When Demons Walk

7

Sham smothered a yawn, and glanced around at the group of men who surrounded her. Several of Lord Halvok’s fledglings mingled with the older crowd. Kerim was right—the evening gatherings were more crowded than the daily press.

He had intended to come with her to her first night event, but had felt too ill. Without his formidable presence the men gathered around her like locusts on a wheat field, which she found both annoying and amusing. True to the character she portrayed, Sham flirted with them gently, but made it clear she was faithful to the Reeve.

She was beginning to think that attending court was less than useless. The Whisper had more detailed knowledge of the less public lives of the courtiers than the court gossip did. So far though, she had found out nothing about the demon.

This night the entertainment was a minstrel of indifferent skill—at music. From the heated glances he exchanged with several of the ladies of the court. Sham assumed that his skills in other areas were more than adequate.

She yawned again and scratched her thigh discreetly. The wounds the demon had given her were at that stage in healing where they itched like wet wool. She gave serious consideration to retiring to her rooms early.

She opened her mouth to make her excuses to her current escort, when she saw Lady Sky sitting alone, with a pair of Eastern women tittering nearby. One of the things that Sham had discovered during her tours of court was that although the Southwood lords were tolerated by the Eastern lords, the Eastern women had no such tolerance for the Southwood ladies—who numbered two: Shamera and Sky.

They stayed away from Shamera, who was protected by Kerim’s presence or Halvok’s fledglings, but Sky was fair game as long as Lady Tirra wasn’t in the room. That the Eastern men didn’t share their ladies’ abhorrence for Lady Sky made things worse.

Shaking her head silently at herself. Sham began making her way through the throng to Lady Sky. The Shark swore her weakness for defenseless waifs was going to be the death of her.

Sky looked up, startled, as Shamera sat next to her—or perhaps it was her purple and yellow dress; it was certainly startling enough. Halvok’s appointed guardian took one of Sky’s hands and kissed it lightly before moving smoothly into the background, ensuring that the pair of Eastern ladies would have to find other prey.

“So tell me,” Shamera said, settling her skirts around her, “how a Southwoods lady managed to snare an Eastern warrior.”

Sky looked at her cautiously, but she must have taken heart from Sham’s artless stare. “I met him at Fahill’s pilgrimage gate.”

Sham widened her eyes, “How romantic! Ervan bought me from my father. I assure you it wasn’t romantic at all. I made him work hard to make it up to me—that’s how he died.” Ervan, an elderly, bitter man, had died in his bed by all reports. Kerim had assured her that he was the only one at court who’d ever met him.

Sky couldn’t help a sputter of laughter. “I’m not certain my situation was any more romantic.” She rested her hands gently on her swollen belly. When she looked back at Sham her eyes were haunted. “My father had held onto our manor by swearing fealty to an Easterner, but when the plague claimed him our overlord claimed the manor for his second son. My brother gathered us together and left for the court here at Landsend, where he’d heard the Reeve was receiving homeless nobles. Bandits overtook us just outside of Fahill. I was washing in the stream when I heard them. I was not armed, so I had to wait until they left before leaving my hiding place. The raiders killed everyone but me.”

Shamera leaned forward and took Sky’s hand. “I am sorry.”

Sky shook her head, forcing the old pain away. “No. It was a long time ago, and some good came of it. I continued toward Landsend, for lack of any better choice, and came upon Fahill close to nightfall. Fahill himself answered my knock.” She smiled then, lost in the moment. “Fahill was bigger than life. He was as red-headed as any trader child and larger than Kerim. When I had him, it seemed that nothing could go wrong.”

Sham remembered the security the Reeve had given her the night she’d been attacked by the demon and nodded. “At least you have his child.”

Encouraged by Sham’s sympathy, Sky continued. “I lost our first child two months before Fahill died. This one is an unexpected miracle.”

She looked up and quit talking as Lady Tirra came upon them.

“Lady Sky,” exclaimed Tirra, ignoring Shamera. “I’ve been looking for you; stand up, child.”

Kerim’s mother pulled Sky to her feet and into an open space on the floor. Clapping her hands loudly she caught the attention of the minstrel who stopped playing. She raised a graceful hand and gradually the attention of everyone present was drawn to her small figure.

“Lords and Ladies, I beg your indulgence for a moment.” Her voice, low and rich as it was, carried clearly to the farthest corners of the room. At her side, Sky looked like a rabbit caught in a hunter’s snare. “You have all been aware of the problems we’ve had settling Fahill’s estate. The dilemma has been a conflict between Southwood law and Cybellian custom. By Southwood law the lands should go to Lady Sky; by custom they should go to Lord Johar of Fahill. Most of his objection was that the lands, which were in Eastern hands, would be given to a Southwoods lady. We responded by proposing a marriage between my son, Lord Ven, and Lady Sky. He has most graciously accepted.”

Sham wondered if Lady Tirra was deliberately antagonizing the Southwood lords or if she was blind to the damage she was doing to the Reeve’s attempts to bind Easterner and Southwoodsmen together.

“The estates of Lord Fahill,” continued Lady Tirra triumphantly, “—long held in contention, have been settled. The estates of Fahill, Oran, and Tiber will be given into the hands of the late Lord Fahill’s brother and convey such title to him—from this day forth Lord Johar will be Lord Fahill. The estates of Kerhill and Tourn, as well as the title of Lord Kerhill will be settled on my son, Lord Ven, upon his marriage to Lady Sky. I ask you all for your congratulations.”

Lady Sky was frozen where she stood; all trace of color had left her face. She obviously had been told none of this. To have such an announcement made in front of the court—for the first time Sham was thankful for her life in Purgatory. At least there were some choices she could make for herself.

Lady Tirra continued as the room quieted. “I am sorry that Lord Ven was not here to help receive the well-wishes of the Court. He had urgent business and left early this morning: I shall inform him of the good news as soon as he returns.”

Sky stayed for a few minutes before leaving the room, leaning tiredly on Lady Tirra. As soon as the pair of them left, the court exploded into wild speculation and venomous whispers. Shamera drifted from group to group with her escort trailing politely behind.

“Lady Shamera, a word with you,” said Lord Ven’s smooth tones from behind her.

Sham glanced around. The room was still quite full, and she was able to catch the eyes of several men with whom she’d become, sociable. Only after they began to approach her did she turn to Lord Ven. He’d tried to corner her several times, mostly, she thought, to see if he could find a way to spoil Kerim’s enjoyment of her. Poor Lady Sky. Sham wondered if he’d been told of his betrothal—surely there was some fun to be had here.

She looked back at the handsome noble and frowned, tapping her chin in a puzzled fashion before she exclaimed, “Kerim’s brother!” She paused again, before saying, “Lord ... Van? I thought you were gone.”

There were a few smothered laughs from the group forming around them. Kerim’s brother was not well liked among any but the most radical groups of the court. It was not lost on these men that the pushier Lord Ven became, the less impression he seemed to make on her.

His handsome face reddened slightly, but he said easily-enough, “Lord Ven, Kerim’s legitimate half-brother. I just returned.”

Shamera nodded wisely: his sly reminder of Kerim’s bastard origins had removed her few remaining scruples about humiliating the Reeve’s brother. “Now, I remember. What can I do for you? Does Kerim want me? He said he was going to rest this evening and I should amuse myself, but if he wants me now I’ll be happy to leave.”

There was another round of smothered amusement.

“No, Lady,” answered Lord Ven, managing, with an effort, to keep his voice soft. “I haven’t spoken with Kerim since I left this morning. I just wanted to speak with you in private.”

“Oh,” Sham said, in obvious disappointment. “I suppose that as long as you are certain that Kerim doesn’t need me, I can talk to you. What did you want?”

Before he got a chance to speak again there was a tentative touch on her shoulder. Sham turned to see Kerim’s valet standing behind her.

“Dickon!” she exclaimed, then she said to the gathering in general, “Dickon is Kerim’s servant.”

Dickon cleared his throat, but otherwise maintained his usual equanimity as he nodded to the cheerful greetings.

Sham regained his attention by tapping Dickon’s arm. “Is Kerim awake yet?”

Dickon, looking uncomfortable with all the attention, said, “Yes, Lady. Lady Tirra—”

“His mother,” interrupted Sham, as if she were announcing a new discovery to a group of the uninitiated.

“Yes, Lady,” said Dickon patiently. “His mother has discovered a new healer who has a reputation of working miracles. He is with him now.”

Sham considered that briefly. It was obvious that Dickon had come to her to save the Reeve from a charlatan. Naturally the servant thought she would care—she was, after all, his mistress. Although she’d dropped her false mannerisms in front of Dickon since the night of the demon attack, he didn’t know everything—or perhaps he did. The strength of the anger she felt frightened her.

When Sham spoke, she carefully displayed nothing more than the possessiveness of a mistress whose position was threatened. “His mother’s healer? How long has this man been with Kerim?”

Dickon shuffled his feet and said, “Since dinner.”

Sham smiled blindingly. “Gentlemen. I pray that you will excuse me. Lord Van ... er, Ven, we shall have to have our talk at another time. Dickon—”

“—Lord Kerim’s servant,” supplied Halvok’s fosterling, Siven, with amusement.

Shamera nodded and continued with dramatic flair, “—“has come to get me. Lord Kerim has need of me, and I must go.”

With a quick curtsey, she followed Dickon out the door. As soon as they were alone in the maze of hallways, she dropped her facade and broke into a less than decorous trot.

“How bad is he?” she asked grimly.

“Bad enough—I didn’t know what was happening until I brought in some of his lordship’s clothing from the mending rooms. It seems that one of her ladyship’s cronies discovered this miracle worker who has the reputation of making the lame walk. Lady Tirra has found several such; most of them are harmless, but this one ...”

“I’m a miracle worker too,” said Sham direly. “Watch me make the healer disappear. Is her Ladyship there?”

“Kerim’s mother?” asked Dickon in an innocent tone.

Sham snickered, despite the urgency that kept her pace only nominally under an outright sprint. “Liked that one did you? Yes, the Reeve’s mother.”

He shook his head. “And be in the same room with a partially clad man? Never.”

“How did someone like Lady Tirra conceive an illegitimate son?” questioned Shamera with a touch of wonder.

Dickon shook his head. “Things happen in life that are so strange not even the most daring bard would relate them for fear of being ridiculed.”

Sham glanced at the servant’s face.

“Dickon!” she exclaimed in surprise, “you can smile!”

In true Lady Shamera fashion, she threw Kerim’s door open so hard it almost hit the wall. She rushed to the wooden table where Kerim lay face down. He was oblivious to her entrance, as his face was buried in his arms—but the dirty little man standing beside him certainly was not.

His mouth dropped open unattractively, revealing several blackened teeth. He began a protest of her entrance, but he widened it into a smile as he took in the sensual being that was the Reeve’s mistress.

“Kerim!” she exclaimed, touching of the Reeve’s bare shoulders gently. “Dickon said that you couldn’t be bothered, but I knew that you wouldn’t mind if I told you that Lady Sky had the most interesting little hat ...” Kerim turned his face toward her and Sham was enraged at his stoic expression, though she was careful not to show it.

She looked at the “healer” and frowned. “You need to leave now. I have to talk to Kerim, and I don’t like strangers listening to my private conversations.”

The man drew himself up in outrage that outweighed his lust. “Do you know who you are talking to?”

“No,” she replied, putting her hands on her hips. “I don’t care, just as long as you leave now.”

“Her Ladyship ...” began the man.

“Dickon,” called Sham, knowing that he was waiting anxiously in the halt to assess the damage done.

The door opened and the bland-faced servant entered, showing no sign of his recent dash through the Castle.

“Take him away,” Sham ordered airily. “You may come back and dispose of his belongings later.”

“Yes, Lady,” agreed the servant with remarkable composure as he seized the protesting man in a grip that spoke of the soldier he had been. “I shall return directly.”

When he left, Sham hurried over to shut the door behind him.

“Dirty, filthy, little leper,” she muttered in an evil voice, though she was intimidated enough by her surroundings not to use stronger language.

Turning back to the hard wooden table where the Reeve was still lying, she saw that he had turned his face into his arms. Careful not to touch him, she inspected his back carefully for damage. “Why did you let him do this?”

Kerim started to shrug then grunted. “It can’t do any harm, and it makes Mother happy.”

Sham muttered something suitable about the stupidity of males, Cybellian males in particular, under her breath. Beneath the beautiful brown skin, his muscles, heavy from years of battle, were twitching and knotted. Dark mottled bruises told her that Tirra’s healer had used the small wooden clubs that were set carefully on a nearby table, but there were no blisters from the iron rod that was being heated over a large candle.

Taking one of the set of clubs in her hands, she traced the misfortune rune she’d used to avenge Maur. She wished she were powerful enough to add an extra year to her curse, and had to argue with herself before she added the mark that limited the amount of damage that the spell could cause.

“What are you doing?” asked the Reeve, his voice only slightly hoarser than normal.

Shamera looked up to see that he had turned his head to watch her. She also noticed he was being very careful not to move anything else. She was tempted to alter the limits of the spell again.

“It’s just a little spell,” she said in her best mistress style. “About that hat—

He smiled, tiredly, but it was a smile. “About that spell.”

“I thought that you had your doubts about magic.”

“I do, but I have made it a policy never to dismiss any possibility completely—one of the reasons you are here now. About that spell,” he repeated firmly, his smile becoming a little less strained.

“Just something to occupy that little worm ...” Sham paused as an intriguing possibility occurred to her. “I wonder if the Shark knows about him. I’ll have to ask.”

Kerim started to laugh, and then stopped abruptly and gritted his teeth.

Dickon entered the room quietly. Judging by the air of satisfaction that he wore as well as a slight redness on the knuckles of his right hand, Shamera assumed that he’d gotten a little of his own version of vengeance.

He cleared his throat quietly so that Kerim would know that he was there before he said, “The healer has chosen to wait in the kitchens until we retrieve his items. If you wish to rest a while on the table before we try to move you, Lord, the man didn’t seem to be in a great hurry.”

“No,” Kerim said, levering himself up with his hands until he was sitting.

Dickon brought a light robe. It wasn’t warm enough to wear outside, but in a room with a fire burning merrily and tapestries to keep out the draft, it was more than adequate. The Reeve’s face appeared more grey than brown against the dark blue satin of his robe and the lines around his mouth were more pronounced than usual.

Shamera worked hard at being solitary; she’d learned at an early age that people died, and if you let yourself care for them it only hurt worse. She’d become adept at hiding herself behind the roles that she played, whether she was mistress or streetwise thief. There were only two people Sham considered friends, and one of them had been killed by a demon. In less than a week, the Reeve of Southwood had joined that select group, and Sham was very much afraid he had become something more.

“If everything’s taken care of here, I think that I’ll run around and do a little snooping while people are still gossiping at court,” she said, suddenly anxious to leave the room.

The Reeve settled into his chair and nodded, as if conversation were beyond him. Sham worked the lever that opened the “secret” panel and stepped through. She started to close the aperture behind her when she noticed Dickon packing the healer’s belongings.

“Dickon,” she said. “Be careful how long you hold those wooden clubs—and make doubly sure that the healer gets them back.”

Dickon eyed the clubs, flexing his right hand slightly, as if he were envisioning returning the clubs in a less than gentle fashion. “You may be certain I will.”

Though the passage was kept dimly lit by candles during the day, most of them had burned out. Sham called a magelight to follow her as she was highly unlikely to meet anyone here. The steady blue-white light glistened cheerfully off the polished floor as she walked. There was a brief passage that ran back along the Reeve’s room and ended in a stone wall. She didn’t bother to travel that way but took a step to where the main passage branched to the right. Straight ahead was a narrow tunnel that ran the length of her rooms; she decided to go there first.

Since the only people living in this area were she, Dickon, and the Reeve, she’d only been this way once, though she’d learned the passages elsewhere in the Castle thoroughly.

Next to the hinged panel that opened into her bedroom was a set of brackets that held a board against the wall. In all the passages Sham had found such brackets marking spy holes into most of the rooms of the Castle. The boards were originally placed in front of the hole so light from the tunnel wouldn’t alert the person being spied upon. As the passageways were no longer secret, most of the peep holes in personal rooms had been permanently sealed.

Experimentally, Sham shifted the board, and it slid easily into her hand. Frowning, because she should have thought of it before, she set the wood back into the brackets and used a fastening rune to hold the board against the hole. If she stayed longer than a few weeks she would have to remember to renew the spell. Satisfied, she returned to the wider passage and continued her explorations.

The spy hole opening into the room next to the Reeve’s chambers revealed a meeting room of some sort when Sham sent her magelight through the opening to illuminate it. There were a number of uncomfortable-looking chairs surrounding a large, dark oak table. A space was left empty, the more visible for the uniformity of the spacing between the other chairs—a space just wide enough for the wheeled chair that the Reeve used. Finding nothing of interest, Sham turned away and crossed the passage to look into the room next to hers.

White sheets covered the furniture in the room, protecting the valuable embroidery on the chairs from the dust that accumulated with disuse no matter how good the housekeeping was. She could tell from the shapes of the shrouds that the muslin-covered furniture was arranged in fashion similar to the last room she’d seen.

Her nose wrinkled as a whiff of air came through the little hole and she frowned at the stench.

“By the tides ...” she swore softly, forcing herself to take a deep breath near the spy hole.

The Castle had been occupied for a long time, and all the rooms had their own smell. The Reeve’s room had the musty-salt smell of leather, horses, and metal; her room smelled faintly of roses and smoke—this room smelled like a charnel house.

Increasing the power of the magelight, she sent it up near the chandelier so she could get a better look. There was a large table surrounded by fifteen high-backed chairs, all draped in white fabric. With better lighting, Sham could tell that the chair just opposite the oaken door had been putted out of place. The dust covers made it difficult to tell, but it looked as if the chair faced the door rather than the table.

From the position of the spy hole, she couldn’t see anything else. She walked to the passage door. The levers worked smoothly and the panel slipped back onto a track and slid easily out of the way, just as the door to the Reeve’s room did. The full effect of the stench hit her when she opened the door, and she had to swallow hard before she entered.

She increased the intensity of her light again, as much for reassurance as for the increased visibility. The oddness in the placement of the chair seemed suggestive, and she remembered that the demon’s pattern should have led it to kill again several days ago —though no body had been found.

She took, a step into the room and noticed for the first time that the polished granite floor near the oaken door was stained with dried blood. Breathing shallowly. Sham rounded the chair until she stood in front of it. From there she could see more blood stains on the floor, washing up in splatters against other furnishings and disappearing under the chair’s covering. Between the door and the chair was a larger stain where there had been so much blood that it had formed a puddle. The rank smell of the rotting blood made her cough.

Oddly enough, the sheet covering the chair was virgin-ally white, as if it had been kept clean purposefully. A shroud, she thought, not to hide the body it clearly outlined, but to frighten the poor maid who found it the next time the room was cleaned.

She forced herself to step forward onto the dark-stained floor near the chair. Not wanting to disturb the body any more than she could help, she was careful as she tugged the sheet off and tossed it on top of the table.

Sham had lived in Purgatory for a long time. The sight of a body, no matter how gruesome, did not bother her ... much. It didn’t require an intimate examination of the dead man before she deduced that whatever had killed her old master had also killed this man. Thin cuts covered his skin, just as they had Maur’s.

His head had fallen forward, obscuring his features. The chances were slim that she would know who this man was; from the condition of the body, he had been killed near the time when she had moved into the Castle, but she had to look. Rather than moving the body, Sham crouched low so that she could look up into his face.

When she saw the bruised and battered death-grayed features, she swallowed hard against the terror that chilled her blood. This man had been dead at least three days, perhaps longer. Dead, Lord Ven wasn’t nearly as handsome as he had been when she last spoke with him—less than an hour ago.

The Reeve sat in his chair in front of the fire where she had left him; Dickon was nowhere to be seen. At Sham’s abrupt entrance he looked up. He appeared so tired and worn that she wondered if she shouldn’t find Talbot instead.

“What’s wrong?” he said, turning his chair slightly and pushing it closer to her.

She bit her lip. “I found a body in the room next to mine.”

The tiredness disappeared from his face to be replaced with animation, and Sham realized that it was depression as much as fatigue and pain that was bothering him. She wasn’t sure that the discovery of his half-brother’s body was going to help his melancholy much. Without a word he passed her on the way to the opening that led to the passageway.

“Kerim?” Her voice cracked with strain.

He stopped and looked at her inquiringly, Shamera bowed her head a brief moment before meeting his eyes. “It’s Lord Ven.”

She caught a flash of something in his eyes, before his expression flattened unreadably into that of a battle-hardened warrior. He nodded and continued through the passage door. Sham took a lighted candle from a nearby table, since she’d doused the magelight before entering Kerim’s chambers, and followed the Reeve.

She’d left the door to the room ajar and the stench had traveled into the passage. She brought the scented candle closer to her nose; it didn’t help. Kerim’s chair didn’t fit easily through the narrow doorway; the hubs left deep mars in the wood as he forced it through. He stopped just inside the opening.

“Hold your candle higher,” he said, the tone of his voice making it a request rather than an order.

Sham raised her hand and let the flickering light illuminate the room. She noticed the eerie shadows that jumped as the flame moved on the wick and was exceedingly grateful that she hadn’t found the body by candlelight. Kerim looked over the scene carefully before he moved forward, stopping again to look at the places where Sham’s feet had cracked the dried blood.

“Me,” she replied in answer to his unvoiced question. “There was no sign that anyone had been here before I came in.”

He nodded and circled the chair with its macabre occupant. She watched his face and knew that he noticed the pattern of the blood on the floor—the pool had been evenly distributed. Lord Ven had been killed standing and brought to the chair after he was dead, as evidenced by the trail of blood his heels had made. It was the large pool of blood that the Reeve would find most troubling. There was no disturbed area where a killer would have stood, absorbing blood that would otherwise have fallen on the floor, no bloody footprints where the killer had run away.

Sham pulled the white cloth off the table and held it so Kerim could see its pristine condition. “This was covering him when I came in.”

Kerim frowned and touched the cloth without taking it, rubbing it lightly between his fingers. He looked again at the stains on the floor and frowned.

“Someone went to a lot of work to make this murder look odd,” he commented; Shamera didn’t reply.

Finally he pushed himself over the stained floor and touched his half-brother’s face, tipping it up. Shamera’s candle revealed the high-carved cheekbones and the wide, straight nose that both men shared before he gently let the head fall back down.

Silently, Kerim wiped his hands on his thighs, not to clean them but as an outlet for his excess energy. Without looking at her, he spoke. “My brother has been dead for three or possibly four days. This room is cool, so it is hard to be certain.”

“Yes,” agreed Sham without inflection.

“I talked with him this morning.”

“He spoke to me an hour ago,” she replied evenly. “He said that he had something to tell me in private, but Dickon came to fetch me before I went with him.”

“The demon.” Kerim stared at the body without seeing it. There was belief in his tone.

“I think so,” she agreed.

“I thought that it could only take the form that was given to it by its summoner.” His voice was neutral once more: she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

Sham shrugged. “So I was told—apparently wrongly.”

“It could be anyone, then. Taking one person’s shape then another as it chooses.”

She shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know.”

“Come.” He spoke curtly as he wheeled out of the room, ignoring the grating sound of metal on wood as his chair caught the frame a second time. “Shut the panel behind you.”

Back in his room, she waited for him to speak. She had the feeling that he would be pacing if he could. Instead, chained to the chair, he shifted restlessly and stared into the fire.

Abruptly he wheeled back and around, so that he faced her directly. “Magic ... Could you do this? Take the form of someone else?”

Sham swallowed, not finding the Reeve’s impassive face reassuring. “No. Wizards, with very few exceptions, are not capable of doing that. Illusion, yes, but to maintain an illusion of a specific person well enough to fool people who know him, no. My master was once the greatest wizard in Southwood, fourth or fifth most powerful in the world; he could not have done this. Perhaps the Archmage could, but I doubt that he could do it for so long.”

“You think the demon can alter its form?”

“There may be another possibility,” said Sham slowly.

“Tell me.” It was not a request, and she shot him a nasty look.

“Please remember that, despite appearances to the contrary, I am not your mistress,” she snapped.

There was a touch of a smile warming Kerim’s eyes as he restated his order. “I beg you, Lady, please touch these unworthy ears with the alternative explanation.”

Sham rubbed her chin and sighed, murmuring as if to herself, “I suppose that’s good enough.” She cleared her throat and then resumed speaking. “I have never heard that the demons could change their appearance at will. Granted that demonology hasn’t a great part in a wizard’s education, but I would think that such an ability would have made it into the folktales.”

Kerim broke in softly, “Whatever it is that has worn my brother’s appearance sounds like him, moves like him, and uses the same idioms of speech. This morning I spoke to him concerning an incident in our childhood, and he added details I had forgotten.”

“There is always the possibility that the demon is capable of such a thing,” she said, “—but I hope not. The second possibility is not much better. The killer, be he demon or human, might have access to a rare golem—called a simulacrum.” Sham had been speaking Cybellian, but used the Southern words for golem and simulacrum as there was no Cybellian translation.

“What is a golem?” Kerim switched to Southern so smoothly, Sham wondered if he noticed.

“A golem is any nonliving thing animated by magic,” replied Sham in the same language. “Puppets are often used for such purposes as they are well suited to it, but anything will do.”

She glanced around the room and pointed at a hauberk that was carefully laid out on a table. For effect she said dramatically, “Ivek meharr votra, evahncey callenafiardren.”

The chainmail rustled, and the hauberk filled out as if there were a person inside the mail. With a discreet brush of Sham’s magic, it rose to stand on the end links. This hauberk wasn’t the one Kerim had worn the night of the Spirit Tide; its links were heavier, less likely to part under the force of a blow. Over the right shoulder the metal was a slightly different color where it had been repaired.

“Golems are largely useless for anything other than amusement now,” said Sham, making the mail shirt bow once, before it resettled itself on the table with a sound that might have been a sigh of relief. “It is too difficult to create one big or complex enough to do anything useful. For one thing, they don’t have a brain so the wizard has to direct every move.”

Kerim was still looking at the hauberk. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to wear that again.”

She grinned. “That’s what it’s made for. If you don’t use it, you’ll hurt its feelings.”

He gave her a black look, spoiling the effect with the twinkle of laughter in his eyes. “Back to the golem.”

“I told you about the forbidden black arts that have to be used to summon a demon,” continued Sham soberly. “Golems weren’t always so useless. There are several kinds that may be created, if the wizard is willing to resort to black magic.”

“Black magic requires the use of sacrifices,” said Kerim.

“Or human body parts,” she agreed. “When creating golems though, human sacrifice is generally required—sometimes more than one, which is the case of the simulacrum. It can take on the aspect of anyone it slays for a certain period of time. It is my understanding that when not under the direct control of its master the golem functions like the person it has slain would.”

She folded her arms and tapped her biceps with a finger, thinking for a moment. “I seem to remember reading that some wizards created golems for their demons to use when they carried out their master’s pleasures. I believe the purpose was to save the host body—which was much more difficult to create than the golem.”

“I would have sworn that the man I talked to this morning was my brother,” said Kerim softly, some minutes after she finished speaking. “Is it possible that it is the body we found that is not my brother’s, but a careful copy?”

“To what purpose?” responded Sham. “I can think of many reasons for a demon to assume your brother’s shape; but none for anyone to kill someone and make it look like Lord Ven. If you would like, though, I could examine the body more closely.”

Kerim shook his head and turned back to the fire. The light playing across his face revealed the sorrow that lived there. Briefly he closed his eyes.

“You don’t have any idea how to stop it?” He spoke in Cybellian, as if it were easier to hide his emotions in his own tongue.

Sham shook her head. “I’m sorry. I have a word in with the Whisper, but that is the best I can do. Even if I could find a mage who knows anything about demonology, he won’t be anxious to admit to it—it is forbidden magic. Any mage caught using it would be put to death by the wizard’s guild if a mob didn’t find him first. The Shark has a few wizards who work for him upon occasion who might know something, but no one keeps secrets better than a mage.”

“Can you kill the demon once you find it?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

“So,” he said heavily. “We have a creature that we can’t detect, killing people for an unknown reason, and, if by some chance we stumble onto this thing, we don’t know what to do with it.”

“There is this—” she offered hesitantly, “—the demon doesn’t know we are aware Lord Ven is dead.”

“If we hide my brother’s body for a while longer, we might be able to trap it,” agreed the Reeve so readily that Shamera knew he’d already had the same thought. “But what good does that do us if we have no way to kill the demon?”

“I don’t know,” replied Shamera. “I don’t know.”