The Smoke Thieves Series, Book 1

by Sally Green

  Tash used to ask Gravell all about demons, but now she probably knew as much as anyone could about something from a different place. And what a place it was. Not of this earth, she thought, or perhaps too much of this earth, of an ancient earth. Tash had seen into it, the demon land: that was what she had to do. To lure the demon out she had to venture in, where she was not allowed, where humans didn’t go. And the demons would kill her for daring to see their world, a world that was bruised and brooding. Not so much dark as a different type of light; the light was red and the shadows redder. There were no trees or plants, just red rock. The air was warmer, thicker, and then there were the sounds.

  Tash waited until the sun was halfway below the hill, the sky red and orange only in that small section. Mist was collecting in the gentle hollows. It was forming in her demon’s hollow too. This hollow was slightly deeper than the other dips and undulations around it, but unlike the rest this had no snow in it, and at this time of evening the mist could be seen to have a tinge of red, which perhaps could be due to the sunset, but Tash knew otherwise.

  Tash approached slowly and silently and knelt at the rim of the hollow. She reached back to clean the spikes on her boots with her fingers, pulling off a few small clumps of earth. She put her hands on the ground and spread her fingers, feeling the earth, which was not warm but was not frozen solid either—this was the edge of demon territory.

  She dug in her toes and took a breath as if she was about to submerge, which in a way she was. Tash lowered her head, and with eyes open she pushed her head forward, her chest brushing the ground, as if she was nosing under a curtain into the hollow: into the demon’s world.

  Sometimes it took two or three attempts, but today she was in first time.

  The demon land fell away before her, the hollow descending sharply to a tunnel, but that wasn’t the only thing that was different from the human world. Here, in the demon world, colors, sounds, and temperatures were altered, as if she was looking through a colored glass into an oven. Describing the colors was hard, but describing the sounds was impossible.

  Tash looked across the red hollow to the opening of the tunnel, and there at the lowest point was something purple. A leg?

  Then she made sense of it and saw that he—it—was sprawled on its stomach, one leg sticking out. Tash worked out its torso, an arm, and its head. Human-shaped but not human. Skin smooth and finely muscled, purple and red and streaks of orange, narrow and long. It looked young. Like a gangly teenager. Its stomach was moving slowly with each of its breaths. It was sleeping.

  Tash had been holding her own breath all this time, and now she let out what air she had. Sometimes that’s all she needed to do; just her breath, her smell, would get the demon’s attention.

  This demon didn’t move.

  Tash took a breath in, the air hot and dry in her mouth. She shouted her shout: “I’m here, demon! I can see you!” But her voice did not sound the same here. Here, words were not words but a clanging of cymbals and gongs.

  The demon’s head lifted and slowly turned to face Tash. One leg moved, bending at the knee, the foot rising in the air, totally relaxed despite the intrusion. The demon’s eyes were purple. It stared at Tash and then blinked. Its leg was still in the air and was totally still. Then it threw its head back, lowered its leg, opened its mouth, and stretched its neck to howl.

  A clanging noise hit Tash’s ears as the demon sprang up and forward, purple mouth open, but already Tash was springing up too, pushing her spikes hard into the ground and twisting round in the air in a leap that took her out of the demon world and back onto the lip of the hollow, back into the human world.

  And then she was running.

  CATHERINE

  BRIGANE, BRIGANT

  There is no greater evil than that of a traitor. All traitors must be sought out, exposed, and punished.

  The Laws and Devices of Brigant

  “PRINCE BORIS HAS sent a guard to escort us there, Your Highness.”

  Jane, the new maid, looked and sounded terrified.

  “Don’t worry. You won’t have to watch.” Princess Catherine smoothed her skirt and took a deep breath. She was ready.

  They set off: the guard ahead, Catherine in the middle, and Jane at the rear. The corridors were quiet and empty in the queen’s part of the castle; even the guard’s heavy footsteps were hushed on the thick rugs. But entering the central hall was like crossing into a different world: a world full of men, color, and noise. Catherine so rarely came into this world that she wanted to take it all in. There were no other women here. The lords were in breastplates, with swords and daggers, as though they didn’t dare come to court without appearing their strongest. Numerous servants stood around and everyone seemed to be talking, looking, maneuvering. Catherine recognized no one, but the men recognized her and parted to allow her through, bowing as she passed, the noise quietening then building again behind her.

  And then she was at another door, which the guard held open for her. “Prince Boris asked that you wait for him in here, Your Highness.”

  Catherine entered the antehall, indicating with a wave of her hand that Jane should wait at the door, which was already being closed.

  It was quiet, but Catherine could hear her own heart beating fast. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  She told herself, Stay calm. Stay dignified. Act like a princess.

  She straightened her back and took another deep breath. Then paced slowly to the far end of the room.

  It’ll be ugly. It’ll be bloody. But I won’t flinch. I won’t faint. I certainly won’t scream.

  And back again.

  I’ll be controlled. I won’t show any emotion. If it’s really bad I’ll think of something else. But what? Something beautiful? That would just be wrong.

  And back again.

  What do you think of when you watch someone having their head chopped off? And not just anyone, but Amb–

  Catherine turned and there was Noyes, somehow in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall.

  Catherine rarely met Noyes, but whenever she saw him she had to suppress a shudder. He was slim and athletic, probably the same age as her father. Today he was fashionably dressed in his leather and buckles, his shoulder-length, almost white hair tied back from his angular face in fine plaits and a simple knot. But for all that there was something unpleasant about him. Maybe it was just his reputation. Noyes, the master inquisitor, was in the business of seeking out and hunting down traitors. He didn’t kill prisoners himself for the most part; that was the job of his torturers and executioners. In the seven years since the war with Calidor, Noyes and his like had flourished, unlike most Brigantine businesses. No one was safe from his scrutiny: from stable lad to lord, from maid to lady, and even to princess.

  Noyes pushed off the wall with his shoulder, took a lazy step toward her, made a slow bow, and said, “Good morning, Your Highness. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  “For you, I’m sure.”

  He smiled his half-smile and remained still, watching her.

  Catherine asked, “Are you waiting for Boris?”

  “I’m merely waiting, Your Highness.”

  They stood in silence. Catherine looked up at the high windows and the blue sky beyond. Noyes’s eyes were on her and she felt like a sheep at a market . . . No, more like an ugly bug that had crawled across his path. She had an urge to scream that he should show her some respect.

  She turned abruptly away from him and told herself, Stay calm. Stay calm. She was good at hiding her emotions after nearly seventeen years of practice, but recently it had become harder. Recently her emotions kept threatening to get the better of her.

  “Ah, you’re here, sister,” Boris called as he barged through the doors, Prince Harold trailing in his wake. For once Catherine was relieved to see her brothers. She curtsied. Boris strode through the
room, ignoring Noyes and not even bowing to Catherine. He didn’t come to a standstill, but carried on, saying, “Your maid stays here. You come with me.” He pushed open the double doors into the castle square, saying, “Come on, Princess. Don’t dilly-dally.”

  Catherine hurried after Boris, the doors already swinging shut in her face. She pulled them open and was relieved that Boris had stopped; the scaffold ahead of them was almost blocking the way, as tall as the rose-garden wall.

  Boris snorted a laugh. “Father told them to make sure everyone gets a good view, but I swear they’ve cut down an acre of forest to build this.”

  “Well, I don’t know why she should get to see it. This isn’t for girls,” Harold said, hands on hips, legs apart, staring at Catherine.

  “And yet children are allowed to attend,” Catherine replied, imitating his stance.

  “I’m fourteen, sister.”

  Catherine walked past him, whispering, “In two months, little brother. But I won’t tell anyone.”

  Harold grumbled, “I’ll soon be bigger than you,” before pushing past her and stomping off after Boris. He looked particularly small and slight as he followed behind Boris’s broad frame. They were clearly brothers, their red-blond hair exactly the same shade, though Harold’s was more intricately tied, and it struck Catherine that he must have had someone spend more time on his hair than her maids had spent with hers.

  However, Harold’s opinion about the propriety of Catherine’s presence mattered as little as Catherine’s own. She had been ordered to attend the execution by her father, on the advice of Noyes. Catherine had to prove herself to them. Prove her strength and loyalty, and most importantly that she was no traitor in heart, mind, or deed.

  Boris was already rounding the corner of the scaffold. Catherine hurried to catch up, lifting her long skirt so as not to trip. Although she couldn’t yet see the crowd, she could hear its low buzz. It was strange how you could sense a crowd, sense a mood. The men in the hall had been polite on the surface, but there was a barely concealed lust: for power, for . . . anything. Here, there was a large crowd and a surprisingly good mood. A couple of shouts of “Boris” went up, but they quickly died. This wasn’t Boris’s day.

  Boris turned and stared at Catherine as she joined him. “You want to show off your legs to the masses, sister?”

  Catherine dropped her skirt and smoothed the fabric, saying in her most repulsed voice, “The cobbles aren’t clean. This silk will be ruined.”

  “Better that than your reputation.” Boris held Catherine’s gaze. “I’m only thinking of you, sister.” He waved to his left, at the raised platform carpeted in royal red, and stated, “This is for us.”

  As if Catherine couldn’t work it out for herself.

  Boris led the way up the three steps. The royal enclosure was rather basic, with a single row of the wide, carved wooden stools Catherine recognized from the meeting hall. A thick red rope was strung loosely between short red-and-black posts that demarked the platform. The crowd was beyond the platform, and it too was held back by rope (not red, but thick, coarse, and brown) and a line of the Royal Guard (in red, black, and gold, but also thick and coarse, Catherine assumed).

  Boris pointed at the seat closest to the far edge of the platform. “For you, sister.” He planted himself on the wide stool next to hers, his legs apart, a muscular thigh overlapping Catherine’s seat. She sat down, carefully arranging her skirt so that it wouldn’t crease and so that the pale pink silk fell over Boris’s knee. He moved his leg away.

  Harold remained standing by the seat on the other side of Boris. “But Catherine gets the best view.”

  “That’s the point, squirt,” Boris replied.

  “But I have precedence over Catherine and I want to sit there.”

  “Well, I gave Catherine that seat. So you sit on this one here and stop your whining.”

  Harold hesitated for a moment. He opened his mouth to complain again but caught Catherine’s eye. She smiled and made an elegant sewing sign in front of her lips. Harold glanced at Boris and had to clamp his lips together with his teeth, but he did remain quiet.

  Catherine surveyed the square. There was another platform opposite, on the other side of the scaffold, with some noblemen standing on it. She recognized Ambrose’s long blond hair and quickly looked away, wondering if she was blushing. Why did just a glimpse of him make her feel hot and flustered? And today of all days! She had to think of something else. Sometimes her whole life seemed to involve thinking of something else.

  The area before the scaffold was packed with common folk. Catherine stared at the crowd, forcing her focus onto them. There were scruffily dressed laborers, some slightly smarter traders, groups of young men, some boys, a few women. They were for the most part dressed drably, some almost in rags, their hair loose or tied back simply. Near her, people were talking about the weather. It was already hot, the hottest day of the year so far, the sky a pure pale blue. It was a day to be enjoyed, and yet hundreds of people were here to see someone die.

  “What makes these people come to watch this, do you suppose, brother?” Catherine asked, putting on her I’m-asking-a-genuine-question voice.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Educate me a little. You are so much more experienced in these matters.”

  Boris replied in an overly sincere voice, “Well, sister. There’s a holy trinity that drives the masses and draws them here. Boredom, curiosity, and bloodlust. And the greatest of these is bloodlust.”

  “And do you suppose this bloodlust is increased when it’s a noble head that is going to be severed from a noble body?”

  “They just want blood,” Boris replied. “Anyone’s.”

  “And yet these people here seem more interested in discussing the weather than the finer points of chopping someone in two.”

  “They don’t need to discuss it. They need to see it. They’ll stop talking about the weather soon enough. When the prisoner is brought out you’ll see what I mean. The rabble want blood and they’ll get it here today. And you’ll get a lesson in what happens to someone who betrays the king. One you can’t learn from books.”

  Catherine turned her face from the contempt in Boris’s voice. That was how she learned about life—from books. Though it was hardly her fault that she wasn’t allowed to meet people, to travel, to learn about the world from the world. But Catherine did like books, and in the last few days she had scoured the library for anything relating to executions: she’d studied the law, the methods, the history, and numerous examples. The illustrations, most of which showed executioners holding up severed heads, were bad enough, but to choose to witness it, to choose to be part of it, part of the crowd baying for blood, was something Catherine couldn’t understand.

  “I still don’t see why Catherine needs to be here at all,” Harold complained.

  “Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Boris didn’t even turn to Harold as he spoke.

  “But ladies don’t normally come to watch.”

  Boris now couldn’t resist replying, “No, not normally, but Catherine needs a lesson in loyalty. She needs to understand the consequences of not following our plans for her.” He turned to Catherine as he added, “In every aspect. To the smallest degree.”

  Harold frowned. “What plans?”

  Boris ignored him.

  Harold rolled his eyes and leaned toward Catherine to ask, “Is this about your marriage?”

  Catherine smiled thinly. “This is an execution, so why you would link it to my marriage, I can’t imagine.” Boris glared at her, and she added, “What I mean is, I’m honored to be marrying Prince Tzsayn of Pitoria and will ensure every aspect of the wedding goes to plan, whether or not I see someone having their head chopped off.”

  Harold was quiet for a few moments before asking, “But why wouldn’t it go to plan?”

  “It will,”
Boris answered. “Father won’t let anything stop it.”

  This was true, and Catherine’s complete obedience to every detail of the plan was required, and that was why she was here. She had made the mistake a week earlier of saying to her maid, Diana, that Diana could perhaps look forward to a marriage based on love. Diana had asked Catherine whom she would marry if she could choose, and Catherine had joked, “Someone I’ve spoken with at least once,” adding, “Someone intelligent and thoughtful and considerate.” As she said it, she had thought of her last conversation with Ambrose as he escorted her on her ride. He had joked about the quality of food in the barracks, then had grown serious as he described the poverty in the backstreets of Brigane. Diana seemed to know her thoughts and had said, “You spoke with Sir Ambrose at length this morning.”

  The day after the conversation with Diana, Catherine was summoned to Boris, and that was when she’d realized her maid was less her maid and more Noyes’s spy. Catherine suffered lengthy lecturing and questioning from Boris, but it was Noyes who listened most closely to her answers, though he made a show of leaning against the wall and yawning occasionally. Noyes was not even a lord, hardly a gentleman, but the way his lips curled in a half-smile made Catherine’s skin crawl and she feared him twice as much as her brother. Noyes was her father’s presence, his spy, his eyes and ears. Boris was that too of course, but Boris was always bludgeoningly obvious.

  At the interview, Boris had repeated the usual lines about unquestioning loyalty and obedience and Catherine had been pleased with how cool she’d remained.

  “I am merely nervous, as any bride-to-be is before their wedding. I have never even met Prince Tzsayn. Just as I try to be the best daughter I can be to Father, I hope to be a good wife to Tzsayn, and to be that, I look forward to talking to him, getting to know him, finding out about his interests.”