City of Demons (12 page)

“Now!” whispered Marick and dived for the piles of new clothes, stuffing a tunic, pants, and black sash down the front of Garet's wool shirt. He hastily measured a pair of shiny new boots against Garet's foot and, tucking them under his arm, bolted for the door with Garet in panicked pursuit. A querulous voice rose behind them, but Marick's twisting and turning soon had them out of danger.

The two thieves didn't stop until they had burst though the door of their room, startling Dorict who was in the midst of laying a fire in the hearth.

The stout boy gasped, hand on his chest. “Marick! You'll be my death one day!” Dorict said, and fell back onto one of the considerably cleaner beds.

“Did you think I was a demon coming to get you?” Marick laughed at his friend. “Besides, what are you doing lighting a fire when it's summer?”

“Trying to drive the mustiness out of this room. We won't sleep in this smell.”

Marick nodded. “Oh yes! I found this in the storeroom.” He pulled a short candle out of his pocket and passed it under Garet's nose. It had the aroma of sweet herbs. “Senerix's rat-hole could use a little freshening up too, but I'm sure he won't miss just one candle.” He handled it over to Dorict, who quickly lit it from the small blaze he had built. Immediately, the air seemed more fragrant, and the mustiness was driven away.

“That's nice,” observed Marick, “much better than that perfume in the market! Now Garet, let's get you looking like a proper Bane.” He pulled out the stolen articles from inside Garet's shirt and smoothed them out on the bed.

Garet changed quickly, while Dorict, with Marick's unhelpful suggestions, laid out their bedding. The loose grey pants felt no different than the ones he had brought from the farm, except that they bore no patches or tears. The high-necked tunic, on the other hand, was a revelation in luxury. Made out of a soft, thin cloth for which he had no name, it settled its black length over him like a cool wave. He buttoned up the collar and wished for a mirror to catch the expression on his own face as much as for the look of all this finery. The vest, purple and trimmed with gold thread at the collar, followed. Finally, Dorict helped him arrange the black sash around his shoulder. He then assisted him with the boots, which for all their shine, were stiff and uncomfortable. Marick then turned Garet towards the window, which the fading light outside the Hall had turned into a cracked and wavy mirror.

“Now, here's a Bane!” exclaimed Marick. Dorict nodded, just as pleased with the effect.

Who is that person
, Garet thought, looking at the strange image facing him.
Where is the farm boy?
He smiled at the thought of the sheep's reaction to his new clothing, and the dignified young man in the window smiled back at him
. Am I a Bane now?
He tentatively reached out a hand towards the reflection, and Marick slapped it playfully.

“Don't worry! It's not an illusion. You're one of us now.” He punched Garet on the shoulder.

“Of course,” Marick added, in a voice remarkably like Mandarack's, “as a mere Black Sash, you will have to obey our every whim.” Dorict sniffed at this frippery.

Garet smiled with them and adjusted his sash, feeling his future in the weight of his new clothes.

The evening began as an exercise in staying out of sight. Garet refused to leave the room until driven out by his growling stomach. He slunk down the stairs behind Dorict and Marick. As they entered the wide dining hall, he pulled them to the last table, far away from Senerix. The scarred Bane sat behind a long, polished table on a dais at the front of the dining hall. He was hunched in his chair, scanning the room with his good eye. Garet ducked and took a chair that allowed him to sit with his back to the man they had cheated. Marick sat beside him, also hiding his face from the high table. Dorict, the only one with a clear conscience, sat across from them.

The table was loaded with steamed greens and salt beef. Bread was piled in central dishes and the quick hands of the Black and Blue Sashes surrounding the Shirath Banes scattered them with showers of crumbs as they tore it into individual portions. Dorict used his size to shoulder up to the platter and retrieve a whole loaf, round and with a rough letter cut into the brown top.

“That's the sign for a Banehall,” Marick informed Garet as the apprentices divided the loaf into three roughly equal pieces.

“I thought it meant treasure hall,” he replied, holding his piece up to Marick's to examine the complicated, and now somewhat mangled glyph. “See here. The box on the right means hall, doesn't it? But the left hand part means gold or treasure.”

Dorict looked at Garet as if he had grown wings. “You can read!” he exclaimed, shocked out of his usual calmness. “How under Heaven did you ever learn to read on that pesthole of a farm?”

Garet blushed. It was not a skill he boasted about, mainly because his father had no taste for “scribblings ‘n time wasting.” His mother had taught him to draw the symbols common to both the South and the North. She had spent many mornings with him, before he had been old enough for much farm work, dipping her long finger in water and tracing each word on the table top. He had practiced this skill on the hillside, scratching lines in the dirt to escape the mind-numbing boredom of watching sheep chew their mouthfuls of grass. Trying to remember enough symbols to write out one of his mother's complex Northern songs of dragon fighters or forest magic had pleased his mind in a way that herding sheep never could. His mother's pride in his ability and her joy at being able to pass on the learning of her own childhood had strengthened the bond between them. Was she thinking of him now, he wondered.

“I learned from my mother,” Garet said, and the sad shading of his tone prevented even Marick from ribbing him about his surprising skill.

Dorict only said, “Blame the baker's hand. That's ‘claw', not ‘gold' on the side.”

As they ate their dinner with a speed possible only to young boys, Garet twisted his head around to catch glimpses of the high table. It was occupied solely by Red Sashes. A portly man sat at its centre, his belly straining at a red sash bordered in black. He shovelled his food as if he were trying to match Garet and his friends, despite his grey hair and wobbling jowls. Mandarack sat to one side of him but only picked at his plate. A slight woman with grey hair cut shorter than he had ever seen on a woman was leaning over and talking to him. Mandarack engaged her in quiet conversation throughout the meal. Garet was curious but didn't dare observe them more closely for fear Senerix would spot his turned face. Dorict ignored their plea to spy for them while he ate but was more accommodating when he had finished his second plate.

“They're still talking,” Dorict reported in a low voice. “Isn't she the weapons trainer for Torrick?”

Marick risked another look and nodded. “That's right. Corix. She's a terror to her students and very unfair to the younger Banes!”

“In other words, she didn't let you get away with anything, eh?” Dorict smiled and continued his report. “Two other Reds are leaning in for a listen. Now she's waved Boronict over.”

“Why him?” Marick demanded. “He's only a Gold.”

“I'm sure your old teacher won't mind if you ask her,” Dorict offered and smiled at Marick's answering glare. “Now shut up and let me look. Hmmm. Boronict's gone out of the hall. Some Golds are following him. Now she's talking to Furlenix, the Hallmaster. They're arguing...well, you can hear it yourself.”

Dorict was right. The Hallmaster's voice was loud enough to be clear even at the back of the hall.

“This is Torrick Banehall! Not Shirath!” His jowls shook as his words rang out over the hushed dining hall. “Master Mandarack's advice is not welcome!”

Their caution forgotten, Marick and Garet joined the whole hall in staring as Mandarack rose, nodded calmly at the sputtering Hallmaster, and left with Corix at his side. There was a flurry of indecision at the high table. In the end, the outraged Hallmaster was left with only Senerix and a few other ancient Reds sitting forlornly at the high table.

“Come on,” whispered Marick as he grabbed his friends' arms and dragged them into the crowd of different coloured sashes funnelling through the dining hall doors. They had barely squeezed through the opening when Garet felt a hand fall on his shoulder. He froze, expecting the rasping, querulous voice of Senerix demanding back his new uniform, but it was Salick's voice that cut above the hubbub and arguments swelling around them.

“Come on! Let's find some place where we can talk,” she shouted.

Marick led them through the press of bodies and up the stairs. The halls were no less crowded here. Golds ran back and forth with scrolls of paper. Knots of older Reds argued among themselves, the lesser ranks looking nervously on. With a few twists and turns, the Shirath apprentices were safely inside the room the three younger Banes had appropriated.

“I would guess that Marick has something to do with this,” Salick said, looking around appreciatively: a small fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth, the beds were free of dust and covered with their own blankets while the mismatched chairs were drawn cozily around a table near the hearth. “Quite homey. And to think I'm sharing a room half this size with three other Greens!”

“You can bunk with us, Salick,” Marick quickly offered. “No one will know in this mess. But tell us what you think is happening!”

Salick took a chair and looked out on the candle lit windows in the houses across the fountain square. “I think Mandarack proposed something—I wasn't near enough at my table to hear what—but I'm sure that's what started this riot.” She looked sharply at Marick. “Go find Boronict. He's friendly to us, and he might know what's going on.”

She had hardly finished speaking before Marick was out the door. Dorict closed it hurriedly before the arguments and what sounded like fist fights entered the room. Had they just heard the thud of someone hitting the wall?

“Salick,” Garet asked, “why is there any argument at all? I mean, isn't Furlenix in charge of this Banehall?”

Salick paused before answering. “Garet, a Hallmaster is not a king. He or she is chosen from the other Masters. They can choose someone else, if there is dissension.”

Garet thought about this. “But, Salick, wouldn't such a fight keep the Banehall from fighting the demons, and Torrick unprotected?” The image of the ruined stall in the marketplace rose in front of his eyes, and he shuddered.

“Not necessarily,” Salick replied. “Each Master is responsible for his or her own patrols and trains their own students—above a certain level, of course.” She adjusted the green sash around her shoulders. “But someone has to control the rest: who takes a watch in case of sickness, whether or not the division of duties is fair, and who should take on special jobs like training Blacks and Blues or keeping records and such.”

Dorict turned from where he was listening at the door and added, “The Hallmaster is also the Banehall's voice when we talk to the King and his lords.”

Garet nodded, understanding a bit more of this new world.

“Then a Hallmaster's power is really limited,” he said. Salick shrugged. “It depends on how many Reds support you.”

The noise swelled in the hallway again, and Salick twisted her hands nervously. “Maybe it was a bad idea to send Marick into this kind of chaos. Do you think we should...?”

Before they could decide whether not to set out and rescue their companion, the door flew open and Marick dragged in a harried looking Boronict.

“What is it, Salick?” the anxious young Gold demanded. “I'm...we're all in the middle of something here!”

“What is that ‘something,' Boronict?” Salick asked, grabbing his arm to keep him from leaving again. Marick slammed the door and put his back to it, a determined look on his face.

“I suppose you'd better know, since it's partly your fault,” Boronict said, a wry smile on his face.

Salick stiffened. “How can you accuse us of...”

“Hold on, Green. It's not you. It's your Master! He's set the wolf among the sheep tonight.” The young man wiped his forehead and gratefully accepted the cup of water Dorict handed him. “Master Mandarack has convinced Training Master Corix and several other Reds to vote on a new leader for Torrick Banehall!”

“Well, it's about time,” said Marick, still guarding the door. “All Furlenix does is eat and eat and then eat again. This Hall's gone downhill since I left!”

Dorict rolled his eyes at this arrogance, but Boronict bowed, a touch of irony in his voice. “No doubt we have lacked your noble example. Though I believe most people think that the disappearance of petty crime has almost made up for it.”

Marick blushed and, surprisingly, bowed in return.

Boronict continued. “Many of the Masters have been dissatisfied with the leadership of this Hall.” His eyes flashed and his voice rose. “The King and nobles have taken away many of our privileges in favour of their profit. As long as few demons attacked, we could manage without proper walls between neighbourhoods, without enough horses for patrols of the mining villages, even without enough labour to keep up our own hall.” He looked at the door, anxious to be gone. “Salick, the Reds know that Furlenix is not the Master to face this great change in the Midlands. By the end of this night, there may be some bent noses, and maybe one or two broken ones, but there will be a new Master in this Hall!” He strode to the door and picked up Marick, gently depositing him to one side. “I hope it's Corix. She's not the most pleasant person to work with, but then, these are unpleasant times.” With that, he darted out the door and back into the arguments and shoving in the hall.