Time's Demon

by D. B. Jackson

  She nodded, appearing contrite. “I sensed that. I don’t understand.”

  “Children don’t– The act of love isn’t something we’re ready to talk about.”

  She halted, closer to him than he would have preferred. He caught the faint scent of decay. “Or do?” she asked.

  He thought she struggled to grasp his meaning.

  “Or do. Definitely.”

  “And so when I mentioned it, it made you both shy. With each other. That’s what I sensed in your friendship.”

  “Yes, it was something like that.”

  She resumed her circling. “Thank you. That helps.”

  “Have you seen Lenna?”

  Droë shook her head. “The guards have been vigilant, and there are more of them, all with muskets. It’s not yet safe for me to return to the palace.”

  Cresten sagged a little. He missed Lenna so much, he would even have welcomed tidings from the demon. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Would you be my friend?”

  He hadn’t expected that. “I’m… I’m not a Walker.”

  Her laughter reminded him of the tinkling of broken glass. “I know that.” She sobered. “I need a friend. I thought maybe you did, too. Since we both miss her.”

  Frightened as he was of the creature, he did see in her a connection, however vague, to Lenna. He remembered as well what Tache had said about the knowledge of Tirribin. Tache was a fool, of course; he badly misjudged Droë and her powers. Nevertheless, no one would deny the value of befriending one of the Ancients. And Droë had offered her friendship freely.

  “I’d be honored to be your friend,” Cresten said.

  The Tirribin beamed. “Good. Do you plan to come here again? To Span, I mean.”

  Cresten’s smile slipped. He didn’t want her watching him Span, not with her odd interest in seeing him naked. “Well…”

  Another coy grin. “I’ll only come to the strand when you’ve finished and dressed again. You have my word.”

  “Then, yes. I plan to come back quite often.”

  She clapped her hands. “Splendid.”

  He slipped the sextant back into his carry sack, and swung the sack over his shoulder. It had grown dark. Stars shone overhead and last hint of daylight clung to the western horizon.

  “I should get back to the inn.”

  “I can walk with you,” Droë said. “You’ll be safer.”

  “Are the lanes down here dangerous?”

  She answered with a solemn nod. “They can be. The palace is safe, of course. And the lanes near it. But down here…” She shrugged. “Let me walk you back.”

  Cresten glanced around and tightened his hold on the straps of his carry sack. “Yes, all right.”

  They walked a distance in silence, following the shoreline back to the wharves and the streets there. After a time, she asked him what he did with his days, and he told her about cutting gaaz. He nearly mentioned working for Quinn, but thought better of it. Soon they reached the inn, and Droë made to leave him by the door.

  “If you happen to make it into the palace,” Cresten said, stopping her, “and if you see Lenna, tell her that I miss her.”

  “I will. I think that would make her happy.”

  She walked away, her strides unhurried. After a few steps, she blurred and vanished into the night.

  Droë didn’t join him each night he Spanned on the shoreline, but during the next turn, he encountered the demon a dozen times or more. She kept her word, blurring to the strand only after he had finished his practice and pulled on his clothes. Always, though, she arrived within a spirecount or less of him dressing. He guessed that she observed him from some distance, an idea he found discomfiting. He said nothing about it. She kept her word. He didn’t dare ask for more, lest he anger her.

  They spoke of trifles. She asked him about his family and his home, about Spanning and the gap. He tried to ask her about life as a Tirribin – about her time sense and how she hunted. Always, she evaded his questions and steered their conversations back to him. Often she asked about his feelings for Lenna, and any other girls he had known and liked. These exchanges made him uncomfortable, but she was persistent, and he remained wary of provoking her.

  He frequently returned to the inn well past nightfall. On one such evening, Quinn met him near the door.

  “Another late night,” the barkeep said, planting himself in Cresten’s path. “Where have you been going?”

  “To the gaaz beds.”

  Puzzlement furrowed the man’s brow.

  “The strand is empty most evenings, and it’s much bigger than the courtyard. I’ve been practicing there.”

  “I see. And?”

  Cresten faltered, apprehension building in his chest. Did Quinn know somehow that he had been speaking to Droë? Did he expect Cresten to confess to this?

  “And…”

  “How is it going? How far can you Span?”

  He tried to conceal his relief. “It’s going well. I can go from one end of the beach to the other with no trouble. I’m sure I can go farther if I have to.”

  “Good. Then we start tomorrow. Don’t leave here after your supper. Not until you’ve spoken to me.” He grinned like a man betting on weighted dice. “We’re going to make some coin, you and I. You’ll see. Now off to bed with you. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

  Cresten burned to know what Quinn had in mind for him. He couldn’t deny, though, that the man’s excitement was contagious. He went to his room, his mind churning with the promise of impending adventure.

  The following day seemed to last an eternity. Cresten toiled in the gaaz beds beneath a gray sky and through a series of downpours. The rain and clouds meant relief from the heat, but made it nearly impossible for him to judge the time of day. He was forced to measure spirecounts and bells by the bricks he cut and piled.

  When at last Poelu let him and the others leave, he ran back to the Hound, gulped down a bit of supper, and presented himself to Quinn in front of the bar.

  The barkeep was deep in conversation with a woman Cresten had never seen before. Quinn paused long enough to cast a dismissive glance his way. “You want somethin’?”

  “Uh… I was…”

  “The courtyard’s open. Why don’t you go back there where you won’t be in anyone’s way?”

  Before Cresten could answer, Quinn shifted his attention back to the woman and resumed their conversation. Cresten retreated to his room, unsure of what else to do. After sitting on his pallet for perhaps a quarter bell, he pulled out his sextant, intending to go to the courtyard.

  Before he could, the barkeep appeared in his doorway.

  “You have a lot to learn, lad. I talked to you about discretion.”

  Cresten straightened. “Yes, sir. Only, I thought–”

  “I know what you thought. But you have to be able to think for yourself. If I’m talkin’ to someone, you can’t expect me to drop everythin’ because you’ve finished gorgin’ yourself. You catch?”

  Cresten nodded.

  Quinn motioned toward the sextant. “Put that in the sack and bring it with you.”

  “Where are we–?” At a sharp look from the barkeep, he swallowed the rest of his question.

  They returned to the great room. There, Quinn led him behind the bar, through the kitchen and down a dark passage to yet another door. This one opened onto the alley behind the inn. Quinn went out first, and after checking the lane in both directions, urged Cresten on with a wave of his hand.

  “Remember I told you I once lived in the palace,” Quinn said as they walked. “I would have been a Spanner myself. That’s what my ma was. So as a fingerling, I followed the older Spanners. I hung on their every word, and learned all I could from them. Didn’t do me any good in the palace. No magick, no glory. Since then…” He glanced back, a rogue’s smile on his lips. “You know that a Traveler can’t take naught with him when he Spans ’cept his skin and his sextant.”

  “Of course. That’s–”


  “Wrong. That’s wrong, is what that is. Those Spanners I knew when I was a pup: they taught me a thing or two. There’s a few tricks you haven’t learned yet.”

  They walked on, Cresten’s curiosity warring with his reluctance to risk questions. Quinn led him down a maze of narrow lanes, halting near the crest of a small rise on the edge of the village. He pointed at the spire of the temple.

  “You see that?”

  At Cresten’s nod, Quinn shifted his hand to the east, until he was pointing at a second, small structure: a house with a steep gabled roof and a narrow chimney that Cresten could barely see.

  “You mark that house?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I want you to Span there. What you see from here is the back of the house. If you arrive as you should, there’ll be a low stone wall, with a gap that aligns with the right corner of the house. There’s a shirt, a pair of breeches, and a pair of shoes hidden there.”

  Cresten blinked.

  Quinn smiled again. “Put them there myself after our little talk. Now, you find the clothes, you put them on, and you go ’round to the front of the house. Knock on the door, give them a little something from me. Then you replace the clothes, Span back, and you’re done.”

  “What am I supposed to give them?”

  This time, Quinn didn’t object to the question. He glanced both ways again and produced four gold rounds from his pocket. “These, lad.”

  “But–”

  Quinn raised a finger, silencing him. “You put them in your mouth. Under your tongue so you won’t swallow them in the gap. And you Span, just as you always do. You won’t have any trouble. My word.”

  Cresten eyed the house Quinn had indicated. In the dying light, it looked impossibly far away. He had mastered the corridor and courtyard, and then the strand as well.

  This was more than double that latter distance, and he didn’t know the terrain.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if I just walked?” he asked, still staring at the house.

  “Maybe, if you’re not very good at Spanning.”

  Cresten rounded. “I’m good enough,” he said, with heat. “Then let me see.”

  Cresten continued to glare.

  “I want to see how you Span. And I want you to learn that you can carry these rounds with you when you do.” He smiled. “Take the gold, lad. Give it a try. I know you can do it. And there’s five treys waiting for you here when you’re done.”

  That drew his gaze back to Quinn’s. “Five treys?”

  Quinn opened his other palm. Triangular silvers winked at him in the gloaming.

  Quinn gave the hand holding the rounds a little shake. Cresten plucked the coins from the man’s palm. Gold coins had been fairly common in his home when he was young, but Cresten had never taken the time to note their size. They were bigger than he would have imagined. Four of them, in his mouth. He aligned them, and slipped them under his tongue. They felt too large. He gagged, spit them back into his own hand.

  “Breathe through your nose.”

  He tried again, taking deep breaths through his nose, as Quinn suggested. It helped. He held the coins under his tongue for a spirecount, then spit them out.

  “All right?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. I’ll be just ’round the corner if you need me.” He started away, but halted after a few steps. “And, lad, let my associate see your sextant.”

  Cresten frowned. “Let him see it?”

  “Aye. This once, it’ll be all right.”

  He walked on, and turned the corner. Cresten checked the lane before slipping out of his clothes. Fear and cold air pebbled his skin. He pulled out his sextant, calibrated it, and aimed. When everything else was ready, he set the coins back in his mouth, under his tongue. Breathing hard through his nose, staving off a wave of panic, he aimed his device and thumbed the release.

  He jerked forward and was swallowed by the frenzy of the gap.

  CHAPTER 15

  24th day of Sipar’s Descent, Year 618

  A cold wind abraded his face and body. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Color and light assailed him. The smells were worse here than they’d been when he Spanned at the coast. The noises were harsher.

  And the gap went on and on. He struggled to breathe through his nose, but with the air whipping past, he could barely fill his lungs. He began again to gag, fought to keep his mouth closed. He didn’t know what would happen if he opened it and allowed the gold pieces to spill out. Nothing good. He was certain of that. He might never emerge from the gap.

  He should have been out already. No Span he’d ever attempted had lasted so long. Had Quinn’s gold trapped him forever in this nowhere of light and wind? Had the innkeeper doomed him?

  Terror clawed at his throat. Might spitting out the gold save him? Better to make the attempt than to die in this place.

  He had gone so far as to lift his tongue and open his mouth when the gap disgorged him onto a stone lane. He stumbled and fell, scraping his knees and hands. The gold rounds spilled from his mouth. The sextant clattered on the cobbles. He reclaimed the rounds and then closed his eyes, his breathing ragged. At last, he scanned the street. Empty.

  He fought to his feet, retrieved the sextant, and looked around a second time. The gabled house Quinn had pointed out loomed directly before him. In spite of his struggles, he had Spanned to the exact spot for which he aimed. He managed a smile, even as he shivered in the evening air.

  He followed the stone wall that bordered the yard until he was even with the corner of the structure. There he spied a parcel, wrapped in stained, brown canvas, tucked into a small gap at the base of the wall. If he hadn’t been searching for it, he wouldn’t have spotted it. He tugged it free, unwrapped the canvas, and found a pair of plain breeches, a worn linen shirt, and an old pair of shoes. All were relatively dry.

  Cresten dressed. The breeches and shirt fit; the shoes were too big. He pocketed the gold rounds. He felt self-conscious carrying his sextant in plain sight, but Quinn had made his wishes clear. Eyeing the house again, he walked to the lane that fronted the entry.

  Men and women walked the street in the failing light, and children played in yards. From all Cresten could see, this was a place for families and homes, not schemes and hidden gold rounds.

  He walked to a gap in the stone wall, followed a cobbled path to the entry, and rapped on the oaken door, prepared for any reception he might receive. Or so he believed.

  The door opened slowly, revealing a bronze-haired girl who couldn’t have been more than four or five years old. She stared up at him with dark solemn eyes, saying nothing.

  “Um… I need to speak with your father or mother.”

  She just stared.

  “Who is that, love?”

  A woman appeared behind the child. Willowy, dark-eyed like the girl, her hair tied back. Seeing Cresten, she frowned.

  “Can I help you?” Her tone conveyed suspicion.

  “I- I brought something from Quinn.”

  The frown hardened. She regarded him, then turned away, pulling the girl with her.

  “Da,” she called as she walked out of view, “there’s someone here to see you.” She sounded disgusted.

  For a spirecount, the door stood open and Cresten remained on the threshold, waiting, wondering if they expected him to go inside.

  At last, a man stepped into view. He was far older than the woman, but with the same dark eyes in a square face, and bronze hair that was salted with white. He was tall, lean, muscular. Cresten thought he must be ten years younger than Quinn.

  He cast a critical gaze over Cresten, his eyes lingering briefly on the sextant. “Who are you?” he asked in a smooth tenor.

  “I have something for you from Quinn.”

  “Quinn.” He spoke the name as if it were an imprecation. “And what did the old goat send?” He nodded toward the sextant. “That for me?”

  Cresten pressed the device closer and shielded it with hi
s free hand. “No. This is mine.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Yours? Quinn has a Spanner now?”

  “He doesn’t… I’m staying at the Brazen Hound, is all. And he asked me to do this.”

  “All right. Well, if not the sextant, then what?”

  Cresten dug the rounds out of his pocket and held them out to the man. The gold might have surprised him as much as the sextant had.

  “He say anything? You have a message for me?”

  “Just the money.”

  The man glanced at the sextant again. Cresten feared he might try to steal it and thought about backing away.

  “I guess you’re the message, aren’t you?”

  “Me? I don’t understand.”

  “That’s all right, lad. You tell Quinn you saw me, and that… that we can work together, him and me. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man grinned. “‘Sir,’” he repeated. “Palace boy, eh?”

  He was tired of everyone remarking on his palace training. Maybe he needed to stop being so polite all the time. “Not anymore,” he said, making no effort to keep the asperity from his voice.

  The man laughed and closed the door, leaving Cresten alone. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. No one was watching him.

  He followed the lanes around to the rear of the house, took off the clothes and stowed them where they had been, and prepared to Span back to where Quinn awaited him.

  The journey back proved nearly as harrowing as the first Span. Upon reaching the rise, he managed to keep his feet and hold on to the sextant. His vision swam, and the world around him whirled, but aside from that he was none the worse for his Travels.

  Quinn had his back to him. As Cresten pulled on his clothes, the barkeep asked, “Did it go all right?”

  “Yes. I gave him the gold. He said that you and he can work together.”

  “Good lad.”

  A moment later, Cresten said, “I’m dressed.”

  Quinn turned and handed Cresten the silver treys.

  “He said that I was a message. What did he mean?”

  “What did I say about questions?”

  “What did he mean, Quinn?”

  The man’s grin melted, and Cresten thought he had angered him. But Quinn said, “Paegar – that’s his name, Paegar Moar – he’s sort of a merchant, a man of some import. I bought a few things from him – you just paid for one – but I’ve wanted our transactions to be more… substantive for a time now. He hasn’t thought I had much to offer. Now he knows better. Havin’ a Spanner in my employ – well, that changes things.”