The Demon King (9 page)

Could be worse, he told himself. Ribs could be wrapped, at least, and nothing else seemed to be broken. There was no money for doctors, so anything broken would stay broken, or heal any way it pleased. That’s how it worked in Ragmarket. Unless Han was fit enough to climb back up Hanalea and put himself in Willo’s hands.

He stopped at the well at the end of the street and sluiced water over his head, rinsing off the blood as best he could and combing his hair down with his fingers. He didn’t want to scare Mari.

All the while, his memory tiptoed around what had happened in Brickmaker’s Alley. Maybe he was addled. He’d hit his head, after all. He could swear he’d seen Shiv take hold of the amulet and then it sort of exploded. Just as Bayar said it would.

He could feel the ominous weight of the jinxpiece in his carry bag. Maybe Dancer was right. Maybe he should’ve buried the thing. But the fact was, if not for the serpent talisman, he’d be in a world of trouble. Maybe dead.

Ha! he thought. Don’t fool yourself. You’re in a world of trouble anyway.

He’d reached the stable at the end of the street, so there was no putting it off any longer. Inside the stable, Han sniffed the air experimentally. There was nothing of supper. Instead it stank of manure, damp straw, and warm horses. He’d have to muck out the stalls tomorrow. If he could even get out of bed.

Some of the horses poked their heads out of their stalls and whickered in recognition, hoping for a treat. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I got nothing.” Haltingly, he climbed the old stone staircase to the room he shared with his mother and seven-year-old sister.

Han eased open the door. From force of habit, his eyes flicked around the room, meaning to locate trouble before it came flying at him. The room was chilly and dark, the fire nearly out. No sign of Mam.

Mari was lying on her pallet by the hearth, but she must have been awake because her head popped up as soon as he came in. A big smile broke on her face and she flung herself at him, wrapping her skinny arms around his legs and burying her face at his waist. “Han! Where’ve you been? We’ve been so worried!”

“You should be asleep,” he said, awkwardly patting her back and smoothing down her ragged tow-colored hair. “Where’s Mam?”

“She’s out looking for you,” Mari said, shivering, teeth chattering with fear or cold. She returned to her bed by the fire and wrapped the threadbare blanket around her thin shoulders. She never seemed to have enough fat on her to keep warm. “She’s in a right state. We was scared something happened to you.”

Bones, he thought, feeling guilty. “When did she go?”

“She’s been out all day, off and on.”

“Did you have supper?”

She hesitated, considering a lie, then shook her head. “Mam’ll bring something home, I reckon.”

Han pressed his lips together to keep from spilling his thoughts. Mari’s faith was somehow precious to him, like a dream he couldn’t let go of. She was the only person in all of Ragmarket who’d ever believed in him.

He crossed to the hearth, pulled a stick from their dwindling supply, and laid it on the fire. Then he sat down on the thin mattress next to his sister, keeping his face turned away from the firelight. “It’s my fault you got nothing to eat,” he said. “I should’ve come home earlier. I told Mam I’d bring you something.” He dug in his pocket and fished out the napkin with the buns. He unwrapped them and handed one to Mari.

Her blue eyes went wide. She cradled it in her fingers and looked up at him hopefully. “How much of it do I get?”

Han shrugged, embarrassed. “All of it. I brought more for me and Mam.”

“Oh!” Mari pulled apart the bun and downed it in greedy bites, licking her fingers at the end. Sweet, spicy sauce smeared her mouth, and she ran her tongue over her lips, trying to get the last little bit.

Han wished he was seven again, when all it took was a pork bun to make him happy.

He handed her another, but as she took it, she got a good look at him. “What happened to your face? It’s all swollen.” She reached up and touched his face with her small hand, like it was delicate as an eggshell. “It’s getting purple.”

Just then he heard the weary clump, clump, clump up the stairs that said Mam was home. Han eased into a standing position, bracing himself against the wall, concealing himself in the shadows. A moment later the door banged open.

Han’s mother stood in the doorway, her shoulders permanently hunched against a lifetime of bad luck. To Han’s surprise, she was wearing the new coat he’d picked up in Ragmarket a week or two before, thinking it would serve him well the next winter. On her it nearly swept the ground, and she had a long scarf wrapped around her neck. Mam wore layers of clothes even in fair weather, a kind of armor she put on.

She unwound the scarf from her neck, freeing her long plait of pale hair. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked more defeated than usual. She was young—when Han was born, she’d been no older than Han was now—but she looked older than her years.

“I couldn’t find him, Mari,” she said, her voice breaking. Han was stunned to see tears streaking down her cheeks. “I’ve been everywhere, asked everyone. I even went to the Guard, and they just laughed at me. Said he was likely in gaol, that was where he belonged. Or dead.” She sniffled and blotted her face with her sleeve.

“Um, Mam…” Mari stammered, looking over at Han.

“I’ve told him and told him to stay off the streets, not to run with the gangs, not to carry money for that old Lucius, but he don’t listen, he thinks nothing can touch him, he…”

I’m dog dirt, Han thought. I’m scum. The longer he waited, the worse it would get. He stepped out of the shadows. “I’m here, Mam.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry I’m late.”

Mam blinked at him, pale as parchment, her hand flying to her throat as if she’d seen a ghost. “W-where…?”

“I slept over at Marisa Pines,” Han explained. “And then I ran into some trouble on the way home. But I brought supper.” He mutely held out the napkin with the remaining pork pies. An offering.

Crossing the space between them, she struck the napkin out of his hand. “You brought supper? That’s it? You disappear for three days and I’m out of my head with worry, and you brought supper?” Her voice was rising, and Han waved his hands, trying to shush her. They didn’t need to rouse the landlord, who lived next door, and remind him they hadn’t paid their rent.

She came forward, and he retreated until he was up against the hearth. She thrust an accusing finger into his face. “You’ve been fighting again. Haven’t you? What have I told you?”

“No,” he said unconvincingly, shaking his head. “I’m just…I stumbled over a curb and fell flat on my face in the street.”

“You should put a cold rag on it,” Mari said from the refuge of her bed. Her voice quavered, like it did when she was upset. “Mam, you always say that takes the swelling down.”

Han glanced over at Mari, wishing he and Mam could take their fight somewhere else. But when you live in one room over a stable, there’s nowhere to go.

“Who was it this time?” Mam demanded. “The gangs or the Guard? Or did you pick one too many pockets?”

“I an’t lifting purses anymore,” Han protested, stung. “Nor diving pockets, neither. I wouldn’t—”

“You said you were going after plants for the Flatlander Market,” Mam said. “Did you even go up on Hanalea? Or were you out running the streets the whole time?”

“I went up on Hanalea,” Han said, struggling to control his temper. “Me and Dancer spent all day gathering herbs on the mountain.”

Mam eyed him narrowly, then extended her hand. “You should have some money for me, then.”

Han thought of his purse, now in Shiv’s possession. He still had Lucius’s money, but—like he kept saying—he wasn’t a thief. He swallowed hard, looking down at the floor. “I don’t have any money,” he said. “It got taken from me in Southbridge.”

Mam’s breath hissed out, like he’d confirmed all her worst fears. “You’re cursed, Hanson Alister, and you’ll come to a bad end,” she said. “It’s no wonder you’re in trouble when you’re out on the streets all day long. When you run with street gangs, thieving and robbing…”

“I’m not with the Raggers anymore,” Han interrupted. “I promised you back in the fall.”

Mam plowed on as if he hadn’t spoken. “When you take up with ill-favored sorts like Lucius Frowsley. We may be poor, but at least we’ve always been honest.”

Something broke loose inside Han, and when he opened his mouth the words came spilling out. “We’re honest? Well, honest won’t fill our bellies. Honest doesn’t pay the rent. It’s been me supporting us for the past year, and it’s a lot harder without slide-hand. Be my guest if you think you can keep us out of debtor’s prison taking in washing and picking rags. And if we do go to prison, what do you think will happen to Mari?”

Mam stood speechless, eyes very blue, her lips as white as the rest of her face. Then she snatched up a stick from the kindling pile and swung it at him. Reflexively, he gripped her wrist and held it. They glared at each other for a long moment, married by blood and anger. Slowly the anger drained away, leaving only the linkage of blood.

“I’m not going to let you hit me anymore,” Han said quietly. “I’ve already had one beating today. That’s enough.”

Later, Han lay on his straw mattress in the corner. He could hear the soft, regular breathing that said Mam and Mari were finally asleep. Every bone in his body ached, and his face felt like it might split open. Plus, he was hungry again. He and Mam had shared the last two meat buns, but these days everything he ate seemed to evaporate before it reached his stomach.

His mind bounced off corners like a mouse in a maze. He was no philosopher. He had few spaces of time in which to dream. He was not the sort to try and reconcile the warring souls that lived inside his body.

There was Han Alister, son and big brother, breadwinner, deal-maker, and small-time conniver. There was Hunts Alone, who’d been adopted by Marisa Pines and wished he could melt into the clans for good. And finally, Cuffs, petty criminal and street fighter, onetime streetlord of the Ragger gang and enemy of the Southies.

From day to day he slid out of one skin and pulled on another. No wonder it was hard to sort out who he was.

He shifted on the hard floor. He usually used his carry bag as a pillow, but he wasn’t sure if he ought to, with the amulet inside. The jinxpiece occupied his mind like a toothache. What if it exploded and killed them all? Or worse, left them alive with no roof over their heads.

Lucius’s words came back to him. Keep the amulet hid, and stay out of the way of the Bayars. If they find out you have it, they’ll kill you for it.

Finally he pulled the amulet in its wrapping out of his bag. Wearing only his breeches, he slipped down the stairs, past the horses in their stalls, and into the cold stable yard. Some distance from the building stood a stone forge built when there was a blacksmith in residence. It had been Han’s hiding place since he was old enough to have secrets. Han lifted a loose stone at its base and tucked the amulet underneath, replacing the stone. Feeling more at ease, he returned to the stable and climbed the stairs, his mind working furiously.

Tomorrow he’d go back to Lucius, deliver his purse, and hopefully get paid. That might be enough to hold off the landlord for a while, especially if he mucked out the barn again.

Sitting down on his mattress, he dug in his breeches pocket, pulling out the princess coin Matieu had given him a lifetime ago. He turned it toward the dying fire, and the reflected flames picked out the silhouette engraved on it.

It was Princess Raisa ana’Marianna, heir to the Gray Wolf throne of the Fells.

“Hey, girlie,” he whispered, running his dirty forefinger over the image. “I’d like to see more like you.”

She was in profile, captured in cold hard metal—her graceful neck extended, her hair swept back from her face and caught into a coronet. No doubt proud and haughty as her mother, Queen Marianna.

No, Han thought sarcastically. It’s far too much trouble to come into the highlands to hunt. We’ll just have the deer delivered, even if it means setting fire to the mountain.

A princess wouldn’t have to worry about keeping a roof over her head, about where her next meal was coming from, or if she was going to be cornered and beaten in the street.

A princess would have nothing at all to worry about.

IN THE GLASS GARDEN

Raisa hurried down the corridor, her dancing slippers whispering over the marble floors. She’d intended to return to her chambers and change clothes, but was at a loss for what to put on. Her clan leggings and tunic were filthy dirty. She had no play clothes anymore, and anyway, this new solemn Amon in his dress uniform seemed to call for something more formal. But what if he’d changed into breeches and shirt? She’d feel foolish in her gown.

Hold on. She was the princess heir, come from a dance. Why should she feel foolish at all? What was the matter with her?

Magret was waiting up, nursing a cup of tea, her graying hair taken down and plaited. “You’re back earlier than I expected, Your Highness,” she said, rising and dipping a curtsy. “I thought it would go later.”

“It will. I’m going to see Amon now,” Raisa said, sitting in front of her mirror and removing the circlet. She’d leave the gown on, she decided, but take down her hair. Then she’d…

“Now?” Magret stared at her. “At this hour?”

Raisa blinked up at her. “Well. Yes.” And when Magret continued to frown, added, “What?”

“You can’t go off meeting a young man on your own in the middle of the night!”

What didn’t Magret understand? “It’s Amon. We used to stay out overnight all the time. Remember when Cook found us under the baker’s table at sunrise? We wanted to be ready when the cinnamon buns came out of the oven.” Raisa tugged a brush through her resistant hair, thinking Amon would never fit under the baker’s table now. Not with those long legs.

“You’ll not go out without a chaperone at this hour,” Magret said stubbornly.

“I already said I’d meet him,” Raisa said, plaiting her hair into a loose braid. “No one will know, anyway.”

“If you go, I’ll speak with Lady Francia, who will interrupt the queen,” Magret said, thrusting her chin forward trumphantly.

“You wouldn’t,” Raisa said, now thoroughly sorry she’d not gone directly to her rendezvous.

“I would, Your Highness. You’ll be sixteen in July, and eligible for marriage. It will be my head if anything happens to you. I mean, he’s a soldier, after all.”

“Blood. Of. Hanalea. I’m not marrying anyone, Magret. Not for a long time.” I’ll take a hundred lovers before then, just for spite, she wanted to say. Besides, I’d be more likely to get into trouble in the card room with Micah or under Mother’s nose in the banqueting hall than with Amon, Raisa thought.

They glared at each other for a long moment, at an impasse.

“Fine,” Raisa said. “Come with me, then.”

Magret looked down at her chamber gown. Obviously, she’d thought she was in for the night. “Really, Your Highness, I don’t think…”

Raisa put on her imperious princess face. “If you insist on coming, you might as well make up a tray for Amon. He stood guard at the door all during dinner, so he’s not eaten.”

A quarter hour and much grumbling later, they left Raisa’s rooms, Raisa in the lead, Magret following, radiating disapproval, carrying a large silver tray.

They climbed several flights of stairs that grew narrower and steeper as they ascended.

“Are you meeting him on the roof, then?” Magret wheezed, two flights behind Raisa.

“We’re meeting in the glass garden,” Raisa said, pausing at the top of the last flight to let Magret catch up. It would’ve been much easier to go up via the secret staircase, but that was one secret she didn’t intend to share with Magret.

She’d not shared it with Micah, either. Once disclosed, it couldn’t be taken back if it became awkward or inconvenient.

The greenhouse must have been a showplace once, designed by someone with a love for gardens. They entered through tall bronze doors decorated with cunning vines, flowers, animals, and insects cast into the metal. The air inside was moist, fragrant with earth and flowers and the breath of growing things. The dark slate floor gathered up sunlight all day long and gave heat back during the night. Hot water from thermal springs circulated through pipes, controlled by a series of valves so the temperatures could be adjusted to meet the needs of tropical, desert, and temperate plants.

Queen Marianna had little use for gardens, preferring her flowers to be arranged in vases, but Raisa shared a passion for digging in the dirt with her father. On those rare occasions he stayed at Fellsmarch Castle, they spent hours in companionable silence, rooting cuttings and thinning seedlings.

With both of them gone these past three years, the garden was overgrown and neglected, the more aggressive plants crowding out the weaker, more delicate kinds. Panes were broken here and there, stuffed with wool or crudely mended with ill-fitting patches. Some areas of the garden were too cold now for any but native plants.

Raisa led Magret to the entrance of the maze. Amon would be waiting in one of the side passages, in a pavilion next to the fountain.

Guess we’ll have to find a new place to meet, Raisa thought, now that Magret knows about this one.

Although she might not be able to find her way back.

Raisa confidently threaded her way through the leafy tunnels, Magret tight on her heels, as if afraid Raisa might sprint away and leave her stranded. The boxwood walls had nearly grown together in some places, and more than once they had to push through tangles of branches.

“You’re going to ruin that dress on the first wearing,” Magret complained, licking her finger and rubbing it over a prick in Raisa’s satin skirt.

Raisa heard Amon before she saw him. He was pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. At first she thought he was grumbling because she was late, but it seemed he was practicing some sort of speech.

“Your Highness, may I say how honored I am that you…ah…how pleased I am to be remembered…gaaaah.” He shook his head in disgust and cleared his throat. “Your Highness, I was astounded—no—surprised when you spoke to me, and hope that you might consider our friendship…Hanalea’s bloody bones!” he exclaimed, smacking himself in the forehead. “What an idiot.”

Raising her hand to indicate that Magret should stay where she was, Raisa moved forward. “Amon?”

He jumped and swiveled around, his hand automatically going to the hilt of his sword. He tried to change it into a kind of elegant gesture, extending his hand toward her and bowing low. “Your Highness,” he croaked, straightening and staring at her. “You’re…um…you look well.”

“Your Highness?” She strode toward him, satin swishing, chin lifted imperiously. “Your Highness?”

“Well,” he said, flushing furiously, “I…ah…”

She gripped both his hands and looked up—way up—past the square Byrne chin and straight nose and into his gray eyes. “Bones, Amon, it’s me. Raisa. Have you ever in your life called me ‘Your Highness’?”

He studied on it. “As I remember, there were several times you made me call you that,” he said dryly.

Her face grew hot. “I never did!”

He raised an eyebrow, an expression she remembered well. Very annoying.

“Well,” she conceded, “all right. Maybe a few times.”

He shrugged. “It’s probably best if I get used to calling you that,” he said. “If I’m going to be at court.”

“I suppose,” she said. They stood like that, hands linked awkwardly for a moment. She was suddenly very aware of the contact. Her heart stuttered.

“So,” he said. “You look…well,” he repeated. He couldn’t seem to decide where he should be looking, which gave him a rather shifty-eyed appearance.

“And you look…tall,” she replied, briskly withdrawing her hands. “Are you hungry? Magret brought supper for you.”

He flinched and glanced around, his gaze lighting on Magret, sulking next to an ancient jade tree. The eyebrow again. “You brought Magret along? Here?”

Raisa shrugged. “She wouldn’t let me come otherwise. It’s hard these days.”

“Oh.” He hesitated. “Well, I am hungry,” he admitted.

Raisa motioned to Magret, who set the tray on a small wrought-iron table at the waterside, lit the torches, and then withdrew to a bench close enough so she might still overhear what they were saying.

“Please,” Raisa said to Amon. “Sit.” She settled into a chair and chose a small bunch of grapes to nibble on, though she was still stuffed from dinner. She was glad of the distraction of the food, glad it gave them something to focus on besides each other.

Amon carefully removed his uniform jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. Underneath he wore a snowy white linen shirt. He rolled the sleeves past the elbows, exposing tanned and muscled arms.

“Sorry,” he said, finally sitting. “I’m used to doing my own laundry at Wien House, so I try to keep my cuffs out of my soup.”

He enthusiastically tucked into the bread, cheese, and fruit Magret had assembled, washing it down with cider. He looked up once and caught Raisa staring at him. “Excuse me,” he said, hastily swiping at his mouth with a napkin. “I rode a long way today, I’m starving, and I’m used to eating in a barracks. It’s kind of a free-for-all.”

To Raisa, it was a relief to talk to someone who didn’t try to flatter her. Who said what he thought. Who wasn’t so smooth that she felt clumsy and ill-spoken herself.

“So,” she said, “you’re assigned to the Guard this summer?”

He nodded, chewed, and swallowed. “And every summer from now on.”

“Will you be working a lot?”

“Aye, my da’ll make sure the queen gets her money’s worth from my sorry hide.” He rolled his eyes. “I might get to see you if I’m assigned to your personal guard. But that’s unlikely as a first year in the Guard.”

“Oh,” Raisa said, disappointed. She’d been lonely since returning to Fellsmarch from Demonai. There was Micah, of course, but being with him wasn’t exactly relaxing, not even with a chaperone.

She’d looked forward to a summer knocking about with the Amon she remembered. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d be so different. Or that he wouldn’t have any free time.

“I hoped we could ride up to Firehole Falls again. I heard there was a new geyser that shoots fifty feet in the air.”

“Really?” Amon cocked his head. “You haven’t gone to see it?”

“I was waiting for you. Remember that time we went swimming at Demon Springs?” They’d fished for trout in the Firehole and cooked their catch in one of the steam fissures that crazed the landscape.

“Ah.” He looked uncomfortable. “The queen may not like the notion of us riding off on our own anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Several reasons.” He paused, and when she didn’t respond, added, “For one thing, it’s more dangerous than it used to be.”

Raisa twitched impatiently. “Everybody keeps saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“And why else?” Raisa persisted.

“I’m a soldier, and I’m of age. You’ll be of age by midsummer. It’s different. People will talk.”

Raisa made a disgusted noise. “People will talk regardless.” But she knew he was right. After an uncomfortable silence, she changed the subject. “Tell me about Oden’s Ford.”

“Well.” Amon hesitated, as if to be sure she really meant it. “The academy is split by the Tamron River: Wien House, the warrior school, is on one side, and Mystwerk, the wizard school, on the other. Guess they thought it best to keep the two separated, in the beginning. Those were the first two, but these days there are other schools as well.

“There are fifty plebes in Wien House each year. They come from all over, from Tamron, and the Fells, and Arden, and Bruinswallow. Some of ’em are actually at war with each other, but they’re not allowed to bring it onto campus. There’s something called the Peace of Oden’s Ford that’s enforced really strictly. Oden’s Ford itself is like a small realm all on its own. It’s on the border between Tamron and Arden, but it doesn’t belong to either.”

“Where do you stay?” Raisa asked, kicking off her shoes and drawing her feet up under her gown while Magret scowled disapprovingly.

“Each class stays together until we’re proficients,” Amon said. “Then we can choose our own housing.”

“Is it pretty evenly balanced in Wien House, girls and boys?” Raisa asked casually.

He shook his head. “We send girls from the Fells, but in the south things are different. They have strange notions about what girls can do. Some say it’s the influence of the Church of Malthus.”

“Ah.” Raisa nodded wisely, pretending to understand. Amon seemed so informed, so worldly next to her, and she was princess heir of the queendom! Shouldn’t she know about these things? Did her mother, the queen, know about them? Maybe not. Marianna had never traveled outside the queendom, either.

Raisa was seized by the sudden desire to go somewhere, anywhere, out of the Fells.

“So it’s about three-quarters boys, one-quarter girls,” Amon went on. “The girls hold their own, though. Being a soldier isn’t all about brute strength, as some of the southerners have found out.” He laughed.

“What do you do, then?” she asked. “Do you do seat work or—or drill, or what?” Right, she thought, eying him sidelong. Seat work didn’t put that muscle on your arms and chest.

“Some classroom, some applied,” Amon said, seeming pleased by her interest. “We train in strategy, geography, horsemanship, weaponry, that sort of thing. We study great battles in history and analyze the outcome. The further along you are, the more practical application.”

“I wish I could go,” Raisa blurted.

“You do?” Amon looked surprised. “Well, it’d be too dangerous, I think. These days, just getting to and from school is a challenge.”

“Why is that?” Raisa fingered her briar rose necklace. Maybe her yearning for foreign lands came from her trader father.

“You know there’s the civil war in Arden—five brothers fighting over the throne, each with an army. So if you’re of military age in the south, even if you’re just passing through, you’re at risk of being ganged into somebody’s army. And military age is defined broadly—age ten to eighty, or there-abouts.”

He pushed back from the table, stretching out his legs, massaging the muscles in his thighs as though they hurt. “Plus, you never know when you’re crossing enemy lines or walking straight into a battle. Deserters and bands of mercenaries between patrons are everywhere. These days, people don’t even try to identify you before they run you through.”