A Dusk of Demons (15 page)

I thought of the life we had known in the Isles, and of our carefree wanderings with the gypsies, and wondered that this scene could be part of the same world. I wondered about Paddy too, and asked Johnson when he next appeared. He shrugged indifferently. She was being trained for a servant; as a southlander she'd have plenty to learn.

It would be unwise, I reckoned, to show too much curiosity, so I left it at that. Or to try to do things too quickly. The best plan was to gain Johnson's confidence over a period of days, at the
same time gleaning as much as I could about the general situation. Neither my own confinement nor her being instructed in a servant's duties was a great hardship. Eventually, if we caused no bother and kept our wits about us, there would be an opportunity for meeting and working out a way of escape. We had plenty of time for it.

Toward the end of the afternoon market activity slackened, and the traders started packing up unsold wares and dismantling their stalls. Carts had entered the square that morning along several roads, and I expected a similar exodus, but though they formed up in lines they did not move off. Instead the tradesmen left them and made their way toward the gate leading to the General's house. They were joined by townspeople; soon there was a crowd converging on it.

As I was wondering about this, the door was flung open and Johnson stood there. In a brisker, more peremptory voice, he said, “General's court. Everyone attends. Look sharp!”

He ignored my questions as he shepherded me downstairs and through a milling mass to a place at
the front of the hall. The General's chair was empty, but there was a note of excitement and expectancy in the hum of voices. And there was the smell of a mob: unwashed and sour. Apprehension prickled the back of my neck. Why had I been brought here? Everyone attends, Johnson had said, but that might have been a way of making things easier for himself—he boasted of his skill in avoiding trouble. I moved, and his grip tightened on my arm.

There was a green door in the wall behind the dais, and the hum increased as it opened. Two guards appeared, followed by General Ramsay and a small boy similarly dressed in crimson, then two more guards. The guards took up posts on either side as he lowered his bulk into the chair; the boy put the stool in position and carefully raised the General's foot to rest on it.

The General's raised hand brought silence.

“Market day,” he said, “and Demon's night to follow. That's the custom of our land and the will of the Dark One. It's also custom that a court be held to sentence evildoers.” He rubbed his cheek. “Bring in Harold Openshaw.”

Two of the guards went out and returned, half leading, half dragging a small, thin man, gray in both hair and face and sweating with fear.

“Harold Openshaw,” the blustering voice declared. “Well known as a thief. Twice convicted, and now caught a third time, robbing from the Widow Galbraith. A month at hard labor for the first offense, two months for the second. What would you expect for the third but the Demons' Chair?”

Openshaw opened his mouth but said nothing. His hand, his whole body, was trembling. The General touched his cheek again.

“Count yourself lucky, then, that tonight's culling has a riper candidate. Three months at hard labor.” He nodded to the guards. “Take him out, and bring her in.”

She wore a shapeless black gown and her face was hidden by a veil. But this one was not dragged but walked defiantly between the guards, and I knew her walk as well as I knew those hidden features. I started to cry out, and Johnson's hand slapped hard across my mouth, stifling me.

General Ramsay said, “A wench from the south—her name don't matter. She came into this decent, law-abiding land wearing a yellow dress, showing her arms and legs, showing her face! Not content with that, she was impudent and insubordinate. She insulted her betters. She even dared lay hands on your General.”

With the boy's assistance, he stood up, and his face came into the light from the window opposite. When he dropped his hand, you could see the livid scratch-marks.

“Take her away,” the General said. “Make her ready for the Chair.”

•  •  •

I tried to cry out again as Paddy was led off, but Johnson covered my mouth too closely. General and guards retired, and the crowd started to disperse.

“Have sense, lad. What good will bawling do?” Johnson relaxed his hold. “That's better. I could tell you were a boy that's got his head screwed on.”

The hum of excitement continued around us. I saw gleaming eyes, ugly laughing faces.

“It's not easy when someone you know goes to the Chair. It's happened to me—one of the guards.”
Johnson shook his head. “I'd never much liked him, but the Demons' Chair . . . Yet it does no good to dwell on it. Look at it this way—by tomorrow it'll be over, and you'll still have your breakfast to eat. And she was a fool, your friend, when it comes down to it. The General's a queer one, but it's not too hard to find the way of doing what he wants. I mean, putting her nails into his face like that . . .”

He ushered me in front of him through the thinning crowd to the stairs. Where the stairs turned on themselves at the half-landing, I stooped down. Johnson said, “What is it, lad? Something—?”

I did not rise but, taking a breath and tensing muscles, swung my body round and threw its full weight behind my flailing arm. As I hit him, Johnson lost balance and toppled backward. I heard a single cry as I pelted down the stairs and out into the square.

O
NE OR TWO CALLED OUT
as I ran from the General's house, but only from indignation at being bumped into. There were no shouts from behind. I had heard Johnson fall heavily, so he might have knocked himself out, but any confusion that did exist could not last long. If he were not in a condition to launch a pursuit, he had plenty of colleagues who would.

There was muddle in the square, where traders were jockeying for position as they pulled out of line. They would need to get their goods home and unpacked, to be back in town for the Summoning.
I dodged between them, at one point causing a horse to rear in the shafts and its owner to swear furiously at me. But that was commonplace anger at a carelessly running boy, and I was probably not the only one.

I had taken the road along which we had traveled the previous day, instinctively choosing a familiar route. I tried to visualize the way ahead: As I recalled, the densely packed houses formed a kind of canyon, enclosing the road. I would be an easy target once a pursuit was launched.

I looked for a side street or alley but none was visible, and I remembered thinking how far the dreary facade had stretched on our way in. When a gap did present itself it merely marked a drainage stream, guarded by a low stone parapet. The alarm must have been raised by now. I scrambled over the coping and slid down a slope. The base of the bridge was visible from the backs of the houses, but there was a culvert that offered concealment.

The stream was rain-swollen but had been higher. I squatted in mud, head pressed against a slimy brick ceiling, and waited for my heart to stop
pounding. Minutes after I had taken up my position, it pounded more heavily as hooves hammered the road above me.

I watched the narrow torrent flooding into the culvert. A twig was carried swiftly toward me, and as swiftly past to whatever destination chance might propose. I wondered if Paddy's fate, or my own, was any less random or inevitable. I had come a long way from the kitchen on Old Isle and my childish conviction that there was no misfortune Mother Ryan could not put right.

My earlier complacency in thinking time was on our side mocked me. Although I, for the moment, was free, Paddy was a prisoner, facing an imminent and hideous death. Even if I knew just where she was being held, what hope was there of saving her? What chance did I stand against the General and his guards—still more against the Demons?

Mordecai had taught me that growing up meant learning things. Some things had to be accepted, but accepting defeat had not been part of his lessons. When I left, he had given me his gun. I remembered how he had instructed me in its
use—saw again a flight of duck winging a twilit sky, his body turning in a matching arc, the double crack as he fired . . . and a feathered stone falling to earth. The image stirred something in my mind, at which I clutched desperately. Birds rode the sky. I felt a twitch of hope, and of excitement. And so did Demons!

I tried to estimate the distance to the spot where I had ditched the gun. It had taken about an hour to reach the camp, less than half that for the journey into town. It should be possible to manage the round trip in under four hours. The Summoning would be at dusk, but the Demons did not come back until some hours later. I had time to do it, if I wasted none.

•  •  •

Despite the best haste I could make, there were delays and setbacks. When I left the road to avoid the camp and its sentries, picking it up again was frustrated by tangles of brush that meant time-consuming backtracking. The sky was rapidly darkening. In the dusk I sought landmarks, and several times imagined I was nearing my objective only to be disappointed. At one stage I took cover from what I thought was an approaching force. It proved to be a herd of wild goats, which stampeded when they scented me and bowled me over as they sped away. I thought I'd broken a leg, or badly sprained it, but the pain eased as I hobbled on.

I realized I had overshot my mark when the ruined cottage took shape in the gloom. Retracing my steps, I tried to work out how far we had gone before the second lot of horsemen surprised us. It wasn't easy. I came to the place where the brambles ended, and it occurred to me that I might not have thrust the gun far enough into them to deceive a keen eye. It might not be there any longer.

I plucked away swags, which swung back stingingly, and peered into the tangle behind. If only there were a moon . . . but the clouds held it prisoner. As Paddy was.

How long had this quest lasted? It was full dark; the Summoning must be over. The square would be empty, citizens shut up in their houses, only Paddy left, bound, to await the Demons' return. Despondency overwhelmed me. Even if I
had
the gun and
got back with it before they came, what in fact could I do to save her? Demons might fly like birds, but that did not mean they could be struck out of the sky. Everyone knew they were creatures of the moon: No earthly power could touch them.

With a numbed heart I contemplated the folly that had brought me here. There was nothing I could do to save Paddy, and I had been fooling myself in imagining it.

On the other hand, I was only a few hours from the crossroads where we had left the gypsies. I could catch up with them in a matter of days. Mordecai would ease the pain of thinking about Paddy. He would tell me I had done what I could, and help me bear the misery of failing her. I imagined telling him and tried to imagine his response. But that scene would not come alive. Instead I heard his voice, on a windy day with sun and cloud chasing one another's tails and a smell of rain: “Everything you do has to be thought through aforehand—careful and clear and honest.”

And now a question stabbed me like a dagger: What are you really doing here?

My reasoning had seemed straightforward: The gun would give me a chance to save Paddy from the Demons. But what had I overlooked? The answer came, sharp and bitter. Johnson had told me that people looked for places of safety once the victim was in the Chair. The square was left deserted. So if instead of this futile search I had found a hiding place in the town, I could have simply gone back and cut her free. And in fact I had found one: in the culvert.

“Careful and clear and honest” . . . I had been none of them, but especially not honest. Even a moment ago I had been looking to Mordecai to ease my conscience. That had been no better than self-pity, and despicable. But there was worse to contemplate. I had run away from the town, telling myself my aim was to return and rescue her. At the back of my mind, had I been thinking all along of heading for Mordecai and safety? Had I been running from something I dared not face, though Paddy must?

There was blackness inside as well as out. I threw myself into the brambles, arms flailing, not
sure if I was looking for the gun or for pain to ease the sharper anguish of remorse. But I scarcely felt the thorns that tore my skin—and then my hand touched something cold and hard.

I drew out the gun and held it. It would not help, nor could I. But there was only one road I could possibly take. I started running toward the town, with something worse than Demons at my back.

•  •  •

At one point the moon came out and briefly rode a gulf between silvered clouds. Looking up as I ran, I wondered if the Demons were on the way from their cold white home, black wings flapping as they headed for their helpless victim. I almost thought I saw dots moving against the brightness, before the clouds closed up again.

I tripped and fell, stumbling on the unlit road, and later lost the road altogether and was obliged to trace a hard way back. I did not bother to make a detour of the camp and saw no sign of sentries; perhaps they too had hidden themselves. The town was silent when I reached it, empty apart from a
prowling cat, only thin gleams of light showing behind closed shutters.

The square was quiet also. Approaching the tower I had a numbing fear that the Demons might have already come, and gone. I called Paddy's name, quietly and then louder. This time she answered weakly. I reached the Chair and saw her hand try to move against her bonds.

Wasting no time in words I felt for the ropes, which were thick and tightly knotted. I found my knife and sawed at the nearest strand. It was a slow business, and after it had parted she seemed no less securely held. In daylight I could have sought a key rope to sever, but in the dark could only tackle them as I found them. Paddy cried out once, when the blade slipped, but whispered, “No—don't stop . . .”