The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  A pasty, corpulent demon wearing a long bejeweled coat and an embroidered fez intercepted Max before he could get through the archway leading to the ballroom.

  “The Hound of Rowan,” he gushed. “We’ve never been introduced, but I had the pleasure of watching Bragha Rùn in Prusias’s Arena. What a performer! You made me piles of money until the grylmhoch. There, I’m afraid I had to bet against you.”

  “I would have bet against me, too,” said Max pleasantly. “You’re Coros, I believe.”

  The demon’s toadlike face flushed with pleasure at being recognized. In fact, the only reason Max knew him was because Toby had impersonated the merchant years before when they’d snuck past Mad’raast, a gargantuan demon that once guarded the Strait of Gibraltar.

  “I am indeed,” the demon simpered. “Is this your first médim?”

  “No. I attended one at Gràvenmuir before Bram cast it into the sea.”

  “All this violence,” groaned Coros, shaking his head ruefully. “I long for the day when things have settled down. The war is ruining me!”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” said Max, not believing a word. In addition to being Blys’s largest trader of silks and spices, Coros was allegedly its biggest smuggler and owned hundreds of human slaves. He had no wish to converse with such a revolting character, but he knew others were listening. “With luck, the war will be over soon.”

  “I hear Rowan’s forces have landed on the mainland,” said Coros.

  “That’s the rumor,” said Max, accepting a glass of wine from a servant.

  “Curious that you’re not with its army,” observed the merchant, his tone an invitation for Max to supply the missing details.

  “Is it?” said Max. “I thought the surprise was that I’m not dead. This is the second time Prusias has started that ugly rumor.”

  Coros and several others chuckled. The merchant’s piggish eyes fell upon Nox.

  “What a magnificent creature,” he cooed. “Is that a lymrill?”

  “It is.”

  “Remarkable,” exclaimed the demon. “Do you know have any idea what that animal would fetch on the open market?”

  “I’m glad I don’t,” said Max genially. “I’d be tempted to sell her whenever she eats my shoes. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Coros, but please excuse me a moment. I’m neglecting my date and our host is not.”

  More smiles from the watchful onlookers. Hopefully, word of their arrival was spreading.

  “Honored,” said Coros, raising his glass. “To peace.”

  Max raised his glass to Coros and those around him. Guests parted as he and Nox continued on, passing under a sculpted arch to enter a great hall that was serving as the main ballroom. The space was enormous, a study in pink marble whose columns supported not only a frescoed ceiling, but also ornate balustrades where guests could retreat from the din and survey the festivities below. Gazing up, Max scanned the revelers and found a pair of familiar faces: Sarah and Lucia.

  The girls were pointing to a slender staircase behind a low stage where musicians—humans, satyrs, and kitsune—were playing a galliard. Nox followed at Max’s heels as he climbed the staircase, greeted a speechless brayma, and joined the girls in their little balcony.

  Sarah Amankwe was the Sixth Years’ most promising Agent-to-be while Lucia Cavallo was an incredibly gifted Mystic who was highly adept at Firecraft. Tonight, the pair looked like fashion models. A strapless black gown complemented Sarah’s athletic figure and gleaming brown skin while Lucia wore a dress of pearlescent green that went perfectly with her olive complexion and dark brown eyes. While Sarah’s hair was close-cropped, Lucia wore her black tresses in a French braid that showcased her singularly lovely face.

  “You two look beautiful,” said Max, embracing each of them while Nox rattled her quills in greeting.

  “When David told us you were coming, I couldn’t believe it!” exclaimed Sarah, giving him a sisterly once-over. “Everyone was saying you were …”

  “Dead,” said Lucia matter-of-factly. “But you are not. You look good, but too skinny. I blame Toby.”

  The Italian beauty frowned. She had never cared for the smee. It was something of a minor miracle she had not flung him overboard when they sailed across the ocean together. Max laughed.

  “Why do you blame him?”

  “He ate everything on that boat,” she snapped. “Three times I caught him stealing Kettlemouth’s sardines!”

  “Where is Kettlemouth?” asked Max. Lucia was rarely without her charge, an enormous red bullfrog whose unpredictable singing could trigger amorous feelings.

  “In our room,” Lucia sniffed. “Wrapped in furs by a fire. This weather is no good for my baby.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “We couldn’t chance him singing,” she explained. “Maybe Nox would like to keep him company.”

  Apparently this sounded agreeable to Nox, for the lymrill rattled her quills again and gazed up at her steward expectantly. Nox and Kettlemouth had gotten along famously on their voyage—the lymrill enjoyed napping beneath the frog’s dewlap.

  “Where’s your room?” Max asked.

  “In the south wing,” said Sarah. “I’m sure Eloise will be happy to take her.”

  Even as Sarah spoke the name, a plain-faced servant girl of twelve or thirteen came forward from where she’d been standing unobtrusively by a column. Upon her uniform was the Enlyll emblem, a blue chevron adorned with three white seashells.

  “Eloise has been spoiling us since we got here,” said Sarah.

  The little maid reddened and gave a slight curtsy.

  “Eloise, this is our friend Max McDaniels,” said Lucia, speaking French. “He’s cute, no? But the real beauty is Nox. Would you take her to our room, please? She and Kettlemouth are old friends.”

  “Tout de suite,” said Eloise, stooping as though to lift Nox. Upon glimpsing the lymrill’s claws, she paused and spoke in halting English. “The creature … is friendly?”

  “Very friendly,” Max assured her in his own version of French. “But don’t pick her up—she’s too heavy. Just wave one of these and she’ll follow you to the moon.”

  From his pocket he produced a handful of thin iron plates and handed them to the young maid. “Nox,” he said. “This is Eloise. She’s going to take you to see Kettlemouth. I’ll find you later.”

  With a snort, the inky black lymrill trotted after the grinning Eloise as she led him down the arched, lamp-lit corridor.

  “I need to be down there,” said Max, gazing down at the ballroom floor where Scathach had finished dancing with Connor and was now conversing with a trio of kitsune wearing red silk robes. He needed to be seen and make as many contacts as possible. “Come with me.”

  “You go, Sarah,” said Lucia, furrowing her brow. “I’m staying where I can watch everything that scoundrel is doing.”

  Sarah shot a glance at Max. “Someone isn’t very happy with Connor.”

  “Look at him!” hissed Lucia, her knuckles whitening on the balustrade. “He can hardly stand up. And those girls—giggling like hyenas at everything he says!”

  Max spotted Connor by a pair of glass doors that evidently led out to some gardens. The Lord of Enlyll was gesticulating wildly as he regaled a group of pretty young women with a story that had them spellbound. With an offhand gesture, he delivered what was apparently the punch line, for they all burst into peals of laughter. Connor, looking pleased, called for more wine. Lucia merely looked murderous.

  “Come on,” urged Sarah. “You can’t spend the entire médim this way. He has to entertain his guests!”

  “Ha!” scoffed Lucia. “ ‘Entertaining his guests.’ That’s all he does! And always the pretty ones. Look at that girl he’s talking to. She used a trowel for that makeup.”

  Sarah threw an arm around her friend. “Putting that girl down won’t make you feel better. Connor’s being a jerk. Boys—sorry, Max—can be jerks! But you’re Lucia Cavallo and you’re on an adventure! Don’t let Conn
or spoil it. Let’s go have fun.”

  Lucia lifted her chin, revealing a hint of her old, formidable self. Dabbing her eyes, she took a long, slow breath. “Of course, you are right. I promise to be better …”

  She paused as Connor led the young lady out onto the floor. Max heard Lucia mutter something as she made a subtle gesture with her hand. Below, Connor’s partner sneezed in a violent spasm that covered his appalled face in phlegm.

  “Starting now,” said Lucia, her eyes twinkling as one of Connor’s servants rushed in with a handkerchief.

  “Lucia!” hissed Sarah.

  “I feel better,” said Lucia serenely. “Let’s go down, shall we?”

  As they made for the stairs, Sarah filled Max in on the médim.

  “Things really began two nights ago,” she said. “That’s when most of the guests arrived and they held the alennya. The braymas and more important merchants spend the days in private conferences or going off in little hunting parties.”

  “What are they doing?” asked Max, pausing at the top step.

  Lucia’s eyes flashed. “Conspiring about what they’ll do—or won’t do—to support Prusias in the war.”

  “Have you been able to attend any of these meetings?” asked Max hopefully.

  “Of course not,” said Sarah. “There are people here who’d like nothing better than to turn us over to Prusias. But we’ve gotten some information.”

  “How?” asked Max.

  “Eloise,” replied Lucia. “I dote on that girl. She doesn’t attend the meetings but other servants do. She’s been very good at getting information out of them.”

  “And?”

  “There’s lots of dissension,” answered Sarah. “The human braymas want to side with Rowan because they think it’s only a matter of time before the king turns upon them. But since Prusias has their souls as collateral, they’re frightened to do anything too openly.”

  “What about the demon braymas?” asked Max.

  “Mixed,” replied Sarah. “Some are loyal, but almost none approve of his relationship with the Workshop—they worry its technologies will be used against them. Some have threatened to abandon Prusias unless he destroys the Workshop.”

  “Prusias will never agree to that,” said Max, descending the stairs.

  “Most share your view,” said Lucia, “which is why many are waiting to answer his call to arms as long as they can. No one thinks Rowan can defeat Prusias, but some hope we might weaken him so they can topple him after we’ve failed.”

  “Which braymas feel this way?” said Max.

  Sarah waited for a tipsy couple to pass them. “Most of the braymas from Raikos and Bryllbatha,” she whispered. “Yuga forced them to flee their lands and they’re demanding that Prusias give them new ones. And there are some here who used to serve Rashaverak. Prusias promised to spare Rashaverak’s life once he surrendered, but no one’s seen him since. Most think he’s either dead or being tortured in Prusias’s dungeons. Rashaverak’s braymas aren’t very happy about that.”

  “Have you told David this?” asked Max.

  “Of course,” said Lucia.

  Max paused by the stairwell.

  “Any luck making contact with Elder vyes?” he asked.

  “We’ll fill you in later,” said Sarah as they reached the ballroom floor.

  “Just tell me if any are here,” said Max.

  Lucia nodded and glanced significantly at a slender, middle-aged woman in a beaded orange gown. The woman stood not five paces from where Scathach was now conversing with a massive brayma wearing steel-riveted plate.

  “What’s her name?” he murmured.

  “Lady Nico,” Lucia whispered. “We don’t know for certain, but—”

  She stopped as several laughing guests emerged from the stairs behind them.

  The hall was growing even more crowded as guests returned from hunts and news of Rowan’s Hound got about. Most conspicuous among these was a group of armored oni. As Max joined Scathach, he noticed Connor bowing before them and making gestures of explanation. Whatever he was saying, it did not appear to appease them. The largest, a boarlike hulk, thrust Connor aside and strode toward Max. The crowd parted rapidly as he advanced. Max turned as the demon loomed above him.

  “You’re not welcome here,” the demon growled, his breath tinged with sulfur. The air about the oni shimmered with heat, as though it were about to ignite. Other than Scathach, nearby humans looked spellbound by the angry spirit’s aura.

  “You’re not my host,” Max observed calmly. A number of onlookers gasped as the oni unsheathed a sword whose serrated blade must have been six inches wide. Connor ran over, his face growing pale as he spoke rapidly in the demon’s language.

  “Véda! Véda, Rikku Brayma! Juthir nùl molo médim!”

  The oni whirled on Connor. “Nùl piro elu-daemona, homna!”

  Connor flushed with anger. “I am mehrùn,” he said firmly. “And I am your host, Lord Rikku. You will address me properly and obey the rules of médim.”

  “You are mehrùn,” the oni acknowledged grudgingly, “but you’ve no right to speak our tongue. And this one,” he said, pointing his sword at Max. “This filth is the enemy of my king—of your king. You should mount his head on a spike!”

  Connor stubbornly shook his head. “This is Bragha Rùn. Prusias himself declared him Champion of Blys. Of course he is welcome here. Even if he was not, violence is forbidden at médim.”

  The demon spat on the floor. “This is no médim!” he roared. “No human may host médim! I spit on this farce. I spit on you. And I spit on the Hound!”

  Whirling, Rikku swept his blade at Max’s head. Max’s reactions were supernaturally swift. Dropping his wineglass, he swept the gae bolga up in a blur that shattered his attacker’s blade and decapitated him.

  The Morrígan’s blade gave a triumphant, piercing scream as Lord Rikku’s headless body crashed to the marble floor. The rest of the hall was utterly silent as guests and servants gaped in tense, mute horror. Max stared past Connor at Rikku’s companions, the other braymas grouped by a large marble pillar. They looked grim but did not appear to have any intention of attacking. The gae bolga went silent as Max sheathed it.

  Max bowed to Connor. “I beg pardon for breaking the médim’s customs. Would you like me to leave?”

  “No,” said Connor, recovering his wits. “We all saw it was Lord Rikku who violated tradition.” He raised his voice so all could hear. “To Bragha Rùn!”

  “Bragha Rùn!” roared most of the hall, raising their glasses in salute.

  Max’s heart was beating swiftly, but his hand was steady as he borrowed Scathach’s glass and raised it in acknowledgment. He sipped the wine—a spicy red—and reveled inwardly at his good fortune. Lord Rikku could not have done them a greater favor. Not only was Max McDaniels alive, but he also had publicly and blamelessly dispatched a powerful brayma. The point would not be lost on Rowan’s enemies—or potential allies. By dawn, news of the evening’s excitement would have reached every corner of the kingdom.

  “Well, come on!” cried Connor, after draining his glass. “There’s still good wine to be drunk. Let’s hear something lively!”

  The musicians struck up a spirited reel as Rikku’s imps rushed in to retrieve both parts of their former master. While Connor went to ask one of his admirers to dance, Max felt Scathach’s warm hand close about his.

  “That was a perfect bruud gine,” she observed complacently. “I’m craving a dance, but I don’t think now is the time.” She nodded at the growing throng of guests eager to make his acquaintance.

  Max was not surprised. Demons placed tremendous store in displays of skill, strength, and bravado. Even those who despised Rowan would honor what they’d just witnessed.

  Releasing his hand, Scathach left his side to greet Sarah and Lucia. The two looked badly shaken by the sudden outburst of violence. Max could not worry about that, however. He turned to find that Coros had pushed to the fore of thos
e wishing to speak with him.

  “I abhor bloodshed,” lied the merchant, adjusting his fez. “But I’ve never seen such speed, such mastery with a sword! I was a fool to wager on the grylmhoch! What an honor to have made your acquaintance.”

  “Thank you,” said Max. “Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to introduce those with whom I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “Of course,” said Coros, pivoting on a golden slipper. “It’s my delight to introduce the Lord and Lady Gris of Livalia, a marvelous estate outside Almuir …”

  The crowd turned into a sort of receiving line, with Coros embracing his role as social lubricant. The merchant knew everybody, and he often peppered his introductions with anecdotes and details that helped Max remember names and faces, and assign their potential value. While he hoped some might join Rowan’s side, if he could convince others to simply stay out of the war, so much the better.

  As the evening wore on, the names and faces began to blur. There was Baron Tarkan, the Countess of Bryndle, the notorious Widow of Verdival, assorted merchants, a shipmaker named Tinto, and a slew of other dignitaries. Most were demons, but several were human. One elderly gentleman Max even recognized as a former resident of Rowan—a retired teacher who chose to accept the offer of land and titles that Prusias had made to mehrùn.

  These people were wealthy, of course, and lived on lush estates replete with art and servants, but few wielded real power in their persons or the forces at their command. And thus there was a decided change in atmosphere when Lord Grael entered the hall.

  Max saw him at once—a twelve-foot rakshasa with a tiger-like face, three green eyes, and an eland’s corkscrew horns. Blood hissed as it dripped from the demon’s broad muzzle and fell onto his breastplate. Either the duke had just returned from hunting or something much more sinister had transpired. When their eyes met, the Duke of Malakos strode casually toward Max, wiping his face with a towel handed up by a white imp, just one of a dozen attendants. The demon’s aura was astoundingly powerful.