson could make a person confess any crime with his silences. Han often thought the Guard would do better if they’d hire him for interrogations in place of beatings.
“Like I told you before, I don’t know anything about it,” Han said. “You know I had no personal hand in it, since I was here all night. The Guard will blame the Raggers, but it doesn’t make sense to me. Whatever point they were trying to make, six dead Southies would do fine. No reason to kill two more. Unless they mean to clean the Southies right out of Southbridge.”
Jemson lifted an eyebrow. “Is that a possibility?”
Han shrugged. “Unlikely. Ragmarket is the better territory. Closer to Fellsmarch Castle, more money passing through, more easy marks with fat purses. Over here they got Mac Gillen wringing them dry. He’s been on the dawb for years. Gillen claims to be buyable, but he’ll double-cross you in a heartbeat if he needs a scapegoat. He has high-up connections, I hear, so I’m guessing he’ll never get the sack. So what I’m saying is, it’s just not worth the aggravation of trying to take Southbridge over.”
Han blew on his tea and took a cautious sip. “Over in Ragmarket, the Guard’s workable. They’re mostly locals, and they’d rather sit in their garrison houses and dice and play cards. Nobody’s trying to make a name for himself. If you make a deal with them, they honor it. If they’re on the dawb, they won’t come after you, unless you do something they can’t ignore. Which is why all these murders are stupid.”
“Stupid.” Jemson stared at Han as if he’d been speaking a foreign language.
“Well, yeah. There’s no swag in it except bragging rights, and it brings out the bluejackets. You got to play it smart. When I ran the Raggers, we’d never . . .” His voice trailed off as he took in Jemson’s expression. “Say it,” he growled. “Whatever you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking that there are other reasons not to murder people beyond the fact that there’s no swag in it, as you say,” Jemson said mildly.
“Yeah, well. I can sing any song you like, you know that,” Han said. “I’m just being straight with you here.”
“I know, and I appreciate that.” Jemson rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Forgive me. I just get frustrated sometimes. Master Alister, I see that your reputation as a leader and strategist is fairly earned. And all those qualities that made you a stellar streetlord could take you wherever you want to go. The trades. The army. The court at Fellsmarch.” He sighed. “Should take you. But too many of the children I care about end up dead. It’s such a waste.”
“The lytlings that come to Southbridge Temple are the smartest anywhere,” Han said, thinking of Mari. “But there’s nothing for them except the gangs. Some get into it because they’re thugs at heart. A lot do it because it’s how you can survive. You can feed a family on a gang share if you have the right streetlord.” He half smiled. “And if you get killed, at least you aren’t watching your family eating clay to fill their bellies.
“Do you know how hard it’s been since I quit the game? I work three times as hard for half the swag. The Southies still have it in for me, and the Raggers don’t know what to make of me. Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder if it might have been better to stay.”
“Why’d you leave it, then?” Jemson asked. He cleared his throat. “Since you were so . . . successful at it.”
“Mari,” Han said bluntly. “I didn’t want it for her. And when you’re in the gangs, loving somebody is like putting your heart on a plate and serving it up to your enemies. When I ran the streets, I never went to see Mam and Mari, and I acted like I hated them. I sent them money, but I had to be careful about that. I had Raggers watching the house, but still. All it takes is one careless moment, one street runner who wants to make a name. The time was coming that Mari would have to join up for her own protection.”
“What are you hoping for, for Mari?” Jemson asked softly.
“I dunno. Depends on what she wants.” Han gestured, indicating their surroundings. “She likes it here. Maybe she’d want to be a speaker someday. I think she’d be a good teacher or clerk. Maybe she could find a good castle job. She’s musical. I wish she had the money to go to the conservatory at Oden’s Ford.” Han looked up at Jemson. “That’s the thing. I want her to have a choice.”
Jemson nodded. “Mari’s very smart. Like you.” He paused. “But right now your choices are limited. The Guard’s going to be looking under every rock, trying to find you. Even though the victims are street runners, eight dead bodies is a lot.”
“I’m planning to go up to Marisa Pines and stay up there a while,” Han said. “But first I need to find out who really did the murders.”
“Master Alister, it is not your job to find out who killed those children,” Jemson said. “I’ve put too much time and effort into your education. I don’t want to be burying you in the temple close.”
“I can’t afford to hide up in the Spirits forever,” Han said. “Unless I find out something, the Guard won’t look any farther than me. It’s hard enough to make a living without bluejackets on my back.” Jemson said nothing, so Han rushed on. “I want to talk to the Raggers, see what they know. If I can make contact with the Southies, I will. Maybe they’ve got new enemies I don’t know about.”
Jemson let go a great sigh. “I assume I can’t talk you out of this.”
“Somehow I have to clear my name. I don’t know how else to do it.”
“All right.” Jemson pulled a cloth bag from under his desk. “This is for you.” He handed it over.
Han weighed it in his hand. “What is this?”
“It’s from Willo.”
“Where is she?” Han asked, looking about as if she might suddenly appear. She had a way of not being seen if she didn’t want to be. He’d kind of hoped she’d take another look at his arm. Maybe a second laying on of hands might heal it up even faster.
“She’s gone back to Marisa Pines. Her business is done. But she says to come and stay with her as long as you like.”
Han frowned. “Dancer was here too.” He looked up at Jemson. “Wasn’t he? I thought I saw him.”
Jemson hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Dancer was here with his mother. They’ve both gone now.”
“He’
s sick, isn’t he?” Han asked. “There was something ... It was almost like he was burning up in front of me. Or I’m going crazy,” he added.
Jemson straightened the folds of his robe, not meeting Han’s eyes. “You were rather out of it, my boy. You’d had a hard blow to the head.”
Speakers weren’t supposed to lie, but they could sure talk around a subject.
“So what’s this?” Han asked, struggling with the drawstring one-handed.
Jemson took the bag back and untied it for him. “Willo apparently knows you as well as anyone. She said you wouldn’t come right away, that you’d want to get things settled here first.” Groping in the bag, Jemson pulled out a smaller pouch.
“This is henna and indigo, to dye your hair,” Jemson said. “You should get a red-brown color out of that. Hopefully that will make you harder to spot. There’s also some money and clan clothing in there.” He smiled wryly at Han in his dedicate robes. “Assuming you don’t want to stay and take vows.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bread and Roses
Raisa discovered that the palace laundry was a good place to troll for disguises. Everyone’s clothes, save those too fancy to submit to washing, came through there. And just now she had no need of fancy clothes.
She hoped to pass for a ladies’maid or somebody’s governess, but it wasn’t easy to find such clothes to fit her slight figure. After digging through the freshly washed laundry, she settled on a long skirt and white linen blouse with a snug-fitting bodice layered over. She had to lace the sleeves tight to keep them from sliding over her hands, and the skirts dragged on the ground. Even after she bundled her long hair into a lacy snood, she still felt utterly recognizable. She was princess heir of the realm. Everyone knew her. How could she possibly carry it off?
Hanalea hadn’t been afraid, she told herself. The legendary queen with the common touch had often walked anonymously among her subjects. If she could do it, well . . .
Raisa practiced a timid shuffling gait, trying not to trip over her long skirts, dipping curtsies every few feet. She kept her eyes downcast, murmuring, “Yes, ma’am,” and “No, sir.” She hid her disguise in the secret chamber at the foot of the garden stairs.
As luck would have it, Magret took to her bed at midday with one of her blinding headaches. Raisa saw that as a sign from the Maker, and sent word to her mother that she’d be having supper in her rooms. Then, in late afternoon, Raisa ventured into the Room of Romantic Entanglements.
That was Raisa’s name for it. It was a small locked closet off her bed chamber where Magret stored the gifts sent by Raisa’s would-be suitors after recording the particulars in a ledger Raisa called the Great Book of Bribes.
The presents ostensibly honored Raisa’s sixteenth name day, her official entry into adulthood and, coincidentally, the marriage market.
Jewelry spilled out of a silver casket sent by Henri Montaigne, recently assassinated heir to the throne of Arden. At least he wouldn’t be expecting a return on his investment. The other Montaigne brothers had contributed their own gifts, each no doubt hoping that a marriage to the princess heir of the Fells would prop up their claims or provide a reliable source of revenue for the festering war.
Markus the Fourth, King of Tamron, had sent a set of priceless enameled jewelry boxes and an invitation to visit his waterside cottage at Sand Harbor. The boxes were inscribed with the initials M and R intertwined. Markus seemed completely undeterred by the fact that he was sixty years old and had three wives already.
Aerie House had gifted her with a tiara and necklace set with emeralds and rubies, their strong colors more suited to her dark hair and green eyes than the moonstones and topazes her mother favored. The pendant on the necklace was the image of a snake with glittering gold-and-silver scales. They were in an old-fashioned style, and Raisa wondered if they were family heirlooms.
We’enhaven’s gift was an inlaid and jeweled desk set made of tropical woods. Demonai sent clan ceremonial robes made of softest doeskin, painted and beaded with her Gray Wolf totem, and Marisa Pines contributed matching dancing shoes and a fur throw for her bed.
Which reminded Raisa that, though her father came from clan royalty, the camps had not yet put forward a candidate for her hand. She wondered if they would.
Setting the Aerie House and clan items aside, Raisa shoveled jewelry and small art pieces into her carry bag until it was bulging. She focused on smaller, less distinctive items from foreign sources that would be least likely to be recognized.
This will do for a start, Raisa thought. Shouldering her carry bag, she left the treasure store and crossed her bed chamber to the other closet and the entrance to the tunnel. There she changed into her disguise and climbed the ladder into the solarium.
By the time she descended into the palace proper, the lanterns were lit along the corridors, and the mouth-watering scent of roasting meat emanated from the kitchens. Raisa kept to the servants’ hallways, but they were unfamiliar, so she kept getting turned around. She walked briskly, looking straight ahead as if she were on some important mission that couldn’t be interrupted. It wasn’t easy since she didn’t really know the way.
She was just passing the pantries when ahead of her she saw the imposing figure of Mandy Bulkleigh, Mistress of Kitchens, standing, arms crossed, her eyes scouring the corridors like those of some predatory bird.
Bones, Raisa thought, quickening her pace and lowering her head still farther.
Bulkleigh allowed her to get almost past, then said in her booming voice, “You! Girl!”
Raisa didn’t slow down, didn’t even look up. Three more steps, and she heard Bulkleigh coming after her.
She might have made it, but her feet got caught in her too-long skirts, and she stumbled. Bulkleigh’s hamlike hand closed on her upper arm, jerking her upright.
“You! Girl! Are you deaf?” she demanded.
Raisa resisted her first instinct, which was to wrest herself free and ask Bulkleigh just who she thought she was, assaulting the princess heir of the realm in such a manner, and if she’d like to spend the night in gaol.
Instead, Raisa kept her face turned away as best she could, hoping to somehow salvage the situation. “Yes, ma’am?” she mumbled.
But Bulkleigh seized her chin and jerked her face up so she was looking her in the eyes. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, girl.”
Raisa looked into the cook’s eyes, dumbly waiting for recognition to flood into Bulkleigh’s face, waiting for the premature end of her ill-fated adventure.
“What’s your name, girl?” Bulkleigh demanded, giving her a little shake. “I’m going to report you to the steward, I am. Impertinent little snip.”
Raisa was so astonished, it took her a while to get her voice going. “Um . . . R . . . Rebecca, ma’am,” she said. “Rebecca Morley, if ’t please you,” she said, trying for a curtsy.
“Where were you going in such a hurry?” Bulkleigh asked, steely-eyed.
“Well. I was . . . ah . . . going to market for—”
“Whatever you were doing, it in’t as important as this.” Releasing her, the cook turned and picked up a covered tray and thrust it into Raisa’s hands. “The princess heir is taking her supper in her rooms,” she said. “Carry this up and leave it in the upstairs pantry.”
Raisa blinked at her. “This is for the Princess Raisa?” she asked.
“The princess heir to you,” Bulkleigh said. “Now be off with you; it’s getting cold. If I get a complaint about it, I’ll skin you alive. The princess is very particular about her food, she is.”
“She is?” Raisa said, before she could stop herself. “And you want me to take her supper to her?” She would have added, Aren’t you worried about poison or assassins, or . . . but the cook’s expression stopped her.
“Do you see anyone else waitin’ for the assignment?” the cook said sarcastically. “Queen Marianna is hosting dinner for fifty in the main dining room, and sure it would’ve been more convenient if
Her Highness had troubled herself to come down to eat with the rest of ’em,” Bulkleigh said. “But she didn’t. Now go on.”
Squaring her shoulders, Raisa turned and hurried back the way she came. As soon as she was out of sight of the cook, she stowed the tray behind a statue of Queen Madera feeding the multitudes, and left the servants’ corridors for the safety of the main hallways.
Raisa felt relieved, yet oddly disappointed. She was the blooded princess heir, yet in servants’ clothes she was apparently unrecognizable. In the stories, rulers had a natural presence about them that identified them as such, even dressed in rags.
What’s the nature of royalty, she wondered. Is it like a gown you put on that disappears when you take it off? Does anyone look beyond the finery? Could anyone in the queendom take her place, given the right accessories? If so, it was contrary to everything she’d ever been taught about bloodlines.
Without further incident, she passed through the gate tower, past the dour guardsmen at the entrance, under the dangerous-looking portcullis, and into the chill of the evening. Day workers who lived outside of the castle grounds streamed across the drawbridge, heading home. The younger servants were laughing, joking, and flirting with each other. Some of the older ones plodded along, obviously weary.
Torchlight flickered on the river below as she crossed over the bridge. At the far end, she stopped and looked back at Fellsmarch Castle, trying to imagine how the people of the city might view it, remote and brooding, lording over the city.
Amon was waiting by the gatehouse at the city end of the bridge, surveying the flow of people off the drawbridge. To her surprise, he’d shed his blue Guard uniform and was dressed in a long cloak and dark breeches. As he turned, though, she could see the hilt of his sword poking out through the front of the cloak.
If she’d hoped to fool Amon, she was disappointed. He fixed on her before she got within fifty feet of him, watching her as she pushed through the crowd. She paused in front of him and curtsied low, grinning.
“You’re late,” he grumbled. “I was beginning to hope you’d changed your mind.”
The Demon King Page 17