“I don’t actually know,” said Pen, glad he could answer, or not-answer, that question honestly. “Wherever the Grayjays usually take dangerous suspects in Easthome.” Not that Hamo couldn’t find out, but anything to slow him down…
As Hamo’s tight-lipped silence thickened with menace, Pen went hastily on, “He’s not going anywhere. Can’t. His back is broken, and both his hands. If your heart wishes him pain, I promise you he has it. If you wish him dead, well, the magistrates of Easthome will accomplish that task for you as well. Magal’s family and friends may not even have to endure his trial, if they decide to execute him for the murder of his wife, for which he’s already convicted. The wheels of justice will grind him fine, and soon.” Pen hesitated. “No need to… compromise yourself.”
Hamo looked up, the peculiar list of injuries perhaps penetrating whatever red haze his mind was lost in. His voice rough, he asked, “Are you compromised, Penric?”
“Mm…” Pen shrugged. “Possibly a little. Oswyl seemed to think that the fact I injured Halber in the course of his resisting arrest would pass unquestioned. That it was by… more-than-physical means might not, if it were looked into by a hostile inquiry. I’ve never done anything like this before. Well, there was that time with the kin Martenden brothers, but I only set them on fire—never mind,” Pen ran down before his mouth did him more harm than good.
Hamo unclenched his teeth. “Should anyone ask,” and now his voice went soft, which was somehow not less alarming, “you may say you acted under my authority, Learned Penric.”
“Thank you,” said Pen. He was fairly sure the princess-archdivine’s cloak would cover him, but more layers wouldn’t hurt, and it gave Hamo a straw of usefulness to clutch. Useful to us, at least, Des murmured, a trifle sardonically. Time for the next diversion: “And also, with welcome help from some shamans Inglis brought from the Royal Fellowship, we located Magal’s lost demon. It was indeed in a fox.”
Hamo sat up, his tension thinning like slate-gray clouds shredding in a wind. Des’s attention upon her internal counterpart eased. “Oh! You took it alive? Is it here? What condition—”
“It turned out to have lodged in a vixen with six cubs, which had some strange consequences.”
“It is ascended, surely.”
“Well, yes, but in an odd mode. It seems to be, I’m not sure how to put it, taking care of the vixen. And her children.”
Hamo sat back, nonplussed, but then after a moment sighed. “That would be Magal, I suspect. It sounds like her. Svedra was a woman more in the style of your Ruchia. Very… forceful.”
Pen wondered what less flattering term Hamo had swallowed. Des snickered at him, or possibly at them both.
“I have some ideas of what might be done with her,” Pen put forward. “The vixen, that is. Uh, and the demon.” Or he would, when he’d had a chance to sleep and recover. Hamo could take this burden of care from him with a word, Pen knew. Half of him was almost weary enough to let him, but… “Yesterday, you said you were thinking on it?”
Hamo scrubbed his hands through his hair, grimacing. “There are only two choices. First, have the Saint of Easthome remove the damaged demon to the god.”
Of course the Bastard’s Order at the royal capital would have its own saint at hand. Although not, probably, at call, from what Pen had experienced of saints. Such directly god-touched men and women did not owe their primary allegiances to the Temple, after all. Des flinched.
“Or second,” Hamo went on, “sacrifice the fox and transfer whatever is left of the demon to a new Temple sorcerer. Salvaging… something.”
“Do you really think it would be that much different than when an elemental is transferred for the first time from an animal to a sorcerer?”
“I am quite sure it would be different. What I don’t know is how dangerous it might be to the recipient to take in such a crippled partner.”
Pen almost rose to the defense of the vixen by arguing that Hamo wouldn’t be talking of sacrifice if the demon had gone into some random person. But of course, if it had gone into a person, they’d be able to speak for themselves, human and demon both. Gods, he was too tired to think straight. “There’s a third choice. Leave the vixen with the shamans for a while, let them tame her.”
Hamo sat back, startled. “What would be the point of that? They cannot use her demon-spirit for the basis of a Great Beast; the two magics are incompatible. And the longer we wait, the worse the demon’s condition may grow. The more of Mags and Svedra to be lost.”
“Or what was lost, was lost at the first. Like pouring water into a cup until it overflows, which then remains as full as it can hold. The point is to study a rare situation, at least for a little. The point is, there is time to think about it. The vixen is probably not going anywhere till the cubs are weaned, some weeks at least.” Unless the ascendant demon was directly threatened with annihilation. When it surely would try to save itself, and then they’d have a real problem. Well… another real problem.
Hamo hesitated. “Did you sense it to be so?”
“I’ve only observed the vixen briefly. It would take more time than that to perceive ongoing changes.” He carefully did not say deterioration. Not that he had to.
“Fine if she’s stabilized. Not if she hasn’t.”
Pen shrugged in provisional concession. “You should certainly come out to the Fellowship’s menagerie and examine her carefully, before making any irrevocable decisions.”
Lips twisting in bemusement, Hamo said, “Penric—are you trying to preserve the life of a fox?”
“Magal’s demon seems to be doing so,” Pen defended this. Weakly, he feared.
Hamo rubbed his eyes. “Feh. I can’t… Let us take this up again out there, then. Tomorrow.”
“Good idea, sir.” At least the man was not dismissing Penric’s words outright. Time for a tactful withdrawal, before he fell off this chair onto that lovely, inviting floor.
Hamo stood up to see him out, another hopeful sign. At the door, he lowered his head and murmured, “I would never have compromised my demon, you know. …I’d have used my bare hands. Or a knife.”
Pen couldn’t very well feign being appalled when he’d run through similar thought-chains himself. “Not needed now.” He mustered a sympathetic smile and signed himself, tapping his lips twice with his thumb in farewell.
* * *
It was midnight by the time Pen made his weary way back to the Temple guest house. He was trying to mentally compose a note to slip under the princess-archdivine’s door, excusing himself from appearing due to the lateness of the hour, when he discovered a paper pinned to his own. It was in her secretary’s fine hand, and charged him to call on her before he retired regardless of the time.
He threaded the halls to her chambers and tapped tentatively, waited, and knocked again. He was just turning away when the door swung open, and the secretary beckoned him inside the sitting room. “Ah, Learned Penric, at last. Wait here.”
He stood dumbly in his day dirt, feeling every bruise and muscle-pull. At length, Llewyn emerged from an inner door, wrapped in a brocade night robe and with her hair in a gray braid down her back. Not an ensemble he’d seen before.
She looked him over. “My, my, my.”
Three mys tonight, goodness. He usually rated only two. He wondered what he’d have to do to win four.
“My apologies, Archdivine, for waking you at this hour. It’s been a long day.”
“At my age, I’m never asleep at this hour.” She made a dismissive gesture, charitably fending his apology. Her secretary settled her in a cushioned chair, and her wave directed Pen to another.
Fine blue-and-white silk stripes. He stared at it in dismay, considered his reek, and then settled himself cross-legged on the floor at her feet, instead. Her gray brows rose ironically as she looked down at him.
“So, how was your day in the country this time?”
He was grateful for the practice he’d had recounting it already.
He didn’t have to think as much. She pressed her fingers to her lips a few times, but did not interrupt him apart from a few shrewd, uncomfortably clarifying questions.
“I thought… I thought I might receive some spiritual guidance from Learned Hamo, as we both share the burden and gift of a demon, but it turned out to be more the other way around,” sighed Pen. “Though I don’t think he’s going to bolt off in the night to try to commit murder on Learned Magal’s behalf.”
“Was that a risk?”
“Mm… not now.”
Her lips twitched. “Then your counsel must have been good enough.”
He turned his hands out, smiling ruefully. He really wanted to lie across her silk-slippered feet like a tired dog. “But who will counsel me?”
“Your own Temple superior, of course. That’s her job.”
“Ah.” His head tipped over, and he found himself resting it upon her knee. Her beringed hand petted his hair. Dog indeed.
“Anyone who wishes to question my court sorcerer on his actions today must go through me,” she stated. And good luck to them stood implied, he thought. Heartening, but…
“So much for the realm, and the law. But what about my god? And my demon. My soul stands more naked in that court. Violence, it appears, grows easier with practice. Or so Halber demonstrates. I’ve seen it in the ruined mercenary soldiers come back to the cantons, too, sometimes. The pitfall of their trade. I don’t want it to become the pitfall of mine. And… and I see how it could. So very, very easily. Hamo was almost ready to slip tonight, and he’s had decades more experience than me.”
“And thus you seek my counsel?”
“Aye. Archdivine.”
Her slow strokes turned into more perfunctory pats, as she sat up and took thought, and then breath. “So. My counsel to you tonight—as your Temple superior, my oh-so-learned divine and demon-burdened boy—is to go downstairs to the guesthouse bathing chamber, wake the attendant, get a bath—wash your hair”—her fingers paused to rub together in mild revulsion—“get something to eat, and go to bed.” She added after a moment, “Desdemona shall like that, too.”
Pen glowered at her slippers. “That’s not my Temple superior, that’s my mother.”
“And if she were here, I have no doubt she would tell you the same thing,” she said briskly, pushing him upright off her knee despite himself. “Shoo.”
“That’s all?”
“Clean your teeth, I suppose. Though you usually do that without being told. Your soul will keep for one night, I promise you, and your body and mind will be better tomorrow.”
He and Des snorted in unison, this time: he at Llewyn, Des at him. “Agh.” He stretched, and clambered up; he had to balance on his hands and knees before he could rise to his feet. Des had made no interrupting comment throughout this interview. There weren’t many people his demon much respected, but Princess-Archdivine Llewyn kin Stagthorne was high on that short list. It seemed the feeling was growing mutual.
He commanded over his shoulder as he made for the door, “You go to sleep, too, Your Grace.”
She smiled wryly at him. “Oh, I shall be able to now.”
* * *
Pen heaved himself out of bed the next morning thinking the princess-archdivine might have been overly optimistic about how much recovery one night’s sleep would provide him. He contemplated the walk all the way down across town and out to the Fellowship, not to mention back up again, and ordered a horse brought around from the Temple mews, instead. It proved another slug, suiting his mood perfectly as he sat atop it in a daze while it ferried him to his destination. By the time he arrived at the palisade and gate of the shamanic menagerie, he had come awake, helped by a cool, moist wind up the valley of the Stork that promised rain.
He handed off his mount to a helpful groom, then found his way to the fox family’s stall in the shorter stable block that overlooked the menagerie yard. Lunet was in attendance, he was pleased to discover, sitting on a stool under the broad eaves and looking none the worse for yesterday’s wear. She greeted him with good cheer.
Pen asked anxiously, “Does the family seem well, after their forcible relocation?”
“Quite well; take a look.”
They both leaned on the lower door and peered into the straw-lined stall. The vixen was laid out looking placid enough, nursing two cubs while three slept curled in a furry mound, and the last tried to stir up trouble by gnawing on what parts of its siblings it could reach. The vixen lifted her head warily at Pen, but laid it back down with a tired maternal sigh. The shamaness, it seemed, worried her not at all.
“The cubs are happy enough, if rambunctious,” Lunet told him. “We’ll need to let them out for exercise, when we’re sure, ah, their mother is settled.”
Meaning the vixen, or the demon? The demon was ascendant, there could be no doubt, rider not ridden, if letting the vixen have her way with her family. It wasn’t the fox who was dealing so smoothly with their human captors.
Des, thought Pen, can you discern any change since yesterday in the demon?
The vixen—no, the demon lifted the vixen’s head again as she felt her fellow-demon’s uncanny regard, but she tolerated the inspection. That much of her Temple tameness lingered, at least. A hopeful sign?
No new loss since yesterday, Desdemona allowed, in her density. Calmer, which is good.
It could be too early to tell. Pen wanted to be able to declare her stabilized, and Des knew why, but he also needed the claim to be true.
Hamo and his lad will be able to judge for themselves, if he gives it some time.
His lad? Oh, Hamo’s own demon. Younger than you, is he?
Most demons are. Hamo is only his second human rider; he was a mere elemental not long before that. She added a bit grudgingly, Hamo seems to have been good for him. He has developed quite well. That one could be ready for a physician in one more well-chosen lifetime.
Always the golden prize, much the way a Great Beast suitable to make a shaman was the goal of the shamans’ own carefully reiterated sacrifices. That might make a career for the cubs. The shamans preferred long-lived beasts, to build up spiritual strength and wisdom, so they would certainly prosper better in such care than in the wild, where half the litter would not survive their first year.
Voices carrying through the damp air pulled Pen from his meditations, and he turned to discover Learned Hamo rounding the stable block, accompanied, a bit to his surprise, by Oswyl and his shadow Thala. Oswyl must have gone to exchange reports as promised with Hamo this morning, though Pen rather thought it was curiosity, not duty, that brought him along here.
Oswyl nodded at the shamaness Lunet, who waved back in her usual friendly manner, and punctiliously introduced her to the bailiff of sorcerers.
“I thank you for your hard work yesterday,” said Hamo to Lunet, trying to return the civility, but his gaze was drawn inexorably to the stall. “Can I… may I go in?”
Lunet pursed her lips. “Of course, Learned, though we are trying not to disturb the mother fox too much.” The hint being that Hamo should withdraw promptly if he did. He nodded understanding, and Lunet drew open the lower door, closing it after him.
The vixen looked up abruptly, then rose and shook off her cubs, who complained and retreated from the human. But her posture did not speak of defense. Hamo fell to his knees before her, then sat cross-legged in the straw. She came to him without fear. Hamo was, Pen realized belatedly, the first person the demon-vixen could recognize.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Without speech, but not without understanding, because Hamo placed his hand out flat to the floor and whispered, “I am so sorry for your loss.”
Oh. Of course. Of course. Because Learned Magal had lost her demon, but the demon had also lost her Mags. Did demons mourn?
Oh, yes, breathed Des. It is not something we come into the world knowing, as elementals. But we learn. Oh, how we learn.
Pen’s stomach fluttered in a flash of formless,
unanchored grief. Not his own. He had to inhale and exhale carefully.
The vixen placed one black paw atop the man’s outstretched hand. Pen needed neither hearing nor Sight to interpret this language: I am sorry for your loss as well.
Hamo turned his head to his watchers only long enough to murmur, “She’s in there. Something of her is definitely still in there.” Then all his attention returned to the animal.
Lunet jerked her chin, and muttered, “They’ll be all right. Let’s leave them for a little.” She, too, felt the sense of intrusion on some painfully private communion, Pen fancied.
In the gray morning light, the four of them went over to the mounting blocks where Pen had first seen the shamans… only yesterday? He, for one, sat with a grunt of relief.
Oswyl looked down at his hands clasped between his knees, and asked, “Do you think he loved her? Hamo and Magal.”
Pen made a releasing gesture. “Clearly so, but if you mean a love of the bedchamber, likely not. It would be vanishingly rare for two sorcerers to be so physically intimate. But there are other loves just as profound. Delighting in her as a protégé, hoping for her bright future, all of that. And the future of her demon. Think of two rival artists, perhaps, admiring each other’s work. The survivor mourning not just what was, but what could have been.”
“Hm.”
Thala listened with a thoughtful frown, but for once jotted no notes.
“How of yourselves?” asked Pen. “Did all go well last night, delivering Halber to his fate?” Now doubly earned, and Pen was not above hoping it would prove doubly ill.
Oswyl nodded. “He’s in a cell, and in the hands of the justiciars. I doubt he’ll be escaping on a fast horse this time around.”
“Reports to your superiors go smoothly?” asked Pen, thinking of his own fraught night.
Oswyl actually grinned. Slyly, but still. Pen’s brows rose in question.
“I arrived to find them anxious to tell me that my case was to be taken from me and given to a much more senior inquirer, on account of the kin Pikepool connections cropping up. I had to tell them they were too late off the mark.”