Now, it was nightmare made flesh. It was an old, old nightmare, birthed in a Henden that the city had only barely survived. Demon.
The demon—and it could be nothing else—horrified Hectore; he did not and could not move as Jarven had moved. The arm that had not neatly carved its way into solid stone shot out, claws extending; Hectore grimaced as they struck him mid-chest.
Blue light crackled at the contact point; flesh singed. It was not Hectore’s flesh. He was driven back, stumbling at the force of the blow; before he could lose his footing, something caught him, righting him.
He heard a voice that was both familiar and strange. “Run, Hectore.” He turned in the direction of the voice and saw nothing. But he also heard, of all incongruous things, a brief chuckle. He backed up as the demon’s eyes widened into sockets and darkness across half the length of its inhuman face; its fingers were smoking.
He did not take Jarven’s advice, although everything in him screamed to do so. Everything except the small corner of his brain devoted to merchant negotiations. Any advice that Jarven offered that sounded good was always suspect.
He had a dagger. A flyswatter would have been just as effective, and only slightly more ridiculous. Jarven had not run. And Hectore would not; not yet. Any distance he covered would negate the magical memory capture he now felt profoundly necessary.
Jarven had walked down this hall by his side with the cool confidence of a man who has a plan. Hectore did not assume that plan encompassed the protection of Hectore’s life; that was not Jarven’s style. But it must have encompassed Jarven’s survival—and the only way to accomplish that was to destroy the demon.
Rock cracked as the demon withdrew his embedded hand. He never took his gaze off the Araven patris; nor did the Araven patris look away from the demon. He had paid a rather princely sum for the device in his pocket. Clearly the money had not gone entirely to waste. He was not certain how much damage it could absorb; it was meant as a defense of last resort if one were stranded in the center of an angry soon-to-be mob.
This creature was equivalent to that, but that was not the entirety of Hectore’s concern; the shadows that now pooled at its feet—its flat, splayed, clawed feet—were. They moved as if they were smoke; they glistened as if liquid, spreading up and down the hall as he watched.
He took a step back.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave, Patris Araven.” The creature spoke with Bertold’s accent, but his voice made it bestial. “None of you will be allowed to leave when the guildhall doors have closed.”
“I fail to see how you will stop me.”
The creature laughed. Its amusement reminded Hectore of the thunder that presages storm. He leaped, the shadows clinging to his limbs like shroud or veil; Hectore could see the shape of the hall through their folds, but the hall was pale and almost colorless. The demon did not attempt to pierce chest as he had done the first time; instead, his arms extended in deadly mockery of an embrace.
Hectore did not struggle; he had that much self-control. Dignity failed him briefly when the creature’s jaws opened, because they didn’t seem to stop; flesh lengthened to reveal teeth that could not fit the shape and expanse of a roughly man-shaped head.
He drew Hectore toward him; Hectore struggled, briefly, before he mastered himself and his entirely visceral fear. The jaws that had opened did not snap or close, not immediately; they opened wider, until they were longer than Hectore’s head.
But closing them on that head—which was immediately and obviously the creature’s intent—was easier said than done; blue light flashed inches from Hectore; light washed the hall, and shadows sizzled as demonic tongue burned.
The creature screamed in fury. Or at least that was Hectore’s assumption; this close to the interior of demonic jaws, he could see very little else. The jaws snapped shut on air, and Hectore was thrown off his feet and toward the end of the hall—away from the pantry and the demon itself.
He could not keep his footing, as he was no longer on his feet. He hit the wall and felt his shoulder burn at the contact. If he was not as old as Jarven, he was by no means a young man; this night’s work would be costly, if he survived.
He rose, unsteadily, to his feet and looked down the hall. The demon’s screaming had not lessened, but it had changed in pitch; fury was mingled with surprise, and surprise gave way to fear. The shadows at the creature’s feet were roiling; steam rose from them in a black, dense cloud.
Did demons bleed? They certainly felt pain, which the merchant felt he could enjoy without guilt. Hectore leaned, for a moment, against the wall he’d hit as he watched the demon begin to burn. He didn’t recognize it as burning for a few seconds because the smoke looked so much like the shadow, but as the seconds passed the smoke thinned and he could see a light glowing at the center of the creature’s chest.
The light grew as he watched. It wasn’t the normal red of flame or fire; it was a gold-limned white, and it reminded Hectore of Summer for no reason he could readily identify. As the demon continued to burn, Hectore began to squint; he could barely make out the attenuated form of the creature’s limbs as the light grew stronger, brighter.
He had to close his eyes at the last, they were tearing. But he wanted to watch. To set these screams—dying, even as the light brightened—against the screams of decades past, which haunted the worst of his nightmares. The worst, he thought, of the nightmares that haunted those who had been alive during the Henden of 410.
White fire consumed the creature, and when the light at last faded and Hectore’s eyes once again acclimated to the natural, dimmer torches of the back halls, he saw that the demon was gone. In his place, or perhaps directly behind where he had chosen to stand, was a familiar figure, and in his right hand, a weapon that Hectore had considered a fanciful letter opener.
“Well,” Jarven said, as he met Hectore’s gaze, “that was instructive. Remind me to make more deliberate and respectful offerings at the cathedrals upon the Isle in future. I suggest, in future, you take the opportunity to avoid these conflicts when such opportunity arises.”
Hectore grimaced.
“You are unharmed?”
“My shoulder is not.”
“May I say that I am impressed with the depths of your . . . caution?”
“Or the depths of my fortune?”
Jarven chuckled. “I have always been impressed by that, Patris Araven. But in the main, you have not mishandled that fortune. I believe I understand the panic and concern of the servants now.”
“Do you think this was the only such creature in the guildhall?”
“If you are going to ask remarkably stupid or naive questions, save them for the credulous. I am not as young as I used to be, and physical maneuvers of the kind the creature necessitated take their toll. We should be away, Hectore.”
“If you can handle a creature such as this—”
“It was not fear of the creature,” Jarven replied. He was almost annoyingly calm; the demon might have been a garden variety assassin of poor quality and middling capability. “But fear of Andrei.”
Hectore snorted.
And from behind him in the hall he heard a very familiar voice. “Justifiable fear, and I’m afraid it is a little too late to give that meaningful consideration.”
Andrei had arrived.
Chapter Five
ANDREI WAS NOT DRESSED as a manservant. Nor was he dressed as a merchant of middling—or even significant—means. He wore dark clothing, and at that, fitted in a way that implied the need for fast and unencumbered movement.
Hectore grimaced and turned in the direction of his most significant servant; he momentarily lost the thread of words. Andrei was bleeding. It was not, to Hectore’s eye, a particularly significant wound; it was, however visible—a long slash across his right cheek.
“I am not invulnerable, Hectore,” Andrei sai
d stiffly.
“I had not intended to imply that you were.”
Andrei, however, was glaring at Jarven. “Do not embroil my master in your games.”
“I assure you that was not my intent. Rather the opposite.”
Andrei’s face fell into studied neutrality, which was not a good sign. Hectore pulled himself from the wall and headed—stiffly—toward his servant. “You are saying that the events here—”
“Of course not. I am saying that our presence in the back halls—and in the kitchens—were Patris Araven’s suggestion. I merely followed.”
“No doubt playing the dotard.”
Jarven’s grin was unrepentant; it was also sharp. “I prefer that to the role of the servant.”
“And you’ve played the servant long enough to evaluate the differences?”
Jarven chuckled. “You are clearly out of sorts this evening.”
“I have been remarkably busy. The evening is not yet over, and I wish Hectore to be well quit of the guildhall before things become difficult.”
Hectore laughed, which soured Andrei’s unfriendly expression further. “It has already been, as you have probably guessed, more difficult than any previous guildhall meeting. Prior to this, the only threat to health or sanity has been boredom. We need to return to the kitchen,” he added. “Unless you took your wound there.”
“No. For some reason, the guards posted outside of the guildhall were overzealous in their attempts to keep the doors closed.”
Hectore was surprised, and saw no reason to hide his outrage. “This was caused by guards?”
“Let us say it was caused by men in guildhall livery. If you are in the back halls, you deduced that circumstances were not entirely the norm. I assume you were leaving?”
“That was our intent, yes. But the back halls were clearly in a state of near-panic.”
“Which is why you are here.”
“We came to speak with Bertold, yes.”
“And Bertold?”
“Was probably the cause for most of that panic. Come, Andrei. We will depart; first, I would like to give orders to clear the kitchen.”
“Those orders are not—”
“Araven can weather the fury of the guildmaster—if indeed the guildmaster remains to vent his spleen. Did you enter the main hall?”
Andrei shook his head. Hectore frowned.
“By which door did you choose to enter?”
“The trade entrance.”
“Dressed like that? I withdraw my ire at the overzealousness of the guild’s guards.”
Andrei did not find this as amusing as Jarven did. Hectore grimaced; his arm would be almost useless in the morning; it was not notably flexible at the moment. There was nothing wrong with his feet, and he picked up the pace as he headed back to the kitchen. One of the older women with whom he was familiar met his gaze, her eyes narrowed.
“Stacia,” he said, offering her a brief nod. He cleared his throat and raised his voice. “The master of the kitchen has asked me to clear the kitchen entirely.”
This caused noise—enough of it that syllables clashed with other syllables in a way that made most of the words they formed unintelligible. Given the difference in their status, most of those words should not have been uttered in his hearing, anyway.
“What do you mean, clear?”
“Clear,” he replied, “as in: react as if the kitchen were, in fact, on fire.”
The older woman blanched. She glanced at her compatriots, and he saw several different fears cross her face, each one vying for dominance. The choices she faced were difficult, and Hectore understood the various textures of that difficulty. If she deserted the kitchens—if she ordered the rest of the staff to desert—and there was no equivalent of raging fire, they could look forward to starving in the streets in the near future.
Jarven coughed, catching her attention. “If you do not clear the kitchen while it is possible to do so, you will all die. It will not be by our hands, of course,” he added, lifting a hand as she drew breath. “But there is a reason that Patris Araven and I chose to brave the back halls during a critically important guild meeting.
“We will not delay our departure further, but if you are concerned about the reaction of the master of the kitchen, it is no longer an issue.”
Her shoulders sagged. “He is—”
“He has left the building,” Jarven replied. “Nor do I expect him to return.”
One of the youngest of the kitchen workers turned toward the hall that led to the pantry. Hectore stopped her before she reached the door. Her face was the color of chalk, her eyes too wide. He understood, in a moment, what she feared, and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice low.
She tried to throw his arm off; Andrei blocked her.
“You will not find your friend; you might find what remains of him—or her.” He looked up; Stacia was watching, her lips thinning. To her, he said, “Henden.”
It was a single word; a month. But she understood the whole of his intent, and she came—quickly—to catch the girl by the shoulders. She wasn’t gentle—but on a night where most of the guild had gathered beneath the roof, there was very little calm, and good temper was generally the first casualty. She had a piercing voice—and a strong backhand which purportedly saw infrequent use—and she raised the former. “Clear the kitchen.”
“But, Stacia—”
“I mean it. Vanne, pass word to the serving staff if you can do it without risk: tell them—tell them Jarven ATerafin has found some evidence of poison in the food leaving the kitchen and it is not to be served.”
“Should we tell them to leave, too?”
She glanced at Hectore, who grimaced. “Yes.” This was not to be the subtle, quiet exit that he had first intended. He turned to Andrei. “We will need to leave. It is possible we will need to leave the way you entered—how much of a scene did your entry cause?”
“We will be able to leave that way if we do not tarry longer.”
“An alarm was raised?”
“Yes. But not the traditional alarm. It’s my hope that the attention of those who might otherwise prevent escape will be focused on newer, unwanted visitors—but I cannot guarantee it.”
“No?”
“No. There is only one person who can; if you choose to pray, pray to your Kalliaris.”
• • •
Leaving the kitchen was not the smooth and untrammeled affair that Hectore had initially envisioned when he had entered the back halls. Nor did he immediately make his way to the doors, although Andrei was practically shrieking—in his perfectly silent way. As he had now overstepped what little authority he had in the guild—all of it indirect and all of it due to the rumors of Araven’s considerable wealth—he found Marjorie and told her, curtly, that all of the serving staff was evacuating. He considered telling her that fire had broken out in the kitchen, but decided fire was not compelling enough.
“You had every reason to be afraid,” he said instead. “And it is growing with the passage of time. Stacia has now emptied the kitchen of everyone who survived.”
Marjorie did not ask him what they had survived; nor did he volunteer that information.
Jarven looked bored and irritable, rather than absentminded and frail. This was not a promising sign. “Marjorie, are there other servants—or officials of the guild—who have been as questionable in their change of temperament or personality as the former master of the kitchen?”
She hesitated.
“We do not have time for hesitance. Yes or no?”
“Yes.” Before Jarven could ask, she added, “The under-steward.”
“Not the steward?”
“He took sick three days ago; he has not been in the halls since. The under-steward has assumed his duties.”
“Where is the under-ste
ward now?”
“He’s in charge of the arrangements in the great hall. He’s there now.”
“Thank you. Leave, if you can safely leave. Your job, after this evening, will not be at risk.”
“You can’t—”
“I can guarantee it, although it pains me to do so.” He turned to Hectore. “Now?”
Hectore nodded. “Given the efficacy of your work here, I am almost tempted to return to the great hall to disrupt the meeting and the speech.”
“I am incapable of repeating that minor miracle this evening,” was Jarven’s curt reply. “And were I not, I would still be wary of the hall; it is no doubt where the focus of planning has gone, and the protections and magic there might outstrip the meager offerings merchants keep up their sleeves. Or in their pockets.” He turned to Andrei. “Your opinion?”
“We leave. We should have left the kitchen and the back halls; it is not safe to be in the guildhall at the moment.”
Hectore spoke, but his words—the few that managed to escape—were lost to the thunderous roar that permeated two doors. The floor shook beneath his feet.
Marjorie turned white and offered no further resistance; she picked up her skirts and ran.
Screams—and there were screams—were thin and almost inaudible as Hectore, Andrei, and Jarven moved with far greater speed toward the exit.
• • •
It was easier approached in theory than in practice; the hall was crowded. Word had traveled from the kitchen; it had clearly been amplified by Marjorie. It had drawn servants of every level to doors that should have been open.
Technically, they were. They were not, however, passable. While Hectore could see the exterior grounds—thin strips of grass and significant, if unseasonal, flower beds—he could not actually reach them. A pane of glass—of something that served as glass—now covered the entire length and breadth of the door’s frame.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 14