The Demon King

  Han’s heart stuttered. “You sent the demons,” he whispered. “The ones that killed the Southies.”

  The wizard examined his hands, shimmering with power. “Wizard assassins, actually, cloaked and glamoured up. Hysteria can be a useful tool in forcing a community to give up its own.”

  Why had this wizard gone after Shiv? What could he have done to draw the attention of this monster?

  And then the memory surfaced, like gas bubbling up through a mud pot—that day on Hanalea, the encounter with Micah Bayar when he’d taken the amulet. Bayar had asked Han who he was, and Han had told him, “They call me Shiv, streetlord of Southbridge.”

  It had been a thoughtless throwaway lie. Though some would see it as payback for years of bitter competition for a few nasty city blocks.

  He hadn’t meant it that way, had he?

  Horrified, Han recalled that last meeting with Shiv, the streetlord on his knees offering his allegiance, begging, Call them off.

  Han had walked away from him. And Shiv’s bloody, beaten, tortured body had been found two days later. Now Han knew that it was, after all, his fault—the dead Southies were dead because of his lie.

  Han judged the distance to the back door. There was no way to get there without being fried, same as Taz.

  “Who are you, anyway?” he asked, fighting off a growing suspicion.

  “I’m Gavan Bayar,” the stranger said. “Lord Bayar to you.”

  Bones, Han thought, struggling to keep his face a blank. Not just a wizard, but the High Wizard, the most powerful in the Fells. Father of Micah Bayar.

  “Well,” Han said, swallowing dry spit, “there you go. I’d be a fool to steal something of yours.”

  The wizard nodded. “Exactly. And so I’ve been curious about you, thinking there may be more to you than meets the eye.” Bayar ran his eyes over Han, obviously unimpressed. “The late Mr. Mackney tells me you are—how did he say it—streetlord of the Ragger gang. You’re not a wizard, yet you are apparently able to handle an extremely powerful amulet without harm.” He sighed. “It’s unfortunate that my son chose to experiment with that particular piece.”

  He’s going to kill me, Han thought. Otherwise he wouldn’t be telling me all this.

  “Look,” Han said. “I’m just a street rat. I don’t know anything about magic. I tossed the thing into an alley right after I showed Taz. It kept sparking and I was afraid it would blow me to bits.” Han took two steps toward the door. “I can show you about where it was, if you want.” Once out in the street, he’d have a chance to break away.

  Bayar raised his hand to put a stop to the string of lies. “I’ve already sent the Guard after the amulet. In the meantime, I’ll take you back to the dungeons at Aerie House. I’ll want to know about your connection with the clans, and how much they know about the amulet. Soon it won’t matter, but right now, I’d prefer they know as little as possible about the magical items we have at our disposal. Once I’m satisfied I’ve wrung you out completely, I’ll kill you.” The wizard said it matter-of-factly. “You’ve caused me considerable trouble. I mean to take my time.”

  But Han had fastened on something Bayar had said earlier. “What do you mean, you sent the Guard after the amulet? You sent them where?”

  “Why, to your home. You live over a stable, I believe?” Bayar’s voice dripped contempt.

  Han’s insides turned to water. “It’s not there,” he said. “Call them off. I hid it somewhere else. I can show you.”

  “If you did, I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it,” Bayar said. “Now, my carriage is outside. It would be much more civilized if you came quietly, but I’ll use force if necessary.” Bayar smiled, his face as cold and hard as marble, and Han got the message—Han was nobody, a nothing, and he’d been a fool to go up against someone like Bayar, to steal an amulet from his son. Now he’d pay for it with his family and his life. He’d be whispered about throughout Southbridge and Ragmarket, an example to anyone who might think of crossing the Bayars in the future.

  He’s like every other rich, powerful person, Han thought. He does whatever he likes, makes his own rules, breaks the law whenever it suits him, and never spends a day in gaol. Shiv was dead because of him, and the eight Southies, and no doubt countless others. Shiv had been Han’s enemy, but still. He should count for more than that.

  And now, danger was heading straight for Mam and Mari. He had to get away.

  His knife was still in his hand. He shuffled forward, head down, the picture of surrender. As he passed by Bayar, he turned and plunged the blade into the wizard’s side just beneath the rib cage, ripping up and forward, metal scraping along bone.

  Warm blood welled over his knuckles. Bayar screamed and spun away, wrenching the knife from Han’s hand.

  Han threw himself toward the door. Behind him, Bayar gasped out a charm. Flame coalesced around Han’s shoulders, flowing down both arms, heating the cuffs on his wrists to scorching before dissipating. Once again, the cuffs had seemingly sucked up wizard magic.

  Outside, Han practically collided with a black carriage emblazoned with the emblem of a stooping falcon. Matched black horses snorted and tossed their heads, rolling their eyes.

  Han pounded his way through the market, twisting and turning around stalls and tents, leaping over smaller obstacles, pushing through crowds of people, running for the bridge.

  Southbridge and Ragmarket had never seemed farther apart. It was like one of those dreams when your feet are stuck in mud and you’re trying to run from a monster. Only in this case, there were monsters ahead and behind.

  When he crossed the bridge, he had to dodge around clots of soldiers. Some sort of search seemed to be going on, but they weren’t looking for him, because he was obviously on the run and no one stopped him.

  He was still a mile from Cobble Street when he saw the glow through the darkness ahead, the smudge of orange painting the lowering clouds. He sniffed the air. Something was burning, something big, shooting flames into the air.

  When he reached the end of Cobble Street he saw it—the stable was ablaze, completely engulfed by now. An inferno. The heat had driven the residents to the end of the street, where they stood in unhappy clumps, staring helplessly at the burning building.

  A ring of bluejackets surrounded the stable, keeping potential heroes away. Not that they could have got near it anyway. The heat from the flames scorched Han’s face from where he stood.

  Some of the bystanders had assembled a bucket brigade, pumping water from the Cobble Street well, a remarkable show of organization for that neighborhood. But all they could do was wet down the surrounding buildings to keep the flames from spreading.

  Han grabbed the arm of a gawker. “What happened?”

  “’Twas them—the bloody bluejackets.” He jerked his head at the soldiers guarding the burning stable. “Someone said they be searching for Cuffs Alister, though he an’t been seen around here for weeks. I heard he was dead. Anyways, they said he lived there, and buried his treasure there. They went into the building, searched the place from top to bottom, tossed the other buildings on the square, even dug up the ground. Then set fire to the place. It went up like tinder.”

  Han gripped his arm tighter. “Did the Guard take anyone away? Did anyone get out?”

  The man pulled free, shaking his head. “Didn’t see no one, but I wasn’t here when it started. Don’t know if they was any people in there. You could hear the horses screaming something awful, kicking at the stalls. But even then it was too hot to get to ’em.”

  Han circled around and tried to come at the stable from the rear, but the bluejackets were thick, and he was again driven back by heat and flame. He wet his shirt at the pump and wrapped it around his head, determined to get past them or die trying.

  He was passing the mouth of Butcher’s Alley when someone stepped out in front of him.

  It was Cat, her face smudged in soot, a scorched Ragger scarf knotted around her neck. “It’s no good, Cuffs. Th
ey’re gone. You can’t help them. You’ll just get caught or burned to death yourself.”

  “I don’t care.” Han tried to dodge around her, but somebody grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms and relieving him of his knife.

  “Leave it, mate,” Flinn said over his shoulder.

  His own Raggers turning on him. “Let go of me, Flinn,” he said, struggling to free himself. “If it was your mam and sis, you’d go after them.”

  “I already tried,” Cat said, her voice breaking. She looked frantic, not like herself. “We all did. We even went over the roofs before the fire got too big. I’m so sorry, mate,” she whispered. “So sorry.”

  “I know where they’ll be,” Han said. “I can get to them. I know I can.” Mari would be lying on her pallet next to the hearth. Mam would be with her. Mam was smart. She’d have wrapped wet blankets around them both. They’d be scared, but…

  “I an’t going to let you kill yourself,” Cat said. “Been enough killing tonight.”

  Cat jerked her head toward the back of the alley, and the Raggers hauled him, kicking and protesting, swearing and throwing punches, away from the fire. They dragged him most of the way to the warehouse they used as headquarters before he finally quit struggling. Once there, they stuck him in a corner with Flinn and Jonas watching over him, while Cat and Sarie whispered in the other corner.

  Where’s Velvet? Han wondered distractedly.

  Han shivered and shuddered through the rest of the night, alternately freezing and sweating. He thought it was shock, or rage, or maybe an aftermath of what Gavan Bayar had done to him with his magic; but by morning he realized he’d caught Mari’s fever.

  Let me die, he thought gratefully, giving himself up to it. He was out of his head for a while, hours or days, he wasn’t sure. When he woke, he saw Willo’s face looking down at him with an expression of such sorrow that he found he wanted to make her feel better. She cradled him in her arms and rocked him and fed him willow bark and matriarch’s tea, which was apparently good for summer fever, because it broke soon after.

  Somehow he’d ended up back at Southbridge Temple, in one of the little sleeping rooms that let out onto the courtyard. A week passed before he was able to get up, and by then Flinn reported that the bluejackets had lost interest in the remains of the stable and had moved on to whatever other murders they meant to commit.

  Cat and the Raggers had guarded the site, keeping nearby residents from claiming any spoils. Afraid of what he might find, but no longer worried about who might be watching, Han poked through the rubble of his former home until he found them—two bodies huddled close together amid the ruins of the chimney, one big, one small, too charred to recognize or to tell what had been done to them before they died.

  “The smoke would have put them to sleep, Hunts Alone,” Willo said. She’d scarcely left him alone for a minute these past seven days. “They probably didn’t feel much pain.”

  Probably. Probably. It wasn’t good enough.

  Han found Mam’s locket that was her mother’s, half melted from the heat, and Mari’s charred little book of stories, the one she’d wanted to read to him when he’d been in too big a hurry to listen. He tucked those into his carry bag. In midmorning, Willo walked to the market to buy food for the road. Han took that opportunity to pull the wrapped amulet from its hiding place in the blacksmith’s furnace and drop it into his bag as well. He’d sacrificed too much for the thing to leave it behind.

  Without a second glance at Cobble Street, he walked to Cat’s crib in the warehouse, where he knew she’d be during the day. Sarie and Flinn were playing nicks-and-bones. Sweets and Jonas were teasing a couple of stripey cats with bits of string. Cat’s mandolin leaned against the wall, but no Cat and no Velvet.

  Sarie scrambled to her feet when Han entered, an expectant, guarded look on her face. “Hey,” she said.

  Han didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Where’s Cat?” he asked.

  “Dunno.” she shrugged. “An’t seen her for days. Velvet neither. Thought she was with you maybe,” she said hopefully.

  Han shook his head. “I’ve been sick. Anyway, when Cat comes back, tell her she can have the place in Pilfer Alley.”

  Sarie blinked at him, then took his arm and led him away from the others. “Why? An’t you staying?” she demanded.

  He shrugged. “I’m going away for a while.”

  She searched his face. “But. You’ll need it later, right?”

  He shook his head. “No. I won’t.”

  Her grip on his arm tightened. “You not going to do nothin’ crazy, are you?”

  “Nah.”

  Sarie cleared her throat and stared at the brick wall. “We thought maybe you was going to come back, be streetlord again. With your family gone and all.” She looked at him, then away. “We’d all swear to you, Cuffs.”

  “You have a streetlord. Cat’ll come back.” But Han had an uneasy feeling. Streetlords didn’t live long in Ragmarket. Could the Southies have found her on her own? If there were any Southies left.

  Once again he felt the knife of guilt in his gut. It was like he was the sole survivor of a terrible plague. Why did he deserve to live when everyone around him died?

  He looked up at Sarie, who was still waiting, as if hoping for a different answer. “Cat doesn’t come back, maybe you can be streetlord,” he said. “You want to stay away from me. There’s still wizards hunting for me. I don’t want anybody else to get hurt.”

  Sarie chewed on her lower lip. Han knew she had something to say, but she’d never been very good with words. “Look, Cuffs, I’m real sorry about what happened to your mam and sister,” Sarie said. She untied the rag around her neck and tied it around Han’s. “Anyways. Once a Ragger…you know.”

  There wasn’t much to add to that, so he left.

  Later, Willo found him standing in the rain on South Bridge, looking past Fellsmarch Castle to where Gray Lady brooded, shrouded in mist.

  Willo loaded him onto a horse, and they rode back to Marisa Pines. He climbed onto a sleeping bench in the Matriarch Lodge and slept for three more days.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  SECRETS REVEALED

  Dancer came and sat with him most days, not saying much, just being there. They were brothers in grief, each mourning multiple losses, each an exile of sorts. Dancer, at least, had some grip on the future, even if he wasn’t happy about it. He didn’t have to feel responsible for the death of his family, for ruining his own life.

  Han wanted to blame Bird for discouraging him from following her to Demonai. Maybe if she’d allowed him to come, he wouldn’t have been desperate enough to try to sell the amulet. He wanted to be mad at her, but his heart wasn’t in it, and when she pulled him into her arms, it was a welcome distraction, at least.

  The Demonai would stay until Dancer left, but that time was fast approaching. Then Bird would leave for Demonai. After that, Han saw nothing ahead, nothing to look forward to.

  Willo, who was usually so serene, seemed edgy, almost distraught. Han attributed it to the way Dancer was acting and the prospect of his forced departure for the south. And maybe it was a little about Han’s situation, because she treated him differently than before, almost as if he were fragile—or as if he might explode if she looked at him the wrong way.

  Some days it seemed just possible he might—that the alchemy of pain and rage and guilt and frustration would combust inside him. Mam and Mari had been no threat to Gavan Bayar, or Micah Bayar, or the bloody queen of the Fells.

  Han might fancy himself a powerful streetlord, but in truth, the bit of swag he’d managed to take off the rich was mere crumbs from their table—so little as to be scarcely noticed. For that he’d been beaten in the streets, pitched into gaol, hunted all his life.

  He’d thought Shiv was his enemy. Shiv was just another victim of the queen and the Wizard Council and all the rest. The streetlords spent their time battling each other when they should have been fighting those who had the
real power.

  It would serve them right if he gathered his quiver and bow and blades and climbed Gray Lady to the Bayar compound and showed them what it was like to be hunted.

  He was likely to fail at that, as well. There was no chance he’d get anywhere near his real enemies, the ones that pulled the strings. At most, a few bodyguards and servants would die.

  Willo held long meetings with the elders in the Visitors’ Lodge late at night, which was surprising, because such meetings were usually held in the Matriarch Lodge. Maybe, he thought, they didn’t want him and Dancer to be privy to their deliberations.

  He could stay with Willo and study healing, make a little money as an apprentice, and see Bird now and then when she traveled to Marisa Pines. If, after a year, he wanted to leave, he’d put the money he’d saved toward the warrior school at Oden’s Ford. It was that or back to the streets. Either way he was unlikely to have to worry about growing old.

  Finally, one sultry night when Dancer was within a week of leaving, Willo called a meeting at the Matriarch Lodge.

  Han and Bird came from their hideout by the river, where they’d spent the afternoon before sluicing off the hot stickiness of the day. He’d pulled on clan leggings Willo had made for him and a summer shirt of cotton. Bird had left off her warrior garb for once. She wore an embroidered deerskin vest with no shirt underneath and full trader skirts. She’d laced a beaded anklet Han had given her around her right ankle, and Han couldn’t help staring at her tanned and muscled legs as they flashed beneath her brightly colored skirts. He looked down at himself, wondering if she noticed him the way he noticed her.

  When Han and Bird entered the lodge, he was surprised to see it was packed full of people, many of them unfamiliar. The clans were great for holding councils. He and Bird found a seat on a bench by the door and sat, hands clasped, hips squeezed tightly together. Han was pleased she chose to sit with him rather than huddle next to the fire with the other Demonai warriors.