The Demon King

by Cinda Williams Chima

  She hesitated, then waved the rest of them off. They shuffled to the open end of the alley and huddled there.

  Velvet scowled, shooting dark looks their way.

  “What about her?” Cat hissed, nodding at Raisa.

  Cuffs gave Raisa a little push toward the closed end of the alley, keeping himself between her and the way out. “Stay there,” he growled, then withdrew a few paces to talk to Cat. Raisa pretended to ignore them, all the while straining to make out their conversation.

  “Who is she, and what’s she to you?” Cat tilted her head toward Raisa.

  “Just some girlie who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said. “I gave my word I’d let her go.”

  “Your word?” Cat laughed bitterly. “Good luck to her, then.”

  “Cat,” Cuffs said, extending his hands, then dropping them, “I never made any promises.”

  “No. You didn’t.” Her expression said promises were implied, if not spoken.

  “I had to leave the life. I had no choice. It had nothing to do with you.”

  Cat stared at him incredulously. “Had ...nothing ...to do with me? How do you figure that?”

  Cuffs tried to patch it over. “What I mean is, I didn’t leave because of you.”

  “You didn’t stay because of me neither,” she spat. “Anyways, what makes you think I care where you go or what you do?” Cat shook her hair back. “The bluejackets pinched three of my runners because of you. They’ll be torturing them now, trying to make ’em tell where you are. They’ll torture them dead, because they got no idea.”

  Cuffs stilled and focused. “I heard there was three Raggers taken. Flinn and who else?”

  “Jed and Sarie too,” Cat said.

  Cuffs glanced toward Raisa, lowered his voice. “Where are they keeping them?”

  “Southbridge Guardhouse,” Cat said.

  Raisa heard Cuffs’s intake of breath. “Bloody bones. Gillen?”

  Cat nodded. “As if you cared.” There was a certain challenge in her stance, an expectation of disappointment. “You know I don’t spill nothing to the bluejackets. But I’d give you up to save them.”

  Cuffs stared out into space, a muscle working in his jaw. “First, I need to settle the girlie. Will you let us go then?” Raisa understood the gesture. He was submitting to Cat, recognizing her status as streetlord.

  “Fine,” she said, her face expressionless, her voice flat. “Off you go. Just don’t ever—”

  “Meet me at the far end of South Bridge tonight,” he interrupted. “I’ll help you spring Sarie and the others.”

  Cat studied him appraisingly. “How do I know you won’t bring the Guard with you?” she said. “How do I know you won’t sell us out?”

  He gripped her elbows, looking into her face, his voice low and fierce. “Because this time I am promising.”

  Ragmarket was waking up around them as they headed uptown. Somehow, Han needed to shed the girlie before they ran across a nosy bluejacket or some other troublesome person. Only now he felt somehow confident she wouldn’t turn him in.

  Every time he looked at Rebecca, she was studying him through narrow green eyes, like he was a cypher that needed solving. He was beginning to think he preferred the wide-eyed terrified look. How much of the conversation with Cat had she overheard?

  “That Cat, she was your sweetheart, wasn’t she?” she asked him, as if she were privy to his thoughts.

  “Not exactly,” he replied.

  She rolled her eyes, in that way girlies had.

  “What?” he said irritably, skirting a large pile of potato peelings at the curb. Could be worse, in Ragmarket.

  “Obviously she thought so.”

  “Well, she’s with Velvet now.” Why was he telling her this? Han decided to change the subject. “You know, you look good in breeches,” he said, running his eyes over the display. “Very—ah—shapely,” he added, grinning and demonstrating with his hands.

  That shut her up. She blushed bright pink, and there was no more talk of sweethearts.

  She did look good in breeches, in fact, and it wasn’t that he was dazzled by the novelty of it. Clan girls wore leggings, after all.

  In the camps they told stories of tiny beautiful wood nymphs that would catch you in their snares and challenge you with riddles. Rebecca could’ve been a character in any of those. Her waist was so small, he could have spanned it with his hands, but there was a wiry toughness to her that appealed to him.

  Glancing sideways at her, he wondered what it would be like to kiss her.

  Leave it alone, Alister, he thought. You got trouble enough. Whoever she was, she had powerful friends.

  “I’m going to leave you on the Way,” he said, pulling her by the hand, pushing between the delivery wagons and crowds of laborers and shopkeepers in the narrow street. “There’s lots of traffic this time of day, and it should be safe. You can easily walk back to the castle close.”

  “I’m fine on my own, you know,” she said, putting her nose in the air.

  He snorted. “Right. You were fine when I found you in the alley. Cat and them would’ve eaten you alive.”

  “Why’d you save me?” she asked. “I mean, I ran away.”

  Sometimes Rebecca seemed plenty sharp, and other times she’d say the stupidest things. “I was the one that dragged you off from Southbridge Temple,” he said. “You end up with your throat cut, I’ll get the blame. I got enough problems as it is.”

  “You’re going to try to rescue the Raggers, aren’t you?” she said. “The ones taken by the Guard.”

  Hanalea’s teeth! He had to get shed of her while he had any secrets left.

  “Where’d you get that idea?” he asked.

  “You are, aren’t you?” she persisted.

  “Well, that’d be bloody stupid, wouldn’t it?” Han said. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “No. You think it’s your fault they were taken. But it’s not, if you’re innocent.”

  She nearly tripped on her long breeches, and he grabbed her arm to right her.

  “So. Now you think I’m innocent, do you?”

  “Of murdering the Southies, at least,” she said, giving him the evil eye that said he was still guilty of plenty. “They’ll catch you if you try, you know. They’ve got to be expecting this sort of thing. That’s probably why they took them in the first place. To lure you out of hiding.”

  As if he didn’t know that. “Well, not your worry, is it?” A few more blocks, and he’d take his leave and . . .

  She suddenly set her heels, practically skidding to a stop, her eyes alight with some new scheme. “Take me back to Southbridge Temple,” she commanded, like the bloody Duchess of Ragmarket. “I forgot something.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” He said it louder than he intended, and passersby turned and stared at them. “We just came from there,” he said, forcing his voice down. “I only just got away, and I’m not going back.”

  “You’ll have to go back anyway, to free the Raggers,” she said. “Southbridge Guardhouse is right by the temple close,” she added.

  As if he didn’t know that. “No. You’re going home. If you really want to help me, you’ll keep your mouth shut about everything that’s happened.”

  She set her lips into a thin line and drew herself up to her puny best height. “Fine. I’m off to Southbridge Temple on my own, then.”

  It was like one of those nightmares that gets worse and worse until you think you’ll die or bust a vessel, but you still can’t wake up. It was his bloody bad luck to take a crazy person hostage.

  He looked around, but there was no dragging the girlie anywhere with the streets so crowded.

  He had a notion to pitch her in the river and see if she sank. Instead he turned up his collar and trailed after her, grumbling, back toward Southbridge.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  On the Wrong Side of the Law

  Despite all the troubles she’d had over the previous two
days— the kidnapping and threats and robberies and rain and dirt and all—Raisa was intoxicated, bewitched, and bemused by freedom. She strode through the streets in her breeches and shirt, anonymous to the citizens around her, drinking in the details of the colorful neighborhood known as Ragmarket.

  Colorful was a word for it. It was also stinking and clamorous and spicy and terminally interesting. Pregnant with possibilities and risk. The bubble that usually protected the princess heir of the Fells had burst, and multiple sensations flooded in—the sights and smells and raw emotions of the queendom she was to rule one day.

  She grappled with the notion that it was only context and clothing that made her recognizable. Was that really all she was—the random occupant of a spot in the lineage of queens? Could any girl be chosen off the streets, dressed up, and put in her place? Did she have any natural ability to do this job?

  The Guard was thick on every street, bristling with weapons and bravado. Yet no one recognized her. There was no undercurrent of rumor as there would be if her disappearance were common knowledge. Puzzled, she stopped and asked a shopkeeper sweeping his steps to tell the news.

  “Somebody said there was a kidnapping,” she said. “Is that why the Guard’s all about?”

  The shopkeeper shook his head. “Don’t know nothing about a kidnapping. It’s those murders in Southbridge. The Guard is searching every tavern, inn, and warehouse in Ragmarket. Bad for business, it is. I say, if the street rats want to murder each other, let them.” He glanced about, lowering his voice. “They say it was that Cuffs Alister. He’s as bloodthirsty as they come.”

  Raisa couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder. Cuffs was trailing half a block behind her, as if he hoped he wouldn’t be seen—by her or with her, Raisa wasn’t sure.

  It was somehow thrilling to know he was back there, in pursuit of her, like in the story of Hanalea and the highwayman.

  But this wasn’t a story. This was real. And she meant to find out what was really going on.

  The towers of South Bridge loomed ahead of her. The guardhouse crouched hard by the bridge, on the Southbridge side. It was a squat, sturdy, stone building with tiny barred windows. A paved courtyard surrounded it, with stables behind for the horses. The Gray Wolf banner flew overhead, proclaiming that this was the queen’s outpost, even amid the squalor of Southbridge.

  The line for the bridge was longer than usual. A half-dozen fully armed guardsmen stood at each end, questioning all who sought to cross. Raisa’s stomach did a sickening flip. Surely she’d be recognized by anybody who’d been sent out specifically to find her.

  On impulse, she turned aside into a bakeshop. Inside, it was relatively clean and well kept, with displays of sticky buns and meat pies and pastries. The boy behind the counter wore a slouched red wool muffin cap to contain his hair.

  “Good morning to you,” she said. “I would like eight sticky buns, wrapped for travel. And your hat.”

  After a brief negotiation, Raisa left the shop with eight sticky buns in hand, her hair tucked up under the boy’s cap.

  I’ll probably end up with the itches, she thought.

  Cuffs was waiting for her outside. He gripped her wrist and yanked her into a doorway. “What. Are. You. Doing?” he hissed, his face inches from hers. Close up, she saw that his blue eyes were flecked with gold, his lashes thick and pale, the angry bruises on his face fading into pastels, a bit of blond stubble on his chin.

  She held up her sack of buns. “I’m a bakeshop girl,” Raisa said.

  “This an’t a game,” Cuffs said. “You need to turn yourself in to the bluejackets on the bridge. Tell them you’re the girl that was stolen from the temple. And go home.”

  “I’ve got something to do first.”

  “Look. I can’t cross the bridge while it’s swarming with bluejackets,” he said. “I can’t help you if you get into trouble in Southbridge.”

  “Fine. You’re done with me. I’m on my own, all right?” Raisa said, thinking, You can’t help me where I’m going.

  She wrested free of him and headed for the near end of the bridge. She looked back once to see him staring after her, hands stuffed into his pockets, a scowl on his face.

  It took a good ten minutes to get through the line. Raisa tapped her foot impatiently, anxious for the encounter to be over. She wasn’t used to having to wait.

  At the checkpoint, she bowed low before the guardsmen, as she’d seen others do.

  “What’s your name and business, girl?” the guardsman demanded, scratching himself in a rude place.

  “Rebecca Morley, Your Honor,” Raisa said, staring at the ground, still worried about being recognized. “Mean to sell bakery goods cross the river.”

  “Bakery goods, you say? Let’s see.”

  Raisa mutely opened the sack of buns and extended it toward the soldier. He reached a filthy paw in and removed one. He bit into it, grinned approvingly, and took another.

  Raisa’s cheeks flamed, and it took all of her self-control to keep from snatching the bag back. If she were truly a bakery girl, the cost of the buns would come out of her own pocket.

  “These is good,” the soldier said, handing back the depleted sack and swiping at his mouth with his sleeve. “Save me a couple for when you cross back.” And he waved her on, grinning.

  Raisa fumed all the way across the bridge. So this was the queen’s face to the people. A common thief and bully. No wonder Amon considered rebellion a possibility.

  On the Southbridge side, the temple stood on one side of the Way, the guardhouse on the other, like emblems of good and evil. Raisa leaned against the temple wall and studied the guardhouse. It looked impregnable, its windows like slitted eyes sneering at her. There was no way Cuffs and his gang were getting in and out of there.

  At least she could find out if what they said was true— were they really holding three Raggers in the guardhouse, and were they really being tortured?

  She took a deep breath and tried to center herself in her work, as Elena always said. Then she crossed the Way to the guardhouse door.

  The lone guard at the door surveyed her in a bored fashion. In the guardroom beyond, several soldiers diced and played cards.

  “What do you want?” he barked.

  “I . . . ah . . . it’s my sister, Sarie,” Raisa said in a whiny voice. “She got ta’en by the bl ...the Queen’s Guard th’other day. In Ragmarket. I was told she was here. I brung her some dinner is all.” She shook the bakery bag.

  The guard grabbed it away from her. “We’ll see she gets it,” he said, dismissing her.

  Well. That wouldn’t do at all.

  “Please, sir,” Raisa persisted. “I was hoping as I could see her, you know. It’s been three days, an’ I wondered how she was getting on. She’s been sick lately, and three days in gaol can’t be doing her good.”

  “No visitors.” He squinted at her suspiciously. “You should know that a’ready.”

  Raisa snatched at his sleeve, and he slapped her hand away, gripping the hilt of his sword. “Stay off! You bloody little—”

  “Please. I’ve got some money, sir,” Raisa quavered. “Not a lot, but some, and . . .”

  The guard turned back to her, interest lighting his face. “If you’ve got money, let’s see it, then.”

  “I will. You’ll see, sir. Only maybe after . . .” Raisa began.

  The guard’s hand snaked forward. He gripped the neck of her shirt and yanked her toward him. “Don’t play games with me, girl.” He drew back his huge fist, and Raisa’s mouth went dry with fear, but then a voice came from behind him.

  “Let the girl in, Sloat. Lemme see her.”

  Sloat released her and stepped aside.

  The man who’d spoken sat at a table by the fire, with greasy plates, playing cards, and several empty mugs arrayed before him. He had a thin, cruel face and muddy brown eyes, lank hair that hung to his shoulders. He wore the blue uniform of the Queen’s Guard, and the bars on his collar said he was a sergea
nt.

  “Come here, girl,” the sergeant said, motioning to her with a smile that turned Raisa’s bowels to water.

  Reluctantly, she crossed the room and stood before him, keeping her eyes downcast. Why had she thought this was a good idea?

  “You’re Sarie’s little sister, are you?”

  She nodded mutely.

  He gripped her wrist, twisting it hard. “Speak when you’re spoken to, girl.”

  Raisa gasped in pain, tears springing to her eyes. “Yes, sir. I’m Sarie’s sister.” She held up the bakery bag with the other hand, like a shield. “I brought her dinner, sir.”

  “The Sarie what’s in the Raggers?” the sergeant continued.

  She glanced up quickly, then away. “The Raggers, sir? What’s that?”

  The sergeant laughed. He let go of her wrist and took a swig of beer. “What’s your name?”

  “Rebecca, sir.”

  “You’re a right pretty little thing, Rebecca. How old are you?”

  Raisa cast about desperately for an age. Younger was better she decided. “Th-thirteen, sir,” she said, hunching her shoulders, trying to remember what thirteen looked like.

  “Ah.” He grinned wider. “Would you like to see your sister, then?”

  “I would, sir.”

  The sergeant stood and took her by the arm. “Come on, then.”

  Sloat began muttering a protest. “Sergeant Gillen, I a’ready told her, No visitors.”

  “Shut it, Sloat,” Gillen said. “We’ll make a special exception, in this case.”

  He hauled her down a long corridor lined with stout-looking wooden doors, her feet touching the floor only at every third step. And all the way, Raisa kept thinking, This is the brutal Sergeant Gillen. The one the Raggers whispered about. The one Amon spoke of, who beats people in the street. What have I gotten myself into?

  At the end of the hall was a metal gate, and beyond that another wooden door that Gillen unlocked with a large metal key. Gillen took her through both, stopped long enough to light a torch, and then propelled her down a narrow staircase to the cellar.

  Raisa shivered from fear and cold. It was chilly and damp on the cellar level, and she knew they must be close to the river, because of the stink.