The Shark chortled. When Sham cast a stern look at him, he straightened his face, but his shoulders still shook with mirth.
“Who would have thought it,” he said. “An Eastern-born wizard.”
“Maur,” said Sham softly, “—always maintained that Easterners or Southwoodsmen, all are the same beneath the skin, It seems he was right. Dickon is mageborn, my lord, and it seems he has a talent for illusions.”
11
Sham opened the door to her room cautiously, but it was empty. Breathing a sigh of relief she stepped in and shut the door behind her: she had not been looking forward to explaining her dusty tunic and trousers to Jenli.
She stripped rapidly out of the filthy garments, stuffing them in the trunk. The ever-present ewer of water near the bedside took care of the grime on her hands and face, then she searched unsuccessfully for another dress she could don without help. After the second time through the wardrobe, she pulled one out randomly and tugged it over her head.
Struggling and contorting she managed to button all but the top few buttons. Sham surveyed the result in the polished bronze mirror dubiously. Made of pale yellow silk, the gown resembled a shift rather than a dress. Fine lace, made for a child’s gown, edged the neckline and shoulder straps. It wasn’t the gown that bothered her, but the body it covered.
She set an illusion to cover the healing wound on her shoulder and several bruises she didn’t remember receiving. After twisting around for a minute or so, she decided she’d covered the worst of the contusions, and any left were bound to be attributed to rough play rather than disassembling furniture and chasing wizards through Purgatory. Dickon had promised to bring dinner to the Reeve’s room, and since she had missed breakfast and lunch, she wasn’t about to miss dinner.
As she was running a brush through her hair, her gaze fell on the trunk lid, and she realized she’d forgotten to lock it. Frowning, because securing her possessions was second nature, Sham quickly took care of it before entering Kerim’s room. Still puzzling over her unusual oversight, she forgot to make certain Kerim was alone.
The Reeve had also taken the time to change his garments, and he bore little resemblance to the rough warrior who dared cross the heart of Purgatory. He sat regally imprisoned in his chair, staring coldly at the Eastern nobleman who confronted him. Neither of them seemed to notice Sham’s presence.
“Do you always listen to gossiping stableboys, my lord?” Kerim sounded irate.
“Of course not,” replied the noble in fussy tones, “but my man reports that there was indeed a body discovered in the stables with that weird, blind boy of yours.”
“The stableman’s body was in several pieces—not something a boy of Elsic’s age would be capable of doing,” Kerim’s voice lowered to a warning purr that caused the nobleman to take a step backwards. “I suggest you be careful what you repeat in public, lest you find yourself looking a fool—or worse. It might, for instance, become known that your coffers aren’t as golden as they appear. Odd how tradesmen attend to such rumors so closely.”
Without looking away from the other man, Kerim held out his hand toward Sham. “Come here, my dear, Lord Arnson was just taking his leave.”
She hadn’t been aware he’d noticed her, but she recovered quickly, stepping forward with a bright smile. “Kerim, would you finish buttoning this for me? Jenli wasn’t there, and you ripped the shoulder of the dress I was wearing—it’s positively indecent.” She shrugged slightly so the unbuttoned gown hung even lower, giving the flustered nobleman a wide, empty smile.
She didn’t bother looking at Kerim for his reaction to her lie. After the servants had discovered the mess the demon had made of her room in its first attack, Kerim had begun to enjoy his newly enhanced reputation; she had no doubt that he’d follow her lead.
“Of course,” answered Kerim in a voice that made Shamera shiver involuntarily, and not from fear. That man wielded his voice as well as he did his sword. “Come here and I’ll take care of that. You were leaving, my lord?”
The nobleman started, and took his eyes off the neckline of Shamera’s dress that was sagging even further as she knelt before the Reeve. “Yes, of course.”
Kerim finished the buttons and waited until the door shut behind the nobleman before dropping his loverlike manner.
“I cannot abide fools,” Kerim growled. “I can’t fathom how an idiot like that managed to win as many battles as he did.”
“Being ruthlessly brutal can sometimes be as effective as intelligence,” commented Sham, idly staring at the closed door. She hadn’t recognized his face, but Lord Arnson was well known in Southwood for ordering the slaughter of children in several northern villages. Perhaps she could arrange to meet him in a dark corner somewhere. One more victim of the demon ...
Kerim eyed her speculatively. “I think Lord Arnson will be called back to his estates. He has a large holding in Cybelle and the return might be beneficial to his health.”
Sham wasn’t used to being so easily read and found it disconcerting. She batted her eyes at him, and with artificially thick accents said, “Does the poor man find our climate unhealthy?”
Before Kerim could reply, Dickon opened the door for a pair of servants bearing a large and aromatic tray, covered to keep the food hot, as well as an assortment of dining-ware. Dickon looked around and found a table that had survived Sham’s cleansing of the room. He pulled it forward, and directed the servants to set it for dining.
Sham rose to her feet and gathered a pair of chairs while Dickon ushered the kitchen helpers out the door. She set the tray cover on the floor and snatched a thick, crusty slice of bread. She buttered it and took a large, satisfying bite, ignoring Kerim’s amused glance with the same insouciance she accorded Dickon’s disapproval.
Kerim pushed his chair forward to one of the place settings and cut a slice of the roast off with his eating knife and placed it on his plate opposite Sham’s.
“Lady,” said Dickon hesitantly, taking a seat after he made certain all the plates were set properly.
Sham smiled at him and continued chewing as she sliced some meat.
“What did you mean when you said I was mageborn?” He spoke in Southern, and mispronounced the last word—as if that would make it mean something other than what he thought it meant.
“Well—” she said, when she was sure she wouldn’t laugh, “—only a mageborn person could have broken through an illusion as strong as the old wizard had. Nine-tenths of the magic most wizards work are illusionary—like this frog.” She held out the little frog again.
“What frog?” asked Dickon.
Kerim frowned warningly. “Don’t play games with him.”
Sham shook her head. “I’m not. Look at it closely, Dickon.” She muttered a few words, increasing the power of her spell. “Tell me when you see a frog instead of a rock.”
She was perspiring with the effort of her spell weaving before Dickon sat forward and drew in a swift breath. “I see it.”
Sham closed her empty hand. “Illusion—” she managed finally, with only a hint of amusement, “takes on the appearance of something that it is not. There are three ways to penetrate the spell. One is by magic. The second is by touch; there are very few mages who can create illusions that are real to more than one sense at a time. The third method is simple disbelief. Anyone can break an illusion that way, you don’t have to be a wizard to do it. But most illusions set by a wizard of any power are miserably hard to dispel by disbelief—unless you are a wizard yourself.” She glanced at Dickon’s discomfited expression, feeling a surprising amount of sympathy for him; it wasn’t easy to find your long-held beliefs crumpling at your feet. “Your disbelief in magic is so strong that when you walked into the magician’s cottage you didn’t even see the illusions. I have never heard of such a case before; the only possible explanation is that you are mageborn.”