The Demon Lord (24 page)

“Then I accept.” Aldric smiled fractionally. “We could be friends, you and I. So tell me, ‘friend,’ how well do you know Seghar… ?”

The shadows of dusk were lengthening in Seghar town as they approached it from the south at a leisurely walk. Lamps and ornate flambeaux had been lit at intervals along the outer wall, and their topaz jewels did something to offset an all-too-plain dilapidation. But not enough. The place was as Marek Endain had described it—except that the seedy reality was worse.

Reining Lyard to a halt, Aldric glanced over his left shoulder to see Gueynor’s reaction. It was as he had expected: shock, disbelief, finally outrage that a place which she remembered as elegant and fold should have been reduced to what they saw now. Then the taut, indignant lines of her face softened… relaxed… and collapsed. Inevitably there were tears.

“Stop that!” the Alban snapped, “or you’ll smear your—” His voice was sharp, yet not so brutal as the words suggested; but he closed his teeth on the stupid heartless phrase before it was completed, knowing even as he did so that Gueynor would not have heard him anyway. Had Seghar been his home, or had Dunrath been altered as this place was from her ten-year-old memory of it, he too would have cried.

It was old. That was excusable, for Dunrath was also old, but Seghar displayed not the time-mellowed dignity of age—only its decrepitude. Stonework had crumbled, or been broken and removed for paving-rubble, and in those few places where repairs had been attempted they were haphazard, incomplete and altogether ugly. More depressing still were the pathetic echoes of long-faded grandeur, scattered like discarded rags among the build-

ings of the fortress proper: overgrown pleasances and wood-choked parterres, untended drives of fruit trees which had degenerated into tangled, dying vegetation.

And all of it not so much because of apathy as through a policy of planned, deliberate neglect. The ruins of their formal gardens were all that remained of past overlords, but even at this distance Aldric could detect a faint, heavy scent of roses on the evening air—that cloying perfume which he was coming to associate more and more with the name of Seghar.

“Cowards…” Gueynor whispered brokenly. “They did not dare destroy what my father made of Seghar— but they let it fall into this…”

Aldric met Marek Endain’s level gaze over the girl’s drooping head and shrugged one shoulder. The Geru-aths were evidently capable of far greater subtlety than he had given either of them credit for. Whose idea had this been? he wondered grimly. Geruath himself… or Crisen?

“Carefully, my lady,” Aldric muttered in a warning undertone. A few armed retainers were mingling with the travellers as they drew closer to the town—there had been a midsummer fair of some sort if their gaudy dress was anything to go by—and it would be wise to avoid attracting untoward attention by either strange behaviour or incautious observations. The reporting of words was commonplace in Seghar, he suspected, once again recalling the fate of that Tergovan merchant, and no lord—even one so lacking in pride as Geruath appeared to be—would like to hear his demesne receive some of the descriptions which were forming inside Aldric’s head. Out on the Jevaiden plateau this fortress might be the centre of affairs—elsewhere it would be either a slum or an abandoned derelict.

The inner citadel was primitive, no more than a fortified manor house which had sprouted bartizans and turrets in a jarring, unmatched variety of architectural styles. Lacking great areas of paint and the heavy plaster which usually smoothed raw stone, it was in a sorry state, seeming to cringe into the landscape rather than stand out proudly as donjons were supposed to do. Except, incongruously, for a solitary wooden tower which was of a form so archaic that Aldric had not seen one in reality before—only in the illuminations to old Archive volumes.

And yet it had been built recently, from clean new timber… The Alban studied it as he rode closer, but was no wiser as to its function by the time he reached the town wall’s southern gate—the Summergate, it was called—even though there was an elusive recollection drifting in the inaccessible reaches at the back of his mind…

“You there, stand fast!” Aldric was jerked back to reality by the harsh command; he was unused, even as an
eijo
, to being addressed in such a tone, and it took maybe half a breath for him to remember that he was a mercenary and by that token anybody’s potential servant… Not that he would have made objection in any case: the
kortagor
who had spoken was flanked by two gisarm-bearing lord’s-men and though the heavy weapons were carried at rest they still inspired a degree of immediate respect.

He was a tall man, this officer, with a spade beard jutting pugnaciously from between the cheekplates of his helmet, and he was pointing straight at Aldric with the blackthorn baton that was his mark of rank. “Yes, you!” he repeated in answer to a look of inquiry. The Alban twitched Lyard’s reins, stopping the big Andarran courser an easy spear’s-length from where the
kortagor
stood, and gave the man a crisp, neutral salute before swinging out of his high saddle. It was always best, whether or not one was playing a part, to avoid annoying those with the power to make life unpleasant…

Which was why, instead of voicing one of the several irascible responses which sprang into his mind—and which would have been entirely in character—a precisely calculated interval after his bootsoles hit the pavement, Aldric bowed. Not low, but low enough, the depth exactly gauged to convey respect without servility. The kind of finely tuned politeness at which Albans excelled.

He remained quite still as the officer walked slowly round him, inspecting him as he would a soldier on parade—which, given his chosen role, was close enough to the truth. The man was plainly unsure of what he saw, confused by the mixture of signals which he was reading—signals which sometimes agreed and sometimes contradicted.

Kortagor
Jervan had become a good judge of men during twenty years with the Imperial military, and it was not chance which had brought him to this particular gate. He made it his business personally to inspect every stranger who entered Seghar and remained for longer than his own arbitrary limit of two days, but on certain occasions, when his outriders reported anyone or anything of special note, the inspection took place at once. Jervan’s assessments were seldom wrong—but he did not like to be unsure, especially where it concerned one man bringing a small arsenal of lethal weapons into the town where he was garrison commander and directly responsible for peace and order.

As if conscious of his gaze, the horseman’s hand came up to tug at the patch he wore. Jervan had seen such a movement before. Men were often painfully embarrassed by disfigurement, especially when—like this one— they were young. It was a younger face than the
kortagor
was accustomed to meeting in mercenaries, if such he was, and yet more secretive and shuttered than it had any right to be. There was a hard, careless set to the features, but that was probably an act meant to impress, no more. But there was something about him, something which did not fit—as if he was more accustomed to giving than receiving orders. As if he was accustomed to respect…

“Alban,” Jervan observed quietly, reaching out with his baton as if to touch the dirk pushed through the rider’s belt. The baton hovered, gestured towards the sword-hilt which rose like a scorpion’s tail above his right shoulder, again stopping before any insulting contact was made, then grounded its metal-shod tip with a hard, bright clank on the paving stones between Jervan’s feet.

Aldric was suddenly, irrelevantly reminded of the last time he had heard such a sound; it had been the clashing of a firedrake’s talons against an onyx floor, many miles from here…

“Alban,” he echoed, even though no question had been asked. “Once, but no more. Now I am less than nothing.” He closed his mouth against further elaboration, knowing with his increased experience of the deceiver’s art that saying too much was worse than saying nothing at all.

Jervan studied this enigma. There was no insult in the soft-spoken words—or if there was, it was so veiled that the
kortagor
chose not to waste time searching for it. He was a strict man, as his rank required, but a fair-minded one as his own decency dictated; if One-eye wanted to enter the Overlord’s service, then it was the Overlord who would command him to go or stay. His garrison commander need not interfere until after that decision had been made.

“His name is Kourgath.”

The officer’s head snapped round, his beard seeming almost to bristle with annoyance at this interruption. A fat man sat on a fat pony and smiled pleasantly at him. “And who the hell,” rasped Jervan, “might
you
be?”

“I,” the fat man returned, “am Marek Endain, demon queller. Kourgath is my traveling companion and for the present my bodyguard. Yours is a dangerous province,
Kortagor
... ?”

“Jervan,” said Jervan. “Garrison commander of Seghar.”

“Then hail, Jervan.” Marek chuckled richly and made an expansive salute that looked more like a benediction.

“What about the woman? Can she speak for herself— or do you do her talking as well?” There was only the faintest trace of sarcasm in the
kortagor’s
voice, but more than a little amusement.

Aldric had seen the look of horror which had flashed across Gueynor’s face directly her eyes fell on Jervan. He did not know the cause, only that something would have to be said before the soldier noticed too and his allayed suspicions were once more aroused. “Her name is Aline,” he said, pitching his voice loud enough for the girl to hear and trusting she would take the hint.

Jervan’s head turned back towards him and he regretted saying anything to draw this man’s attention. There was a half-humorous glint in the
kortagor’s
dark eyes, a toleration of interference—up to a point. That point, thought Aldric, has been reached…

This time when the blackthorn stick jabbed out at him it did not stop short. The impact on his chest was hardly more solid than that of a pointing finger, but it carried a deal more emphasis than any finger ever could. “Let the lady speak for herself, Alban,” Jervan reproved. “If I want your contribution, I shall ask for it. Until then— forgive my vulgarity but—shut up!”

Aldric nodded curtly, and shut up.

“Now, my dear…” Aldric would have felt far happier if Jervan’s approach had not smacked so much of Dewan ar Korentin at his most suave. “Tell me about yourself.”

Gueynor’s usual response to such a question—to any question—was to freeze like a rabbit confronted by a stoat. Instead she collected her wits and smiled prettily at the officer. “Aline, sir. My husband used to have a shop in Ternon. We sold such pretty things there: silks and fine lace, velvets—”

“I think I might know the place,” purred Jervan. His words jolted both Aldric and Gueynor, but for entirely different reasons. Now the Alban regarded him with a more basic emotion than mere wary suspicion, even though he would not have admitted feeling jealous. Not even to himself…

The girl recovered—and covered—well; certainly better than Aldric had expected, although he knew now that there was more to Gueynor than met the eye. Just like her uncle… “I doubt you would, commander,” she replied, becoming a little sad. “Not this two years past, anyway. I married young, you see…”

“And you still are young,” Jervan put in gallantly.

“And I was widowed young. There was an accident. My husband… a horse took fright and bolted…” She looked away as if controlling tears, turning back with a tired expression and a little sigh that told of many things. “I could not maintain the shop alone, or buy anything to sell; at the last I could not afford rent and food together. So I left and now…”—she stared over Jervan’s head at Aldric, then closed her eyes—”now I travel and I… I form association with whoever pays me for my… company.”

The performance was masterly: understated, elegant, it imitated reality to perfection and provoked sympathy rather than suspicion.
Kortagor
Jervan gazed at her in pity. “There will be no such accidents in this town, lady,” he assured her. “Except at livery, horses are not permitted beyond the inner walls.”

Aldric was not prepared to let him take full credit for that. “An Alban custom,
Kortagor
?” he asked softly, daring the soldier to deny it. Jervan did not.

“I also travel, Kourgath-an,” he replied, “although less than I would like. That custom struck me. As did others.” What those were he did not say, but it was quite certain that he knew the meaning of Aldric’s short-cropped hair. “Marek Endain, a word with you. In private.”

The Cernuan dismounted, following Jervan into the shadows of the gate-house and out of earshot. Aldric could guess what that private word involved: himself, as much as was known of his history, and whatever other details the garrison commander of Seghar might find interesting. He had told Marek much the same story as to Evthan—about fighting on the wrong side in Alba that spring, and being forced to leave—with a warning that the tale should not be embellished. Simplicity was safer… and easier to remember.

He nodded courteously to the lord’s-men, who had not escorted their commander as he had hoped they might—when Jervan said “in private,” he evidently meant it—and moved a cautious step or two in Guey-nor’s direction. When they made no move to obstruct him he walked rapidly to where she sat atop his pack-pony, ashen-faced and looking as if she was going to be sick. Anyone else would have attributed her reaction to the unpleasant memories she had recalled, but Aldric knew differently. The girl was sick indeed—sick with fright. Her hand, when he grasped it, was trembling so much that he could feel it flutter, like a little bird, through the leather of his glove, and the skin of her cheek was cold with more than the onset of evening.

“What’s the matter?” he murmured into her ear, try-ing to appear as if he was comforting her. “What scared you?”

“J—Jervan…”

“Jervan… ? Light of Heaven, woman, why? He’s the nearest thing to a human being I’ve ever met in Imperial harness.” Which observation carried less weight than at first appeared, since Aldric had encountered one ship-commander and an
eldheisart
of the Bodyguard cavalry—though ar Korentin’s desertion tended to disqualify him from inclusion. Such a sampling did not entitle Aldric to make sweeping statements about anything, but it was not Jervan’s behaviour which had upset her…