busied himself with studying the city's quarterly fiscal accounts for several hours after sunrise. Numeracy was not his strong point, but he was diligent in his task, always trying to catch out Crar's accountant, Master Scutal, in some small detail. The demon had never done so, but he lived in hope of discovering some misplaced decimal point or other error. This hope was heightened by the fact that the aged accountant always stood at his side while Shakkar worked, and he always wore the same smug, indulgent smile, secure in his efficiency and accuracy.
The demon pored over the heavy, leather-bound ledgers until the town clock chimed nine, and he marked his place with a feather before closing the book.
'All clear, Lord Seneschal?” Scutal asked in a high-pitched, singsong voice.
'I am not yet finished, Master Scutal,” Shakkar rumbled. “I shall return later to finish the task when I have made my morning rounds.'
'Anytime, Lord Seneschal; you know where to find me.'
Shakkar grunted. He did not like the accountant's often flippant manner, but the man's efficiency seemed adequate.
Stepping out of Scutal's office, the demon squinted at the bright, morning sun. He took a mighty draught of cool air and admired the reborn city. He saw the weekly market in full swing, with people chatting and laughing in the streets, in stark contrast to the gruesome, forced jollity that had held sway while Baron Starmor controlled the citizens’ thoughts and actions. He might find humans irritating at times, but he greatly preferred them as free individuals, rather than as ensorcelled puppets.
He never failed to be impressed by what had once been Starmor's tower. Once, it had been a threatening, grey presence, like a rotting tooth extending into the sky, spreading decay and despair throughout the city. Now, it glowed and gleamed in the warm rays of the sun, almost seeming to radiate hope and vigour into the city.
As ever, the two young, uniformed guards at the entrance saluted as the demon Seneschal approached.
'Good morning, Lord Seneschal,” they said in cheery unison.
'Good morning, gentlemen. Is Lady Drexelica in residence?'
The question was a routine one; Drexelica never left the tower before ten o'clock.
'I believe so,” one of the guards said, a red-cheeked youngster whose uniform hung loosely over his spare, lanky limbs; Shakkar did not know his name. “Nobody's entered or left since we started our shift two hours ago.'
'Excellent,” the demon rumbled, towering over the youth. “May I enter?'
'Of course, Lord Seneschal!'
The two men raised their halberds at once to allow Shakkar access.
As he ascended the spiral staircase, the Seneschal mused that the folk of Crar now seemed to regard him as just another citizen, and he was not sure he liked this. On the other hand, at least the Crarians no longer fled screaming at the very sight of him, and he no longer found them quite as repulsive as once he had.
Reaching the level of the day-room, Shakkar he rapped at the door. When he heard no response, he cleared his throat with a basso rumble and called, “Lady Drexelica; it is I, Shakkar. May I come in?'
On hearing no reply, he felt uncertain how to proceed; he knew mortals had certain physical needs he found intensely distasteful to contemplate, such as the elimination of vile humours from their bodies, and he did not wish to intrude.
Tapping the claws of his feet on the flagstone floor, he waited a few minutes before trying again. “Lady Drexelica, are you there?'
At last, the towering demon gathered up the courage to open the door, fearing that he might see the lady sprawling, unconscious, on the floor, in the grip of some mortal malady. Instead, he saw the day-room looking just as it had the night before, but empty.
Shakkar frowned. Lady Drexelica was a creature of habit, as most humans seemed to be, and at this time of the day he always found her in the day-room, sipping a cup of tea.
Of greater worry was the fact that the long chaise was still scattered with discarded gowns, shawls and gloves, as it had been on the previous evening. The demon knew Lady Drexelica as a tidy mortal, fiercely proud of her fine domicile. Lady Drexelica would never have gone to bed while the room remained in disorder; she must be ill!
The Seneschal ascended the stairs to the door of the great bed-chamber that Drexelica shared with Baron Grimm when he was in residence. This time, he knocked with greater urgency, the sound reverberating throughout the tower.
'Lady Drexelica; are you well?” The booming voice shook the very walls of the edifice.
Still the demon heard no reply, and now he flung open the door, worried for the safety of his charge.
To Shakkar's relief, he saw no pale corpse lying on the floor, and the chamber appeared immaculate. The curtains were all drawn, despite the hour, and the bed was in perfect order. However, the Seneschal felt cold, unaccustomed tendrils of fear running along his spine, despite the lack of evidence of foul play.
Shakkar spent the next ten minutes scouring every room in the turret, but he could not locate the young female. He raced down the staircase, taking the stairs three at a time, and flung open the door, nearly hitting one of the guards.
'Is everything all right, Seneschal?'
'It is not!” the demon growled, his voice low and dangerous. Grasping the young guard by his jerkin, he pulled the mortal up, so that their faces met. “You swore that nobody had entered or left, but the Lady Drexelica has gone. How do you explain that?'
The guard gurgled, and no coherent sound emerged from his mouth. His colleague, his eyes wide, yelled, “It's true, Lord Seneschal, I swear! We have not left this spot since midnight, except…'
Shakkar let his unwilling, half-strangled prisoner fall to the ground, gasping for breath. “Except for what?” he demanded, turning to the other guard, almost beside himself with rage.
'Well, you know,” the terrified watchman squeaked. “It's a long shift, and we do have to… relieve ourselves from time to time. But there was always at least one of us here all through the night, I swear!'
The demon smiled at the mortal's pasty, sweaty face; these juveniles no longer regarded the Seneschal as just another puny mortal.
'I will get to the bottom of this, human,” he growled, staring straight into the petrified youth's eyes. “Who is your section commander?'
'S-sergeant Erik, Sir!” The boy's voice was little more than a whisper.
Without a further word, Shakkar went in search of the Sergeant, vowing that he would have somebody's head for this.
With sudden panic, Drexelica awoke to a blast of cold on her face. Opening bleary, gummed eyes, she dimly saw a black-clad figure standing over her with a dripping wooden bucket. It took her a few moments to orient herself, but her aching, burning limbs soon reminded her of where she was.
She was in Rendale Priory, a prisoner of the Sisters of Divine Serenity.
'I trust you slept well, bitch,” the Sister hissed. “I just want you to know that you've had it easy up to now. Today, it gets worse; much worse.'
Shivering, Drex pulled her now-ragged gown around her in an attempt to preserve her modesty. Her bones protested at the movement, screaming in outrage at the depredations that had been visited upon them.
'Why are you doing this to me?” she croaked, her throat parched.
A whistling sound was soon followed by a sharp, hot pain that bloomed in her shoulders and spread through her abused body. This was a pain she could resist; she was used to such beatings.
'You call me ‘Sister Melana', slut,” her looming companion yelled. “Don't forget that again, or it will be the worse for you.'
'Why are you doing this to me, Sister Melana?” she replied, only to feel the unwelcome attentions of the lash again.
'You forgot to say ‘Please', Supplicant; we of the Score expect politeness at all times. You were also impertinent. I won't tolerate that, ever.'
I'll kill her; I swear I will. Her bitch mistress, too.
