Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

“That’s because everyone always goes weapon to weapon.” Lucky looked blank. “If you have a sword, what’s the other person going to do? Get a bigger sword if they can. Try to beat your sword. But we don’t need that. Our weapon is the way we fight. Go in and take their sword away. Go in and do things with a sword that no one thinks possible. In my head I just saw you roll with your own blade and come up edge-ready. Maybe staying low would give us more options for being in close.”

“Come here,” Lucky said, and scrambled up, and we worked it out again and again until the fire was almost dead and we trod on Brax in the dark. “Stop this idiocy and go to sleep!” she growled; but the next day we were all ready to reinvent sword fighting, and we ate our dinner that night bloody and bruised and grinning like children.

We came into Lemon City on a cold wind, just ahead of a hard autumn rain that dropped from a fast front of muddy clouds. We crowded under cover of a blacksmith’s shed inside the city gates, with a dozen other travelers, three gate guards, and two bad-tempered horses, while manure and straw and someone’s basket washed away down the waterlogged street. Everything was gray and stinking. I couldn’t help laughing, remembering my fantasies about the golden streets full of important people in silk with me in the center, being whisked toward greatness.

When the rain had passed we walked in toward the heart of the city. My boots leaked and my feet got wet, and Ro stepped in goat shit and swore.

“So far, I feel right at home,” I told Lucky, who cackled wildly and reminded me for one sharp moment of my mother, bent over in laughter with her hands twisted in her apron and flour dust rising all around her.

We found an inn that they’d heard of, and got the second-to-last room left. We were lucky; the last room was no better than a sty, and went an hour later for the same rate as ours. The city was packed tighter than a farm sausage, our landlord told us with a satisfied smile. He took some of Ro’s money for a pitcher of cider and settled one hip up against the common room table to tell us where to find the guard house for the coming auditions. The next were in two days’ time. “And lots of competition for this one, of course,” he said cheerfully, with a glance around the crowded room that made him scurry to another table with his tray of cider.

“What’s that mean, of course?” Lucky wondered when he’d gone away.

I shrugged. Brax drank the last of her cider. “I hate it when they say of course,” she muttered, and belched.

The next day was sunny, and we went out exploring. I left my sword for the day with the blacksmith near the city gate, who promised to lengthen the grip. From there we wandered to the market, and they laughed at my wide-eyed amazement. And everywhere we saw foursomes, young or seasoned, trying not to show their stress by keeping their faces impassive, so of course you could spot them a mile off. We followed some of them to the guards training camp, and waited in line to give our names to someone whose only job that day seemed to be telling stiff-faced hopefuls where and when to turn up for the next morning’s trials. Then we found a place to perch where Lucky and Brax could size everyone up until they found something to feel superior about: a weak eye, too much weight on one foot, someone’s hands looped under their belt so they couldn’t reach their weapon easily. Eventually the strain got to be too much, and we went back to the inn for an afternoon meal and practice on a small patch of ground near the stable. Working up a sweat seemed to calm them down; and touching them erased everything else for me.

That night, I laid an extra coin on the table when the landlord brought our platter of chicken and pitcher of beer, and said, “Tell us what’s so special about these auditions.”

He looked genuinely surprised. “Anybody could tell you that,” he said, but he put the coin in his sleeve pocket. “The prince has turned out half the palace guard again, and Captain Gerlain’s scrambling for replacements. Those who do well are sure to end up with palace duty, although why any of you’d want it is beyond me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Our prince is mad, that’s why, and the king’s too far gone up his own backside to notice.”

Lucky put a hand to her knife. “You mind yourself, man,” she said calmly, and Brax and I tried not to grin at each other. Lucky could be startlingly conservative.

“Oh, and no offense intended to the king,” he said easily. “But well done, the king needs loyal soldiers around him. Particularly now he’s old and sick, and too well medicated, at least that’s what they say. You just get yourself hired on up there and keep an eye on him for us.” He poured Lucky another drink. I admired the skill with which he’d turned the conflict aside.