“You’ve been to see that redheaded girl again, haven’t you?” asked Chappie. “I can smell her on you. And you always sound so much more eloquent after you’ve been hanging around her. I keep hoping some of her courtesy and refinement will rub off on you. Have you had her yet?”
“Chappie!”
“Well, why not? You both want to—I can smell it. In fact, you are practically leaving a trail of musk behind you.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“God, I’m glad I’m not a human,” said the dog. “When I’m hungry, I eat. When I need to take a dump, I do. And when I’m feeling randy—”
“I know what you do then,” interrupted Chance. “And I really wish you wouldn’t. I don’t want to discuss this any further. Tiffany will be joining us later, as part of our investigations into the Inverted Cathedral, and I don’t want you discussing things then, either. Is that clear?”
The dog sniggered all the way to the main courtyard.
It was packed, as always; a great milling crowd that stretched from wall to wall. They were mostly peasants, come from all across the Land to worship at the Shaman’s feet, and listen wide-eyed to his teachings on the perfidy of monarchs, or more importantly, the radical concept of peasants’ rights. They’d erected simple tents and lean-tos all over the place, each with its own cooking fire, and its own plume of noxious black smoke. Since they’d been forbidden to cut firewood, they were burning manure. There were designated latrines everywhere, so there was never any shortage. The King had never tried sending the peasants away, because he knew they wouldn’t go, and he didn’t want a bloodbath in his own Castle, which would have been the inevitable result of any attempt to remove them by force. So the peasants stayed, along with their families and any amount of assorted animals. There were traders and peddlers, too, and knife-grinders, clowns, and conjurers, all competing for the limited money the peasants had brought with them. And, of course, there was the Shaman.
He lived in his own simple tent, no better than any of the others, in one far corner of the courtyard. There was an area of open space around his tent, partly out of respect, but mostly because the Shaman didn’t like people getting too close to him, and wasn’t above throwing things at people if they bothered him. He was standing impatiently before his tent as Chance and Chappie slowly made their way through the heavy crowd. The massed heat and smell of so many people and animals crammed together was almost overpowering. Chance tried breathing through his mouth, but it didn’t help. The peasants glared suspiciously at the Questor. They would have liked to give the Royal lackey a hard time, but one look at the huge axe he bore and the large dog at his side was enough to give them pause, and every peasant decided quite sensibly to let some other poor fool start something.
The Shaman had been a hermit, living alone in the Forest for many years, and it showed. A scrawny figure dressed in filthy rags, he’d painted his face entirely with blue woad, overlaid with a stylized skull in white clay. He had a huge mane of bristling gray hair and an equally large gray beard, both of them knotted and tangled beyond any hope of redemption. What could be seen of his mouth was usually stretched in a mirthless grin, and his eyes were unsettlingly bright, like a man possessed of disturbing and unsuspected truths. His fingernails were long and pointed, almost claws, and utterly filthy. When he moved, his actions were swift and jerky, animallike. The animals who shared the courtyard with the peasants, whether as food or companions, were all strangely attracted to the Shaman, and often he seemed more at ease in their company than among the teeming humans.
He had magic. Everyone knew that.
The Shaman nodded briefly to Chance and Chappie as they finally came to a halt before him. Those peasants nearest enough crept forward to eavesdrop on whatever pearls of wisdom might drop from the Shaman’s chalky lips. His response was to scoop up handfuls of animal droppings from the ground and throw them at the peasants until they retreated to a respectful distance. Chance decided immediately that he wasn’t going to shake hands with the Shaman. Despite himself, he wrinkled his nose at the stench coming off the old man. Up close it really was quite appalling. Even the omnipresent flies didn’t want to get anywhere near it.
The Shaman turned back from chasing off the peasants, breathing heavily, and Chance made himself produce a polite smile. He might not like or approve of the Shaman, but as Questor it was his job to listen to all sides of an argument, and to anyone with cause to complain. He felt a pressure against his leg and hip, and found Chappie had pressed in close beside him, his tail tucked tightly between his legs. Chappie had never liked the Shaman. He found the man’s animal presence disturbing, even as he felt the attraction that called to other animals. Chappie could sense magic radiating from the man, and other things besides, and something that might have been insanity; or a mind pushed beyond the normal human boundaries and restrictions.
“Stop growling,” Chance said quietly to Chappie, even as he struggled to maintain his polite smile.
“Don’t trust him,” said the dog. “He’s hiding something.”
“Who isn’t these days? Look, just stay put and let me do the talking. And whatever happens, don’t bite him. God knows what you might catch off him.”
“Him? I wouldn’t bite him on a bet. Besides, he’s got fleas. I can see them hopping.”
“Hush. Sir Shaman! Good of you to see me. An honor, as always. Now what can I do for you?”
The Shaman’s voice was a harsh croak, and Chance had to concentrate to understand what he was saying. “Chance. King’s Questor. Champion’s son. Only the King is dead now. So whom do you answer to now, Champion’s son?”
“Technically the Queen, as Regent. And King Stephen, when he comes of age. Until then I follow my honor and good sense. My business is justice. That hasn’t changed at all.”
The Shaman sniffed. “Heard about the newcomers. Hawk and Fisher. Come to find Harald’s murderer. Are they the real thing?”
Chance frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Can they find the killer? Whom will they support in Castle politics? Whom do they answer to?”
“They’re strictly neutral, as am I,” Chance said carefully. “They have a lot of experience in seeing through lies and identifying killers. They are true and honorable people. And I admire them more than I can say. They’re possibly the only real heroes I’ve ever met. Even if their methods are sometimes … regrettable. Do you want me to arrange for them to meet with you?”
The Shaman scratched at his ribs and looked away. “I’ll find them when I want them. Don’t believe in heroes. Never have.” He looked at the nearest peasants, going about their business and carefully giving the appearance of ignoring him. “See them. All of them. They’d make me a hero, if I let them. They keep coming to me for help or advice or comfort. They worship me, though I’ve told them not to. Only way I can keep them at arm’s length is by yelling at them, and throwing things. Hit them, too, sometimes. But they just keep coming back. All I ever wanted was to teach them to stand on their own two feet, and think for themselves, to not depend or lean on anyone, even me. But it takes time to undo centuries of deference and obedience, and I often wonder if I’ll live long enough to see them reach a point where they don’t need me anymore.”
He sighed and looked back at Chance. “I was happy as a hermit. Living alone, no responsibilities to anyone but myself. Just a man at peace with the Forest and himself. I was a soldier in the Demon War, and I never wanted to have to fight again. I needed the peace and quiet of the woods, far from civilization. And slowly, over the years, I found peace and heart’s ease. But then the peasants found me out and came to me. First for the small magics I had, to help and heal. Then for advice, because everyone knows all hermits are wise men. I couldn’t make them understand I only wanted to be left alone. And then I saw these people, good people, suffering and starving and dying, because of King Harald’s new taxes and high prices, and I had to come here and speak for them, because there was no on
e else.”
Chance listened intently. This was the most the Shaman had ever said to him at one time, and the first time he’d ever volunteered any information about himself and his past. So the Shaman had been a soldier once, during the long night. Probably saw friends and family die. That could explain a lot. Chance was sure the Shaman was trying to tell him something, that he was building up to confessing something important. Chance tried hard to look as receptive as possible. He was the Questor, and it was his proud belief that anyone could talk to him about anything; that anyone could come to him for justice or relief. Then there was a sudden commotion to one side, and both Chance and the Shaman looked around sharply, and the moment was lost.
The Creature had emerged from the Shaman’s tent, and Chappie had surged forward to back him up against the nearest wall. The two of them were snarling at each other and showing their teeth, but it was clear the much larger Creature was scared of the dog. The Creature had come out of the deep woods to accompany the Shaman. He had a wide, low-browed head squatting directly on broad, hairy shoulders, and his overlong arms fell down past his knees. His stooping body was basically human in shape, and covered in thick, dark, oily hair under a simple shift so filthy, it was impossible to guess what its original color might have been. He had a man’s height even in his perpetual stoop, and great cords of muscle bulged on his misshapen frame. The Creature had a slow and crafty mind, and was quick to anger, and sometimes an almost human intelligence showed in his glaring bloodred eyes.
Like the Shaman, he ate, pissed, and crapped where he felt like, and people made allowances for him because he was with the Shaman. Chance was never quite sure whether the Creature was the Shaman’s bodyguard, his pet, or even his companion, but he knew a demon when he saw one. Anywhere else such a thing would have been killed on sight, or at least driven back into the Darkwood, but in this as in so many things, the Shaman made his own rules. Presumably his mysterious magic enabled the Creature to survive the direct daylight. Chance would have liked to kill the Creature on general principles, but as long as the Shaman kept him under control, it wasn’t worth making an enemy of the Shaman.
Everyone but the Shaman hated the Creature. And the Creature hated everyone but the Shaman.
Chance grabbed Chappie by his ear and pulled, but the dog wouldn’t budge. All his hackles were up and he was growling steadily, like an angry roll of thunder. The Shaman kicked viciously at the dog’s ribs, but Chappie dodged easily, pulling his ear out of Chance’s grasp. The Creature scratched weakly at the air with his claws and howled mournfully. The Shaman raised his hand and magic sputtered on the air. Chance immediately moved forward to stand between the dog and the Shaman, his axe in his hands.
“Stop that right now, Shaman, or I swear I’ll cut you down where you stand.”
There was an angry sound from the watching crowd, and the peasants surged forward to protect their leader. The Shaman lowered his hand, and the magics faded away. He turned and glared at the peasants, and they immediately went about their business. Chance glared at Chappie.
“Come here. Right now.”
The dog slunk reluctantly back to join him. Chance lowered his axe and looked steadily at the Shaman.
“Never try that again, Shaman. Chappie is my companion.”
“And the Creature is mine.”
“You control yours, I’ll control mine. Deal?”
The Shaman nodded abruptly, and turned away to address the Creature. He spoke softly, his voice calm and reassuring, and the Creature came forward to crouch beside him and rub his head against him, and the Shaman patted his shoulder.
“Let me kill it,” said Chappie. “It needs killing.”
“Maybe,” said Chance quietly. “But not now. Not here. If the Shaman didn’t get us, the crowd would. And I’m not ready to kill a whole bunch of innocent people just because you can’t control yourself.”
He looked back at the Shaman, and the two men studied each other thoughtfully, each of them wondering if they could kill the other if they had to. Not enemies, perhaps, but two men forever separated by quite different beliefs and duties.
“It’s time for you to go,” said the Shaman.
“There’s nothing to keep me here,” agreed Chance.
He made the dog go ahead of him as they moved off through the surly crowd. Chappie growled something under his breath, but Chance didn’t listen. He glanced back at the Shaman, but both he and the Creature were no longer there. They could have just gone back into the Shaman’s tent, but somehow Chance didn’t think so. No one knew exactly what the Shaman’s powers were, but everyone knew he’d discovered all kinds of unnatural skills during his long years alone in the deep woods. The Shaman came and went, and nobody knew how or why. Chance made the dog walk a little quicker.
The Shaman found Hawk and Fisher walking down a deserted corridor and stepped out of a side passage to block their way, the Creature crouching and snarling at his side. Hawk and Fisher had their weapons in their hands almost before they realized. It had been a long time since anyone had been able to catch them by surprise. They studied the Shaman’s extraordinary appearance interestedly, but their real attention went to the Creature. They’d seen him before, long ago. Once, King John had had a longtime friend and adviser called the Astrologer. They’d grown up together, closer than brothers. The Astrologer had been a wise and powerful man, but he wanted more than that, so he betrayed the King and the Forest Land to the Demon Prince. In payment the Demon Prince transformed the handsome, intelligent man into a crafty, misshapen demon that no longer remembered what he had once been. The Creature disappeared when Rupert called down the Rainbow to banish the darkness, and everyone assumed the Creature had been banished, too. And now here the thing was, twelve long years later, like a dark and awful shadow from the past.
“I am the Shaman,” said the scarecrow figure beside the Creature, in a voice so harsh, they had to strain to understand it. “This poor unfortunate has no name. He is simply the Creature, and my companion. Yes, he is a demon, but he is under my control and my protection. You are in no danger. Put away your weapons.”
The Creature suddenly leaned forward, his bloodred eyes looking searchingly at Hawk’s face, and then Fisher’s. He frowned, thoughts moving slowly across his ugly face, and then something like memory awoke in his eyes. The Creature squealed almost pitifully, and fell back to hide behind the Shaman, shaking and shuddering. The Shaman looked back, startled, and then glowered at Hawk and Fisher. “He doesn’t like strangers. Though he’s not usually this affected by them. He’s harmless. Mostly. I found him wandering in the Forest years ago, half starved. A pitiful specimen, all alone. I look after him. Someone has to.”
Hawk and Fisher slowly put away their weapons. Hawk studied the blue and white mask of the Shaman’s face, while doing his best to ignore the smell.
“Your companion looks dangerous,” he said finally. “You should be very careful around him. You never know when he might turn on you.”
“My magic protects me,” said the Shaman shortly. “We must talk, you and I. The Questor speaks highly of you, but he is a simple soul and strives to see the best in everyone. I know better. I see more clearly. Do you really think you can find the King’s assassin?”
“It’s what we do,” said Fisher. “It may take a while, but—”
“Time is running out,” said the Shaman. “Change is coming, and they can’t stop it. This place is a cesspit of intrigue and conspiracies. Trust no one. They all lie. They are the old way, that must make way for the new. They know this and resent it, and will do anything they can to hold on to power.”
“According to what we’ve been told, you speak for the peasants,” said Hawk. “And democracy. How did that come about?”
The Shaman snorted. “Somebody had to. Someone who cared for them, and not just the power base they represented.”
“Sophisticated thinking for a simple hermit,” said Fisher.
“I’ve had a lot of time to th
ink, alone in the woods,” said the Shaman.
“What did you think of the King?” Hawk asked.
“He was a fool,” said the Shaman bluntly. His hands rose to worry at the tangles of his long gray beard. “He couldn’t see that his time was over. Change came from the south, and he couldn’t adapt. Someone sacrificed him on the altar of necessity. You’ll find there are plenty of suspects.”
“Was he such a bad King?” asked Fisher.
“Put no trust in Kings,” said the Shaman. “Too much power for any man. John, Harald, even Rupert who left … No man can be trusted with absolute power over his fellow man, no matter how good his intentions. If the King is the Land and the Land is the King, it doesn’t take a fool to see the result. John was weak, Harald was a failure, and Rupert ran away. None of them were worthy. Wipe it all out. Start over. Seize the moment. Let something good come from Harald’s death.”
“Who do you think killed him?” asked Hawk. “Could it have been one of your followers unwilling to wait for change?”
“No,” said the Shaman. “I’d have known. And neither they nor I would have been allowed anywhere near the King’s chamber. He was well-protected, and with good reason. Look to his own kind for the killer. Harald must have known his murderer, to let him in. Look to the Landsgrave, Sir Robert. Always a political creature, ready to adapt his beliefs and his conscience to get the deals he thinks he needs. The King was protected by Sir Vivian’s guards—why didn’t they see or hear anything? Who had the money and the influence to buy their silence?”
“What about the Magus?” Fisher asked. “He’s a man of great power.”
“If he is a man,” said the Shaman. “I’m not always sure he’s human. I sense something else in him. Not all the demons look like monsters.”