The Demon King Read online

  “Apparently they are being redecorated and are, for the present, uninhabitable.” Her father had his trader face on, signaling that now was not the time for this discussion.

  But Raisa couldn’t help herself. “Then they should make somebody else leave,” she said. “This is unacceptable. I’m going to speak with Mother as soon as I . . .”

  “I will speak to Queen Marianna on my own behalf, daughter,” Averill said. “Give me some credit, will you? I am a trader, after all.” And he smiled, looking into her eyes. “Briar Rose. Your mother needs to get used to having me home again.”

  He knows more than he’s saying, she thought. My father was never a fool.

  “All right,” Raisa said, nodding and forcing a smile of her own. “But any time you need a place to stay within the keep, you can stay with me. And come to supper tomorrow night.”

  She embraced her father, reluctant to let him go after his long absence.

  She glanced over at Amon, who shifted his weight, looking eager to be on his way. “I guess that’s it for now,” she said.

  “Corporal Byrne will let you know when I have more, um, things to go to market.

  They turned toward the door, but before they could reach it, somebody barreled through. It was a young man, Raisa’s age, or a little older, with muddy red-brown hair, dressed in clan leggings and shirt.

  “Jemson! Three of the Raggers have been nabbed by the bluejackets. Seems they mean to make an example of . . .” His voice trailed off when he saw the people gathered in the room. “Oh. Sorry, sir. I didn’t know you had company.”

  His eyes flicked to Averill, then Amon, and widened in alarm.

  He recognizes them, Raisa thought.

  “Let’s discuss this later, Hanson,” Jemson said quickly, jerking his head toward the door.

  Hanson began backing from the room, but Amon said, “Wait! What’s that about Raggers?”

  The boy blinked at him, blank-faced. “Raggers? I didn’t say nothing about Raggers.”

  “Yes, you did,” Amon said, walking purposefully toward Hanson. “Have we met? You look familiar.”

  “Ah, no,” the boy said. “Not likely.” He was tall, nearly as tall as Amon, though more slender in build, with brilliant blue eyes. His face bore evidence of a recent beating. His right eye was blackened and there was a blue-and-yellow bruise over one cheekbone. His right forearm was splinted, but he didn’t favor it. He seemed to be trying to keep his face turned away from them, as if he were embarrassed by his injuries.

  This must be one of Jemson’s students, Raisa thought with a rush of sympathy.

  “What happened to you?” she asked, moving closer so she could examine his face at close range. She touched his arm. “Who did this?”

  Hanson flushed. “Wasn’t nothing. Just . . . my da. Gets mean sometimes when he’s in his cups.”

  Just then Amon’s hand snaked forward. He gripped the boy’s splinted arm and raked back his sleeve, exposing a wide silver cuff. “So, Hanson,” he said. “I think we have met after all. You ever go by the name Cuffs?” he said.

  Cuffs? Raisa looked from Amon to the other boy. Wasn’t that the gang leader who’d killed all those people?

  Then it seemed like everything happened at once. The boy slammed his free fist into Amon’s face and twisted away with the ease of long practice. Amon drew his sword and stepped between the boy and the door, yelling for the other cadets. And then the boy called Cuffs grabbed hold of Raisa, drawing her back tight against him. She felt the prick of a blade at her throat and tried hard not to swallow.

  “Hanson, no!” Speaker Jemson shouted, pale with horror.

  “Now then,” Cuffs said, close to her ear. “Back off or I cut the girlie’s throat.” His voice shook a little—with fear or nerves or excitement, Raisa couldn’t tell.

  Raisa thought of the six, dead in the street. Tortured, they’d said. Done by this pretty blue-eyed boy holding the knife.

  “Please,” Jemson pleaded. “In the name of the Maker, let her go. You don’t know who—”

  “No.” Averill raised a hand to shush the speaker, his eyes fixed on Raisa. He wouldn’t want Cuffs to know who it was he held captive. “Listen,” he said to the boy, “perhaps we can make some kind of trade.”

  “Here’s a trade,” Amon said, stepping away from the door. “Let her go and leave, and you’ll stay alive.”

  “With all you bluejackets snapping at my heels?” Cuffs snorted. “I’d not make it far as the bridge.”

  Amon’s face had gone stony hard, his gray eyes like chips of granite. “If you hurt her, I swear on Hanalea’s blood and bones you’ll regret it.”

  By now the other Gray Wolves had arrived and were clustered in the doorway, gawking.

  “You, there,” Cuffs said to the new arrivals. “Get over with the others.”

  “Do as he says,” Amon ordered.

  As the cadets shuffled to the back of the study, Raisa could hear the Ragger’s heart thumping against her back, feel his breath hot on her neck. He kept adjusting his grip on the knife as if he was nervous.

  Don’t startle him, Raisa thought, looking from Amon to Averill to Jemson, sending messages with her eyes.

  “I don’t mean to hurt anyone,” Cuffs said. “Just don’t mean to go to gaol and be tortured into admitting something I didn’t do.”

  Raisa stiffened, and the boy’s grip on her tightened. “The Queen’s Guard doesn’t torture anybody,” she blurted. “You’ll receive a fair trial. If you’re innocent—if you really didn’t murder all those people—you can clear your name.”

  The boy laughed softly. “Ah, girlie,” he said. “Would that was true. There’s lots that go into gaol and are never seen again.”

  Raisa felt stupid and naive. What was it that Amon had said? If I was being dragged back to the guardhouse for interrogation by Mac Gillen, I’d do whatever it took to escape too.

  Cuffs wrapped an arm around Raisa’s middle and dragged her past the others to the door of the study.

  “Your keys, sir,” Cuffs said to Jemson. He was polite, well spoken, like the gentleman thief from the stories. “Hand them to the girlie.”

  He has a trader face, Raisa thought. He puts it on at need.

  “Hanson,” Speaker Jemson said. “This is a mistake. You know it is. You’re better than this. Let the girl go.”

  Cuffs shook his head stubbornly. “I been in gaol. Not going back.”

  Despite everything, Raisa couldn’t help wondering, what was the relationship between Speaker Jemson and this streetlord? Jemson seemed to know him, seemed to believe in him, for some reason. Maybe Hanson/Cuffs had fooled him, though the speaker didn’t come off as gullible.

  Jemson dug in his pockets, fetched out a ring of keys, and passed them to Raisa while Cuffs kept her pinned tightly to him, her head locked under his chin, his knife in the ready position. Sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades, dampening her linen blouse.

  “Please,” Jemson said again. “Don’t do this. There’s another way.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the boy said, and he did sound sorry. “If there’s another way, I don’t see it.”

  Cuffs backed out through the doorway, dragging Raisa with him. “Now. Pull the door shut behind us and lock it,” he said, as if they were coconspirators. “That’ll slow them down a bit. Then give me the keys and we’ll be off.”

  “No!” Amon shouted. “Leave the girl here. Take me instead.”

  Cuffs looked from Raisa to Amon and shook his head, grinning. “Nuh-uh. I’m guessing she’ll be less trouble. And she’s prettier, besides.”

  Trader face, Raisa thought.

  Amon’s expression promised death, for a start. “I should have let Gillen beat you to death,” he said. “What I get for being a bleeding—”

  “Mercy is never unbecoming, mate,” Cuffs said. He pointed at the door with the tip of his knife. “Go on, girlie. Do as I said. We haven’t got all day.”

  Raisa complied, pulling the doo
r shut and locking it, her hands shaking so much she could scarcely fit the key into the keyhole. It was a stout wooden door to a windowless room built like a fortress. Behind the door, she could hear faint shouts and cries for help, followed by a muffled thud of bodies against wood.

  Cuffs was right. It would slow them down for sure. The dedicates were fast asleep across the courtyard. It was unlikely anyone would hear them until morning filled the corridors again. A lot could happen before morning Cuffs gripped her wrist hard and tugged her down the corridor, toward the door.

  “Leave . . . me . . . be!” she shouted, trying to set her heels on the stone floor, then collapsing into a heap.

  Swearing under his breath, Cuffs stowed away his knife and slid his hands under her, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of turnips. He was surprisingly strong. “Now be quiet,” he muttered. “Don’t make me do something I don’t want to do.”

  He obviously meant to take her someplace and torture her, as he had the others. Raisa groped at her waist, found the hilt of her knife, and yanked it free. Could she really stick it into him? Gripping the hilt with both hands, she aimed for the center of his back, closed her eyes, and went to drive it home.

  Instead she found herself flat on her back on the floor, seeing stars from slamming her head on the slate. He’d unceremoniously dumped her. Cuffs seized her wrist and took the knife from her. “Next time you go to stab someone, do it quick,” he advised her. “Don’t study on it so long.”

  He expertly patted her down, running his hands over her bodice, down her sides and back, and up and down her legs, even pulling off her lace cap, looking for other weapons. Although he was businesslike about it, the blood rushed to her face at the touch of the streetlord’s hands.

  He was good at it, and very quick, his hands deft and sure. He found Elena’s ring, with its circling wolves, on the chain around her neck, but didn’t take it. And the little velvet purse, heavy with coins, she’d tucked into her bodice. He weighed the purse in his hand, then handed it back to her. She blinked at him, surprised.

  He then hauled her to her feet, handed back her cap, dusted her off with mock chivalry, and finished with a rude pat to her behind.

  Despite the grim situation, there was something about him, a kind of wild untamed humor and bravado and dogged stubbornness that tugged at her. He expects nothing, she thought, because he’s never had anything. And nothing was expected of him. He was free in a way she never would be.

  You’re a fool and a romantic, she thought. A worse fool than Missy. And you’ll likely end up ravished or dead at the hands of a street thug.

  He looked her up and down speculatively, as if devising a plan of attack. “You’re not heavy,” he said. “But you are bloody awkward to carry.”

  She extended her purse toward him. “Take my purse. But leave me here.”

  “I don’t want your purse,” he said, scowling. The words hung between them.

  Well, if he didn’t want her purse . . . Raisa swallowed hard. One thing she knew—there was more chance of escape if she were on her own two feet.

  “I can walk,” she muttered, trying to recover some dignity.

  “Right, but can you run?” he asked, grabbing her wrist and yanking her out the temple door. A moment later they were racing through the rain across South Bridge toward Ragmarket. Halfway across, he dropped the ring of keys into the river.

  Once on the Ragmarket side, he led her off the Way, onto a side street. They turned again, into an alley, and he pulled a large handkerchief out of his pocket and tied it over her eyes.

  “You always carry blindfolds, do you?” she said, trying to keep a quaver out of her voice. For once he didn’t reply, but took her hand and led her forward.

  You’ll never get away with this, she thought of saying. But it seemed likely that he would, whatever “this” was.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Raggers

  Han couldn’t say what possessed him to take the girlie along. She was inconvenient and uncooperative. She only slowed him down, not to mention trying to stick him with her fancy knife. No doubt he’d have been across South Bridge and into the safety of Ragmarket sooner without her. With any luck, Jemson and the others wouldn’t be freed from the study until morning, so he didn’t really need a hostage. And now he had the problem of what to do with her.

  At least she wasn’t actively fighting him anymore, but trotted obediently beside him as he led her deeper into Ragmarket, twisting down streets and alleys so she’d never find her way back on her own. He found his way by the map in his head. It was dead dark away from the main street, so it wouldn’t have done the girlie much good to have the blindfold off. Still, he could tell from the way she cocked her head and counted under her breath at each turning that she was trying to keep track. She’d be looking for another chance to escape.

  There was something about the girl that intrigued him. She was dressed like a blueblood servant in overlarge clothes, carried a heavy purse, and had the manners of a duchess. So sure of herself. Entitled, even.

  Where does that come from, he wondered. The idea that you deserve to take more than your share from the world?

  The Queen’s Guard doesn’t torture anybody, she’d proclaimed, like she was some kind of expert. You’ll receive a fair trial.

  Sorry, girlie, he thought. I’m the expert on that, and I’m not buying what you’re selling.

  He pondered what he knew about her. She’d been closeted up with Jemson and a clan trader who might be Averill Lightfoot Demonai, Patriarch of Demonai Camp. It had been three years since he’d seen him—Han’s visits to Marisa Pines had been sporadic these last three years on the streets, and Lord Demonai rarely visited Marisa Pines. But his wasn’t a face you forgot.

  That tall, dark, intense boy—the one who’d recognized him—he was that Corporal Byrne who’d been with the bluejackets that had grabbed him outside The Keg and Crown. Plus there were those other baby bluejackets who’d come running when Byrne had called. What were they all doing there, out of uniform? Jemson wasn’t in the habit of entertaining the Guard.

  ’Course, it could be just his usual bad luck. That, at least, was consistent.

  Corporal Byrne—was he the girlie’s sweetheart? He’d guess so, the way he’d acted. Han had another thought: maybe they’d come there to be married, with his mates as witnesses. The speakers did marriages all the time.

  Han pushed that idea away. He didn’t like it.

  The girlie was beginning to wear out—breathing hard, lagging behind so he had to tug her along. He needed a place to hide for a little while. He felt cut loose and vulnerable, having lost the shelter of the temple. He’d probably ruined whatever chance he had of solving the mystery of the murders.

  “Here.” He pulled her into an alley, then turned down a passageway between two buildings that was so narrow they had to slide through sideways. It ended in a small brick-paved courtyard, half-roofed against the rain. Up against one of the buildings was a set of wooden cellar doors, set into a stone pad, and secured by a sturdy-looking padlock.

  Han had it open in a heartbeat. It pleased him to know he was still a deft gilt with a pick.

  The hinges protested as he pulled the doors open, and a rush of dank cellar air swept over him. Didn’t look like anyone had been there since he’d left the life. He led the girlie to the steps. “It’s a dozen steps down.” He took her elbow so she wouldn’t fall. “Feel with your foot.”

  She hesitated on the edge. “Please,” she said, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders. “Have mercy. Just kill me now. I’ve not done anything to you.”

  “I’m not going to kill you,” Han blurted out, surprised.

  “I don’t want to be tortured. Or ravished.”

  “I’m not going to torture you,” Han said desperately. “Or . . . or anything. I’m cold and wet and tired, and I just want to quit walking for a while, all right?”

  “I don’t want to go down there,” she persisted, shudder
ing. “Please don’t make me.”

  “Look.” He reached over and untied her blindfold, then pulled it off. “Here we are.” He smiled at her, his best, most charming smile. “This is . . . kind of a hideout. I promise you, it’s more comfortable than it is out here in the rain. And I’m coming down with you.”

  “That is not reassuring, Mr.... Cuffs,” she said, with some of her old spirit.

  “Look, what’s your name?” he asked.

  “R . . . Rebecca Morley,” she said, trembling, teeth chattering from either cold or fear.

  “Rebecca, I can’t turn you loose in Ragmarket in the middle of the night,” he said. “Hang on. I’ll light a lantern, but you have to promise not to take off on me.”

  “Hold it over the steps to light my way down,” she commanded, then added as an afterthought, “Please?”

  She descended the steps with great dignity, head high, like a saint walking into the flames. He followed after her, setting the lantern in the center of the room and pulling the cellar doors closed after them.

  It was really quite cozy, for a cellar. No golden thrones or heaps of jewels and coins or captive women, as Dori had imagined, but there were three sleeping cots and blankets and a stout wooden chest that contained spare clothing and candles and several jars of dried beans, jam, biscuits, sugar, and grain. The grain had gone moldy, but the rest looked all right.

  Even better, this cellar had a back door, a narrow staircase into the warehouse beyond. Han always liked having a back door.

  “So this is your hideout?” Rebecca said, looking disappointed. She seemed rather the worse for wear—like a street waif gone wrong. The hair that had been tucked under the cap had come down and hung in long wet strands around her shoulders. Green eyes shone out from an olive-skinned face suggesting a mixture of bloods: clan and Vale, maybe. A lush, kissable mouth was centered over a stubborn chin. Her long skirts were smeared with mud all around the hemline, and her blouse appeared to be soaked through.

  But when she turned her head—in profile—she looked somehow familiar. Perhaps he’d seen her at the markets, or ...