The Outcast (Summoner #4)(3)
Arcturus squinted, revealing brass buttons on black cloth—the uniform of a Pinkerton. The man had a handsome face, but his eyes were cruel and devoid of empathy. He approached Arcturus and crouched down to examine him.
Arcturus spied a tankard of water in the man’s hand and snatched it, all sense of decorum forgotten. He took deep, noisy gulps, filling his belly until the liquid sloshed inside him as if in a half-empty gourd. The man chuckled and lifted him to his feet, his grip like a vise on Arcturus’s shoulder.
“Thank you for the water,” Arcturus gasped, dizzied from standing so suddenly.
“It wasn’t for drinking. It was for throwing over you to rouse your lazy carcass. Two days you’ve been in and out of consciousness. That noble must have hit you something fierce.” The Pinkerton laughed again, then pulled Arcturus out of the cell and down a narrow corridor.
“Where are we going?” Arcturus slurred, his gorge rising as a bout of nausea overcame him.
Forks of pain spread through his brain with every step, as if his skull were full of lightning. He felt the demon on the very edge of his consciousness, awash with confusion and terror.
Arcturus preferred the sensations in his own mind. Pain he was used to, for his master would knock him about when the mood took him. It was the demon’s fear he could not abide, though he was getting flashes of his own as the Pinkerton ignored his question, dragging him up some stairs.
The stairs opened into a small hallway with a set of double doors at the end carved from dark oak and stamped with the insignia of a noble house. They spoke of wealth and power, the old kind that was passed from generation to generation. Paintings lined the walls: portraits of old men with beady eyes that seemed to follow him as they went by.
“You’re to go in alone. Be quick about it. It doesn’t do to keep a king waiting,” the Pinkerton snapped, then grinned at the shock on Arcturus’s face. “That’s right, boy. You’re in that much trouble.”
He shoved Arcturus through the doors, then slammed them shut behind him.
Arcturus stumbled and collapsed to the floor, meeting the soft down of a bearskin rug. Bookshelves lined the walls, broken only by the door behind him and a crackling hearth in front. It was uncomfortably hot in the room, as if a sick man was being purged in a sweat lodge.
There were two armchairs and a stool by the fireplace. The young noble was in the smaller seat, eyeing Arcturus with trepidation. Behind him sat two middle-aged men, both with silver dusting their black hair at the temples. One appeared as the portraits did, his eyes beady with a hooked nose. He bore some resemblance to the young noble, and Arcturus guessed that he was his father.
The other wore a circlet around his head and a scowl, twisting an otherwise handsome face into a savage expression. He could only be King Alfric, ruler of Hominum. The three wore expensive clothing, all velvet, silk and silver lacing.
“Tell us exactly as it happened, Charles,” King Alfric growled at the young noble, his voice low and angry. “Leave nothing out.”
“I told you already. I left the summoning scroll and leather in my panniers and bedded down in a filthy inn just outside Boreas. I woke up to a great racket from outside, so I went to investigate. Next thing I see is this … hoodlum … petting my demon!” Charles pointed a wavering finger at Arcturus, spitting as he spoke. “I knocked him out with my blackjack and got the innkeeper to fetch the Pinkertons while I trapped the beast in the stable. It’s not me you should be questioning. Ask the delinquent.”
“You will speak to your king with respect!” the father bellowed, leaping to his feet and slapping Charles across the face. He lowered his head and bowed to the king, who waved a languorous hand in acceptance.
“Calm yourself, Royce. We have more important things to worry about than petty niceties.” The king turned to Arcturus and gave him a forced smile, trying to put him at ease. It had the opposite effect.
“Listen carefully, stable boy. You are the only witness to the theft of Lord Faversham’s demon … or should I say, his son’s demon. The scroll and leather Charles mentioned are a way of transferring a demon from one noble to another, usually a parent to a child. Now, I want you to think very carefully. Who was it who took the items from the bag and summoned the demon in the stable? Did you see an insignia on their clothing, or perhaps a distinctive color?”
King Alfric turned back to Lord Faversham before Arcturus could answer, which was just as well. His mind was still reeling.
“Lord Lovett has been blessed with four adept children, rather than the usual firstborn. His youngest daughter is joining Vocans Academy this year, just like Charles. Providing a fourth demon for her would be difficult, especially for a weak summoner like him. You don’t think…?”
“My king, he would not dare. The Lovetts are rulers of Calgary, a poor fiefdom by all accounts. It is nothing more than a few farms and rivers. It would be too great a risk for him. If he was caught, my bodyguard would storm Calgary and take back what is ours, and more besides. With your permission, of course.” Lord Faversham inclined his head respectfully.
“Of course.” Alfric nodded, his eyes settling on Arcturus once again.
“Who was it, then?” Charles asked, his voice low and threatening, the imprint of his father’s hand blazing red across his face. “Who stole my demon from me?”
Arcturus was struck dumb, unable to answer. Lying seemed the best option. Blame it on a mysterious figure, some faceless noble who came in the dead of night. The question was, would they let him live, in light of what he knew? And even if they did, what then? Back to the workhouse, to starve with the other children that nobody loved.