The Demon Lord (25 page)

“I know him, Aldric—”

“Kourgath!”

“But I
know
him! He’s the man who let me leave. With Evthan. When the soldiers came to Seghar. It’s the same man, I tell you! Tall, with a black beard…”

“Are you sure?” Gueynor at least was convinced, and whether or not she was right seemed likely to attract the
kortagor’s
interest by her attitude alone.

“Certain! I know him… !”

“So you keep saying. But does he know you?” One open hand pressed to her lips created a welcome silence. “Because I doubt it. Listen, Gueynor, listen to me! He was a grown man then and can’t have changed much since. That’s why you recognise him. But you were a child and now you’re a woman. Calm down; don’t worry about it.” Aldric wished that he could feel as confident as he sounded.

The garrison commander’s private word must have developed into a full-scale private conversation, for it was a nerve-racking twenty minutes before the two dark outlines reemerged from the Summergate. It was more night than evening now, that period of unlight where the sun has gone but its afterglow still means that lamps are useless. “You will stay,” came Jervan’s voice, “at the Inn of Restful Sleep, where I can find you. Nowhere else. One of my men will guide you there.”

“Why nowhere else?” Aldric wanted to know. “So that you don’t need to waste time if you decide to arrest us?”

“Hold your tongue, man!” Marek snapped irritably. “Unless you think that you can find another job before the night’s out… ?” Aldric subsided, saying nothing more, and Marek glanced towards Jervan with a few words that made the soldier laugh. “To answer you, Kourgath—as you would have found out anyway, without this… unpleasantness—it’s because the Overlord may want to speak to me. Note that! To
me
. Not to you.”

It was the most reassuring rebuke that Aldric had ever heard.

The summons came sooner than anyone had expected, for they had been in the tavern’s pleasant common-room less than half an hour when the door slid aside and a crest-coated retainer came in. Asking for the demon queller, in Lord Crisen’s name. And at once.

Marek nodded to the messenger and continued to eat. This retainer was maybe fifteen years old and commanded rather less respect than
Kortagor
Jervan’s empty boots. “At once, sir,” the youth repeated nervously. “My lord was most insistent on that point.”

“While I am most insistent that I complete my supper,” the Cernuan replied, gesturing at the cluttered table to show how little had been touched. “I have attended similar meetings in the past, and apart from insubstantial dainties they never include much to eat. Although,” he added considerately, “the wine is usually excellent.”

“In Lord Crisen’s name… ? Why he, and not his father?” Despite his lazy voice, there was more than idle curiosity in Aldric’s question. Especially knowing what he did about Crisen Geruath’s consort.

“I am Lord Crisen’s servant, sir,” the boy replied. “He sent me, so what I do is in his name; but I feel sure that the Overlord—”

“Of course.” Aldric was just as certain that the Overlord had not agreed, or did not know—or whatever affirmation the retainer might have been about to make.

“What about us?” Gueynor asked uncertainly. Despite having recovered from her initial shock, she was still apprehensive—and had begun to doubt her own wis-

dom in following Aldric to Seghar. “Do we stay here or… ?”

“Well,” demanded the Cernuan through a mouthful of chicken, “what about them? Are my companions included?”

“No, sir. My lord asked only for the demon queller Marek. No other names were mentioned.”

“You realise that they’ll eat all the food? Probably drink up the wine as well. And you know who paid for all of it, don’t you… ?”

“Sir,
please
...”

Marek looked at the young man, who was virtually dancing on the spot with impatience, and grunted morosely in agreement. “All right.” Lifting a chop between finger and thumb, he stripped the meat in two bites and washed it down with a long, long draught of wine; then he wiped his mouth and fingers, belched his appreciation for the innkeeper’s benefit and was ready.

Aldric watched him critically, wondering how much of this act was playing a chosen role and how much was really Marek. It had occurred to him that the demon queller might not be pretending after all… “You’ll be safe enough without a bodyguard tonight anyway,” he said.

“I should think—”

“But you have a guard anyway, sir,” the retainer interrupted, eager to say something pleasing at long last. “They’re waiting for you outside. My lord sent four soldiers as an escort for your honour’s sake—to show your importance.”

“Ah,” said Marek thoughtfully. “That was very…” he searched for a word which would not betray his real feelings on the matter, “... very considerate of him. Yes. Considerate. Very…”

Despite his fears, whether real or feigned, most of the food and drink was still on the table when Marek returned from the citadel and he set to hungrily. Aldric, however—almost alone in the common-room and the only person still awake—had clearly lost his appetite. Unaccustomed to the potent Elherran sweet-wine which she had been drinking in such careless quantities,

Gueynor snored gently on a settle near the fire, wrapped in a blanket and with Aldric’s wolfskin
coyac
cushioning her head.

The Alban had realised that he would be unable to relax directly Marek left… Unless, of course, he followed Gueynor’s example. He had not. Nor did the thoughts which drifted to and fro within his mind help relaxation much; there was such a thing as having read too many subjects in too little detail. He knew enough for his subconscious to work overtime, but insufficient to calm it…

Aldric was a typical
kailin
and a typical younger son of his generation—even though he preferred not to think that way; an inveterate scribbler of drawings, of snatches of poetry or song, of scraps of gossip or indeed anything which later might prove of interest. Although he had had small chance to indulge such inclinations in recent months, they remained: a learning that was lightly, negligently, even cynically worn, many accomplishments which could be drawn upon at need—no matter that few were studied in great depth. Just as a cat, no matter how well-fed or pampered, knows how to, can, and will catch mice—but only when it wants to, because it no longer has to.

Leaning back in a chair, one booted foot propped on a stool, he scratched idle sketches with a scrap of charcoal and appeared at ease but Marek, glancing at him, knew otherwise. He stared over the young man’s shoulder at the face taking shape on his sheet of rough paper—the face of a girl, blonde-haired, high-cheekboned, pretty; a study in light and shadow where shadow predominated, her gaze turned away into darkness. There was a faint resemblance to Gueynor, but it was plainly not a portrait of the Jouvaine; the differences were far more plain and yet more subtle than a simple change of hair colour… “From imagination, Kourgath? Or from memory?”

Aldric started slightly, his head jerking round. The eyepatch had been pushed up into a black band across his brows, and a half-smile scored its chevron at one side of his mouth as he looked back at the drawing, tilting it quizzically. “Both, I think. It’s sometimes so hard to be sure.” With sudden violence he crushed the paper in his fist and flung it accurately clear across the room into the fire. “But mostly memory. One best forgotten.”

His chair scraped back as he stood up, fastidiously dusting charcoal from his fingertips. “Well, what was said by their Lordships?”

Marek glanced warily about the room before risking a reply, and when he did it was evasive. “Have you seen to the horses yet—or do you trust the ostler with your black Andarran?”

“Now that you mention it, no. I trust myself with Lyard. No one else.” Aldric lifted an apple from the fruit-dish, studied it a moment and polished it briskly on his sleeve, then pulled his patch back into place. “A walk in the evening air,” he suggested, “to aid your digestion?” Marek smiled thinly and nodded.

“Why not… ?”

After they had left the lamps and firelight of the com-monroom a prudent distance behind, Aldric removed the cloth patch covering his right eye and slipped it down around his neck like a narrow scarf. “Better,” he muttered softly. Unhooking Widowmaker’s shoulder-strap, he allowed the longsword to slide into her accustomed place at his left hip before hooking the lacquered scabbard to his weapon-belt. A small push of the thumb released her locking-collar.

Marek watched these preparations dubiously. “Are you expecting trouble?” he asked. Aldric flicked up his apple and caught it neatly, grinning a little.

“Not at present. But just in case…”—an inch of taiken-blade glinted as it was withdrawn and then returned in lazy threat—”I like to feel ready.”

A bonfire was smouldering at one end of the stable-yard, its surface acrawl with the red rats’-eyes of sparks as blue, sharp-smelling smoke trickled up into the night. There was the distant rhythmic swishing of a broom on cobblestones and the clank of a bucket’s handle. Someone was whistling tunelessly. All very ordinary, thought Aldric as he pushed the half-door open and stepped-lightly inside. One glance at the dim, low-beamed interior confirmed a notion which he had entertained all evening: whatever else it might be, the Inn of Restful Sleep was no ordinary tavern. Not with its stables laid out as recommended by the Cavalry Manual! The place was a convenient, innocent-seeming guest-house for interesting visitors to Seghar—and was no doubt staffed by members of the garrison. No wonder Jervan had insisted that they stay here.

Even so, Aldric could not complain about the accommodation provided for his horses. He glanced with a critical eye along the line of stalls; solidly built of biscuit-coloured ashlar stone, they were well-drained, well ventilated but nonetheless snug. There were no draughts; a deal of care had evidently gone into getting
that
just right, the Alban mused. And they were clean, remarkably so; no stale reek of dung in this stable—only the warm and somehow friendly odour of the horses mingled pleasantly with a fragrance of fresh hay and straw and the incisive granary scent of oats. The grooms had been at work with brushes, mops and water as if they had anticipated an inspection. And perhaps they had; Aldric knew a little of how the military mind worked.

Bedding rustled as Lyard, sensing a familiar presence, shifted in his box. Walking across, Aldric looked with approval at the stallion; he had been combed and brushed and virtually polished by some stableman who knew good horseflesh and how to bring up the best points of a fine animal, until his coat shone with the midnight lustre of crushed coal. The Andarran whickered softly, regarding Aldric with eyes and ears and flaring nostrils until he click-clicked tongue against back teeth and extended the apple he had brought. Lyard nudged his hand, snuffled at the proffered fruit and crunched it up with relish, frothing pale green around the lips as he did so.

“Four-legged eating machine,” Aldric observed in a dispassionate voice; but he patted the big courser’s whiskered, apple-sweet muzzle with more affection than his words suggested. “You have something to tell?” he asked in exactly the same tone, speaking Alban now.

“I couldn’t before,” Marek replied. “You’ve seen the stables now. You know why.”

“
Care of the Horse in Peace and War
. Yes. I read it a long time ago.”

“And one can never know who might be listening.”

Aldric nodded, went quietly to the wooden frame which supported his tack and untied laces, loosened buckles, threw back the flap of one very particular saddlebag. Reaching deep inside, he took out something which he tucked away swiftly in the front of his jerkin. Marek, watching, caught a momentary glimpse of steel and silver, of intricate patterns formed from metal, of white leather shrouding something from his sight. And then the object was gone. The demon queller knew better than to ask an
eijo
questions—particularly this
eijo
. “Listening—or looking,” he amended.

Aldric allowed himself a thin smile but gave no explanation for his actions. They were, he considered, hardly the Cernuan’s affair.

“Aldric.” At the sound of his real name the Alban’s head jerked up minutely before turning with studied, casual inquiry towards Marek. There was anger in his eyes. “Tomorrow morning we are to be given quarters in the citadel.” Aldric said nothing. “There has been an accident.” Still Aldric said nothing. “Sedna is dead.”

Aldric remained silent; but even in the dim light of the stables Marek Endain saw the blood drain from his companion’s face until the only colour that remained there was the juice which stained his skin. “When?” His voice was flat and revealed nothing. “And how?”

“There was an accident. Last night. When the moon was full. She was preparing a conjuration and… something went wrong.”

“How?” Aldric repeated in the same unreal voice. Suspicions were seething inside his head like maggots in dead meat. “What happened to her?”

The demon queller stared at him, mouth twitching behind the full beard as if possessed of its own life. “All right. All right… The something that went wrong pulled her apart. And ate the pieces… I know. I saw.”

“What was it, this something?” Aldric persisted. “An animal? A werebeast?”

“It was a demon! A demon, damn you! And I don’t know what sort of demon, before you ask me… But it was strong. Strong enough to wrench a human body into chunks the way you would joint a chicken!”

“I,” Aldric observed, concealing his own shock behind a callously prim veneer, “have rather better table manners than that.”

And Marek hit him. Not a slap of indignation at his attitude, but a full-blooded cuff that caught the younger man unawares and almost rocked him off his feet. The print of the demon queller’s palm and fingers flared scarlet across Aldric’s pale face from ear to chin, its outline warping as his features twisted in a silent snarl of insulted fury. He had staggered with the impact of the blow, his shoulders hammering against the door of Lyard’s stall with a boom that sent the high-strung beast skittering backwards in a thumping of straw-muffled hooves, and had slithered down the planks a handspan before his knees locked to push him upright. And when he straightened there was a dagger in his hand.