By Demons Possessed

by P. C. Hodgell

  “No!” she cried.

  For a moment Jame staggered. A hand gripping her ankle couldn’t have shaken her more. She blinked at Rue. Her face had been that of a stranger, predatory, savoring the languorous death to come by desire as much as by water. Now her lips quirked ruefully.

  I am reminded. Thank you.

  The room seemed to hold its breath.

  Tap, tap, tap went Ghillie’s finger on the bottom of a pot, counting time.

  Jame gestured Rue up onto the table.

  Oh no, thought Rue, but she felt drawn to rise despite herself.

  Jame began again to dance.

  Step, slide, turn, repeat. Step, slide, turn—once more, the first kantir of earth-moving.

  Had she seen Rue stumble through it? Was this mockery? No. Here, those simple patterns took on dignity, authority. Rue felt herself drawn into them, matching Jame’s movements but in the opposite direction. Was this the Sene? When Jame began to clap in time to Ghillie’s beat, to the fall of their boots on the tabletop, Rue almost launched into the Senethar. She saw at once, though, that Jame didn’t mean to fight.

  Rue also began to clap, hesitantly at first. Before, she had concentrated on the mechanics of the form. Now her muscles loosened and she gave herself up to it.

  Step, step, step, turn; step, step, step, turn . . .

  This was the steady beat of the heart, the throb of the soul.

  Their feet left the tabletop together, together came down with a crash that made the furniture jump. They had shifted to fire-leaping. Rue circled the rim of her wooden world, half thinking that she would paint it with flames. Opposite her, she was aware of that dark fire which leaped in Jame’s slender form.

  Oh, please don’t ask too much of me . . .

  Ghillie beat faster in time with their flying feet. Someone else was clapping now, strong and steady. The Archiem. Others among the brigands joined him—two, five, twenty—until the very room rocked.

  Clap-clap-clap, stomp, clap-clap-clap, stomp . . .

  Jame sprang from one table to next, kicking tankards out of her way. A cheer rose even from those who had lost their beer or been drenched by it.

  That was wind-blowing, thought Rue, awed. She flew!

  Jame saluted her across the space between them and stepped back. Tap, went a black-gloved fingertip in encouragement against a gloved palm. Tap, tap, tap . . .

  Sweet Trinity. Rue had danced wind-blowing before, but never in front of such an audience and always aware that others did it so much better than she.

  I’m a clod, a mooncalf.

  But her blood was up and with it a febrile lick of defiance. She collected her breath, then bowed to the onlookers, who had stilled in anticipation.

  The summoning. Hands rise, gathering in power. Heart and lungs swell. The world expands. A breeze raises the wings of one’s hair, of one’s spirit, and candles flicker. Turn. Flow. Wind rises. Wind falls to rise again. It bends the grass. It stirs the water. It feeds the flames.

  Earth, water, fire . . . these also rose up in her, vying for expression. Why had she never noticed before how they overlapped? How did one separate their demands? Were they about to tear her apart?

  A pudgy figure wagged a finger at her.

  Child, listen to your mother.

  Rue’s mother had died with her birth in that cold border keep. She did not remember the sound of her voice.

  Child, swim with me.

  But the waters of her home were far too cold and their catch was not to be trusted.

  Child, burn.

  Rue gasped. The other powers had seemed distant, already in retreat, but fire swayed outside the front door in the fretted night of the square, lambent cracks opening and closing in the charred skin around its mouth. It was also in the chandelier’s candles over her head, dripping molten wax on her head. And it glared from the eyes of the onlookers. The tips of her hair rose in its heat, and singed, and stank.

  I am death, oblivion, said the thing on the inn’s threshold. I am the pyre. You will come to me in the end. Why not now?

  “Burnt Man, go away!” Rue heard Jame cry. “This is neither your time nor your place!”

  Rue faltered, but light came to support her. A radiance grew around the table, wrapped in an encouraging benevolence, and the darkness outside withdrew. The air seemed to smile.

  Child, dance with me.

  “Oh,” said Rue in wonder, holding her hands out to the inn’s nameless goddess. “Oh, yes!”

  They moved together in a trance of delight. Earth no longer claimed them, nor water held them down. Fire . . . gone, except for the glow it left behind. Swoop, slide, rise. Were they still on the tabletop or above it? Sway. Bend, just so. All was effortless, the body ethereal. A phantom hand glided up Rue’s arm, making the hairs on it rise.

  You have served this place, my home, oh, so well, breathed the other in her ear. I thank you. I love you. A kiss, and then good-bye.

  Air moved across Rue’s lips in a blush of warmth. She sank to her knees on the tabletop, so lightly that she hardly felt earth regain its hold. The room was still. Then it erupted into cheers.

  “Well done,” said Jame, helping her to rise on legs that threatened to crumple under her. “That lady’s blessing is no small thing.”

  Remembering something else, Rue shivered. “That thing outside the door . . . was it really the Burnt Man?”

  “Unlike the other Four,” said Jame grimly, “he hasn’t left yet. Why, I don’t know, except that he usually wants to kill me. The Earth Wife said that he would turn up again when least convenient. There was something about him, though . . .”

  Ghillie yelped in the kitchen, pots clanging as he sprang up. Cleppetty’s voice rose in sharp exclamation. Both were shoved aside by a knot of men dragging someone down the stairs. In another moment, Tubain was thrust into the hall, still trailing wisps of feminine finery.

  Men-dalis rose, smiling. “Ah. Mistress Abernia. I am so pleased to see you again.”

  Cleppetty pushed past them, trying to place herself between the innkeeper and these invaders.

  “You have no claim here,” she snapped at the Sirdan. “You never did. Archiem, tell him, on your honor as one of the Five!”

  Arribek put his elbows on the table and leaned forward over clasped hands. “I must admit,” he said dryly, “this situation has puzzled me ever since I first heard of it. What cause had you, my lord, to take this . . . er . . . individual in charge?”

  “Oh, well, it goes back to the tragic death of my brother Dally. I had reason to believe that the Talisman knew what had happened. I wanted to know where she had gone. All this inn could tell me was that she had returned to her own people, in some place called the Riverland.”

  “That would seem to have answered your question.”

  “Ah, but how could I induce her to return? She never favored me—why, I don’t know.” He spread his hands, smiling winningly. “Why would any honest person refuse?”

  “So you kidnapped the innkeeper’s wife. As an incentive.”

  “Perhaps I acted impulsively. What would you do, if your brother had been murdered?”

  “As it happens, he was—my elder, the heir, not as with you, your younger, a mere rival. My brother’s assassin is now among my most trusted lieutenants. He should be. His son, a sweet, trusting boy, is . . . er . . . a page in my traveling court.”

  Men-dalis smiled again, as if reassured. “Then you understand. Likewise, Mistress Abernia became my guest. I had charge of her for several months, racking up room and board.” He drew out the scroll. “It specifies here that a host has the right to retain a customer until they repay their debt, however long that takes. Therefore, I am reasserting my claim now on . . . er . . . her person until my just demands are met.”

  “That’s a ridiculous rule!” Cleppetty burst out. “What’s to stop drunkards from living here forever? She was your prisoner. Should we pay a jailor?”

  “It has been known to happen,” said the Arch
iem judicially. “And it is written down.”

  Kithra had been holding back, wringing her hands. “But . . . but,” she burst out, “I told you that she was here so that you could take her away. She’s horrible! But Uncle Tuby, oh, set him free! Surely none of this is his fault!”

  Rothan took her by the elbow. “You fool,” he said.

  She gaped at him. “What?”

  “I’ll explain later, if you can understand.”

  “Master Tubain,” said Jame, “what do you think about this rule?”

  Tubain had been cringing in the grip of his captors. “I . . .” he stuttered. “I . . .”

  “Mistress!”

  Abernia straightened, shrugging off the Sirdan’s minions by the sheer strength of her resurgent personality. “Let me see that scroll.”

  Men-dalis handed it over, too surprised to resist. She unrolled it.

  “Huh,” she said, rapidly scanning to the crumbling seal at its end. “The Innkeepers’ Guild issues these every other year and stamps them with the date. This document is obsolete by centuries. Where did you get it?”

  “It was stolen from an ancient archive,” said Jame, cutting in quickly, to forestall other comment, “along with a book of bad poetry and someone’s laundry list.”

  “What a curious collection,” the Archiem said with a smile. “Whose archive, pray tell?”

  “Please take my word for this: under the circumstances, it doesn’t matter.”

  “I remember now,” said Men-dalis, with an air of boyish delight. “You were there when Abbotir gave it to me, weren’t you? ‘Do with it what you will,’ he said. And I have.”

  The Archiem examined his cuffs, which were snowy white against dark sleeves. “As my young friend would say, that doesn’t matter now either. Wherever this scroll came from, it is now obviously moot. That would seem to cancel your authority here, my lord.”

  For a moment, Men-dalis looked as if he wanted to punch Arribek in the face. Retainers on both sides stood up with fists bunched, ready to fight. Someone squeaked in a corner—Rue thought that it was Patches, who otherwise, with a survivor’s strong instinct, was keeping her head well down.

  The Sirdan’s smile returned, if a bit lop-sided.

  “Not quite,” he said, regaining his smooth manner. “There is still the small question of murder.”

  Arribek raised an eyebrow in polite disbelief. “Whose?”

  “My predecessor’s, the Sirdan Theocandi, assassinated by this rogue journeyman thief.”

  Everyone looked at Jame, who sighed with exasperation.

  “For the last time, I did not kill him.”

  “You were there when he died, were you not?”

  “That I admit.”

  “Could you have saved him?” asked the Archiem, leaning forward.

  “By then, no. He challenged a force beyond his strength and in his folly, he perished.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I don’t.” Men-dalis drew himself up with pursed lips that tried to twitch at the corners into a scowl. Then he mastered his face again.

  “This is solely a Thieves’ Guild matter, my lord, both in victim and in perpetrator. We . . . I . . . have complete jurisdiction here, and I judge this person to be an assassin.”

  The room muttered. Men-dalis’ brigands seemed divided in their opinion, but they were only transients in this city. The Creeper’s spies withdrew with a hiss. At that moment, they seemed very much an extension of their master and, in his shadowed post, he was obviously gloating. Jame’s friends cried out in protest, but they were outnumbered.

  The Archiem spread his hands. “I don’t know what I can do,” he said to them. “As to jurisdiction, my colleague is correct.”

  Rue struggled with this. She knew that it was unfair, wrong, but . . . but the Sirdan seemed so sure of himself, so persuasive.

  He is a charmer.

  That thought made her blink, and cleared her mind.

  “This is insane,” Jame said to Men-dalis under cover of the room’s stir. “You brought me here to use me, but like this? How will it help you?”

  He grinned at her. There was no other way to describe that rictus expression, those gleaming eyes and teeth.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking,” he said, with the air of someone embarking on a cozy, half-whispered chat. “The guild has become . . . restive. I said avenging Theocandi would help me, and so it will. Beyond that, what if you are what anchors my poor brother to this world? He was besotted with you, after all. Hush. Is he here now?”

  Jame glanced behind him. Rue thought that, again, she caught a glimpse of that handsome young face, made of shifting light and shadow. It was not smiling now.

  “Why don’t you turn and look?” Jame said.

  “I’m no such fool. The eyes catch the soul. I won’t be tricked again. Or, how about this? I threaten to flay you alive unless he leaves me alone. He goes. I flay you anyway.”

  “There’s got to be a catch in that somewhere.”

  “What do you care? Either way, you will be dead and I will be free.”

  “Men-dalis. I think you’ve lost your mind.”

  He giggled. “Perhaps. But don’t tell anybody.”

  He rose, and the room rose with him.

  “What do you say?” he cried. “Shall we lift this curse on our house? Shall we free ourselves of the past? You, and you, and you. What ghosts would you cast off? Come with me, come! To the Mercy Seat!”

  Chapter XIV

  Several Mercies

  Spring 58

  I

  AS JAME LEFT the Res AB’tyrr, hands bound behind her, in the strong grip of her captors, she encountered a contorted, charred figure sprawling on the doorstep. This, she supposed, was the ill-fated fire-breather. His head had split open with the heat, the brains within half cooked and steaming. Flames still crackled in his throat, around his bared teeth.

  The Burnt Man was prone to possess those whom fire had claimed and in doing so to intensify its effect. However, he didn’t usually speak.

  “I am death, oblivion. I am the pyre.”

  That sounded more like the blind Arrin-ken known as the Dark Judge, who often kept the Burnt Man company and sometimes spoke for him. Now, there was a lethal link between Rathillien and the Kencyrath. With wind and earth, Jame had felt some affinity. With water, presumably, there was Drie. The Burnt Man, however, remained an enigma. His domain was all of Rathillien. As for the Dark Judge, though, when the Arrin-ken had disappeared into the wilderness, each had chosen a territory. The Riverland was his. The nearby Ebonbane, on the other hand, belonged to Immalai the Silent.

  “An unfallen darkling,” Immalai had called her when they had met in that high mountain pass and he had passed judgment on her. “Innocent, but not ignorant.”

  To escape death by a scruple . . . well, she could live with that.

  The blind Arrin-ken preferred that she not live at all. No Arrin-ken could enter the House in Perimal Darkling unless accompanied by one of the Tyr-ridan. The Master had only ventured into the Riverland once, to sire Kindrie. Thus thwarted of his just prey, the Dark Judge was prone to pass judgment on those Shanir linked to That-Which-Destroys and probably, in his time, had prevented more than one formation of the Tyr-ridan by slaying its darkest third. She was therefore an abomination to him, and he to her.

  “What is the Burnt Man likely to do?” she had asked the Earth Wife.

  “Whatever is least obliging,” Mother Ragga had answered, an understatement if Jame had ever heard one. “He doesn’t think. He feels. Mostly blind, insane rage. That’s what drew him to that precious cat you call the Dark Judge.”

  It also helped, the Earth Wife had added, that both had had a taste of fire.

  Here was fire now, smoldering on the Res aB’tyrr’s doorstep.

  Oh, cleanse this threshold, she prayed to the nameless goddess within, and stepped gingerly over the smoking ruin.

  Of course, the Judge needn’t be here physically. When he and
the other Arrin-ken had spoken through Ishtier before, each had been far distant. They had met in the priest’s mind by invitation, as it were. For one cat to invade another’s terrain without permission, though . . .

  The performers outside the inn had scattered, presumably when their fellow had burst into flames. Most, however, hadn’t gone far. They emerged from side streets as Men-dalis and his minions passed, with Jame in tow. By the time the company reached Judgment Square, they were cavorting as before, although closer to the protection of the brigands than the latter seemed to relish.

  The square brimmed with other revelers. News of the demons’ defeat in the Temple District had clearly spread, to general rejoicing. Crowds milled, shouting and singing. The heat of their bodies made the air shimmer. Jame had managed to snatch up her jacket and cap on the way out of the inn. Now in this press she was almost sorry. Many roisterers were already staggeringly drunk. Others scrambled for jewels tossed by wealthy merchants like so many baubles or danced in lines that snaked through the tumult. Some had caught haunts whom they played back and forth, from torch to torch, until they stumbled into the flames and ignited, shrieking. The light of their conflagration shone off the gleeful faces of watching children.

  Jame also glimpsed gods among the throng, bedecked with flowers, stumbling over festive robes. There went a vast, cloudy deity with children riding on his back among the stars. There, a divine conjuror juggled knives across a circle with his followers. There were Loogan and Gorgo, dancing a jig together.

  Slap, slap, squish! went the frog-god’s flippers on the pavement, in and out of puddles. Splash, splash, splat!

  His little priest waved a jug at Jame as she passed.

  “Whoop!” he said, stumbling, laughing, and regaining his feet amid the cheers of celebrants. He looked thoroughly intoxicated. Well, no one better deserved it.

  Jame returned his salute. However, she didn’t cry out for rescue. Her captors formed a small, grim group in this chaotic scene, but they were armed and sober. The folk of both inns followed them in an anxious huddle, Rue and Patches among them. No, she didn’t want to risk them either. This was her show now, to manage as best she could.