The Demon King. Cinda Williams Chima

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      Shiv withdrew his knife from Han’s throat and continued the search, giving him time to think about it. He found Han’s purse and cut it free, taking a little skin with it. Stuffing the swag under his shirt, he grabbed Han’s carry bag and began sorting through it, tossing his trade goods on the ground. Han’s spirits sank even lower. There was no way Shiv would overlook Matieu’s purse. And no way Han could make up that kind of money.

      It wouldn’t be his problem after he bled to death.

      But it wasn’t Matieu’s purse that Shiv pulled out of the bag. It was Bayar’s amulet in its leather wrapping.

      “What you got here, Cuffs?” Shiv asked, his eyes alight with interest. “Something pricy, I hope?” He unfolded the leather and poked it with his finger.

      Green light rippled through the alleyway, burning Han’s eyes, temporarily blinding him. With an ear-splitting blast, Shiv and the Southies were flung back against the opposite wall like rag dolls, smacking the stone with a solid thud. Han went down hard, ears ringing.

      He rolled to his knees. The amulet, apparently undamaged, lay on the ground just in front of him, still emitting an eerie green glow. After a moment’s hesitation, Han dropped the leather wrapping over it and slid it back into his carry bag.

      As he scrambled to his feet, he heard shouted orders and boots pounding over the cobblestones at the Southie end of the alley. He looked back. A clot of blue-jacketed soldiers jammed the entryway. The Queen’s Guard. Han had a history with the Guard. Time to be gone.

      He glanced at Shiv, who had heaved himself upright, shaking his head dazedly, surrounded by his cronies. No way to get his own purse back, but he still had Matieu’s, and the Guard might slow the Southies down. It was a chance to come away alive. He’d take it.

      Han sprinted down the alley, away from the guard and toward the river. Behind him, he could hear screamed threats and orders to halt. He thought about taking refuge in Southbridge Temple at the west end of the bridge, but decided he’d better try and get clean away. He cleared the alley, ran past the temple close, fought his way through the line for the bridge, and pounded his way across. He didn’t stop running until he was well into Ragger turf. Then he took a circuitous route, careful to make sure no one was following.

      Finally he turned onto Cobble Street, limping over the uneven pavers. Now that he felt safe, he surveyed the damage. He hurt all over. The skin stretched tight over the right side of his face said it was swelling, and he could scarcely see out of his right eye. A sharp pain in his side suggested a rib was broken. He carefully explored the back of his head with his fingers. His hair was matted with blood, and there was a goose egg–sized lump rising.

      Could be worse, he told himself. Ribs could be wrapped, at least, and nothing else seemed to be broken. There was no money for doctors, so anything broken would stay broken, or heal any way it pleased. That’s how it worked in Ragmarket. Unless Han was fit enough to climb back up Hanalea and put himself in Willo’s hands.

      He stopped at the well at the end of the street and sluiced water over his head, rinsing off the blood as best he could and combing his hair down with his fingers. He didn’t want to scare Mari.

      All the while, his memory tiptoed around what had happened in Brickmaker’s Alley. Maybe he was addled. He’d hit his head, after all. He could swear he’d seen Shiv take hold of the amulet and then it sort of exploded. Just as Bayar said it would.

      He could feel the ominous weight of the jinxpiece in his carry bag. Maybe Dancer was right. Maybe he should’ve buried the thing. But the fact was, if not for the serpent talisman, he’d be in a world of trouble. Maybe dead.

      Ha! he thought. Don’t fool yourself. You’re in a world of trouble anyway.

      He’d reached the stable at the end of the street, so there was no putting it off any longer. Inside the stable, Han sniffed the air experimentally. There was nothing of supper. Instead it stank of manure, damp straw, and warm horses. He’d have to muck out the stalls tomorrow. If he could even get out of bed.

      Some of the horses poked their heads out of their stalls and whickered in recognition, hoping for a treat. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I got nothing.” Haltingly, he climbed the old stone staircase to the room he shared with his mother and seven-year-old sister.

      Han eased open the door. From force of habit, his eyes flicked around the room, meaning to locate trouble before it came flying at him. The room was chilly and dark, the fire nearly out. No sign of Mam.

      Mari was lying on her pallet by the hearth, but she must have been awake because her head popped up as soon as he came in. A big smile broke on her face and she flung herself at him, wrapping her skinny arms around his legs and burying her face at his waist. “Han! Where’ve you been? We’ve been so worried!”

      “You should be asleep,” he said, awkwardly patting her back and smoothing down her ragged tow-colored hair. “Where’s Mam?”

      “She’s out looking for you,” Mari said, shivering, teeth chattering with fear or cold. She returned to her bed by the fire and wrapped the threadbare blanket around her thin shoulders. She never seemed to have enough fat on her to keep warm. “She’s in a right state. We was scared something happened to you.”

      Bones, he thought, feeling guilty. “When did she go?”

      “She’s been out all day, off and on.”

      “Did you have supper?”

      She hesitated, considering a lie, then shook her head. “Mam’ll bring something home, I reckon.”

      Han pressed his lips together to keep from spilling his thoughts. Mari’s faith was somehow precious to him, like a dream he couldn’t let go of. She was the only person in all of Ragmarket who’d ever believed in him.

      He crossed to the hearth, pulled a stick from their dwindling supply, and laid it on the fire. Then he sat down on the thin mattress next to his sister, keeping his face turned away from the firelight. “It’s my fault you got nothing to eat,” he said. “I should’ve come home earlier. I told Mam I’d bring you something.” He dug in his pocket and fished out the napkin with the buns. He unwrapped them and handed one to Mari.

      Her blue eyes went wide. She cradled it in her fingers and looked up at him hopefully. “How much of it do I get?”

      Han shrugged, embarrassed. “All of it. I brought more for me and Mam.”

      “Oh!” Mari pulled apart the bun and downed it in greedy bites, licking her fingers at the end. Sweet, spicy sauce smeared her mouth, and she ran her tongue over her lips, trying to get the last little bit.

      Han wished he was seven again, when all it took was a pork bun to make him happy.

      He handed her another, but as she took it, she got a good look at him. “What happened to your face? It’s all swollen.” She reached up and touched his face with her small hand, like it was delicate as an eggshell. “It’s getting purple.”

      Just then he heard the weary clump, clump, clump up the stairs that said Mam was home. Han eased into a standing position, bracing himself against the wall, concealing himself in the shadows. A moment later the door banged open.

      Han’s mother stood in the doorway, her shoulders permanently hunched against СКАЧАТЬ