Deamon's Daughter Part 20

Ironically, the rohn's industrious habits did not endear them to their human hosts. Though poor compared to the daimyo, each exile arrived in Awar with his royally mandated "bloodstake": a small sack of Northlandic gold which was meant to prevent him or her from becoming a drain on Victoria's purse. With this capital, far greater than most residents of Harborside would see in their lives, they began small businesses that then provided humans with employmenta"menial, R was true, but in an impoverished area like Awar's slums, such jobs could not be scorned. Hole-in-the-wall restaurants sprung up, used-clothes sellers, tiny repair shops for the new technology. Harborside had never been so vibranta or so divided. Envy, it seemed, was not a good basis for friends.h.i.+p.

a"The True and Irreverent History of Awar They started at the Book and Beer, a local establishment that was half bookstore, half public house. It boasted a mixed crowd: students, artists, even a few rohn. The Yama sat quietly amongst themselves, dressed in their traditional navy and gray, a small but telling distance between their tables and the resta"as if the other patrons feared the foreigners might lose control and start draining everyone's energy. Had the pub been any nicer, the Yama would have been turned away. Had it been any worse, they wouldn't have come near it. Demons were notoriously finicky about dirt.

Their coin was fine, of course. Everyone liked demon gold.

Most of the humans at the Book and Beer were drinking absinthe and smoking the strong Jeruvian cigarlings that were all the rage that year. Pungent silver-blue clouds swirled above the marble cafe' tables. With their sensitive noses, Adrian wondered how the Yama could stand it. For himself, he hoped the fas.h.i.+on wouldn't last.

By the time he procured a half-pint from the tap, his determination to enjoy himself had run dry. Back at their windowside table, Roxie was reading the Awar Post. Didn't want to encourage his drunken revelry, he supposed. He turned his chair backward and straddled it. The bent-cane back provided a welcome support for his chin.

He sucked the froth off his Bookman's Red. He sighed. Roxie turned a page. "Home Rule Sympathizers Dump Tea in Harbor," tattled the headline. The Post was staunchly pro-Empire. If Victoria sneezed, it made the front page. His mind turned in an aimless circle as he thought back to the stack of papers he'd found in Tommy Bainbridge's temporary burrow. Now that Adrian was unemployed, he'd have plenty of time to look for lost boys, just no means to support it.

The reminder stirred a wave of restless energy.

"This place is too tame," he groused.

Roxie lowered the edge of her paper. She stared pointedly at a nearby table where a young woman, probably an artist's model, sat on the lap of a delighted law student.

They were sharing smoke and absinthe without benefit of a gla.s.s.

Adrian chose not to acknowledge the refutation. He set down what remained of his beer. "Let's go somewhere near the harbor. I want to see the tea those 'sympathizers' dumped."

"Adrian." She folded her paper with a brisk rattle. "Charles says you have a portrait of the High Lady in your office, so I know you don't really want to view this outrage to the Crown."

"For your information, every Security officer has one. Victoria's in our oath." All too easily, he pulled himself into review posture and placed his hand over his heart. " 'I swear to uphold the laws of the Aedlyne Empire and offer my undying fealty to our most esteemed High Lady, Victoria Christiana St. Steffin Faen Aedlys.'"

"Hear-hear," said one of the patrons, probably a second-generation immigrant.

Another, from the opposite camp, offered up a raspberry.

The rohn simply looked nervous.

Feeling bad about this and hoping to avoid a scene, Adrian stood. "I'll let you choose the spot," he said to Roxie. "As long as there's music and beer."

She considered this. "You won't argue with my choice?"

Policeman's honor, he almost said: his own personal anachronism.

"All right," she surrendered. "Be forewarned, though, the place I'm taking you isn't for tidy folk."

"Who's tidy?" he scoffed, and tugged off his cravat.

Adrian's mood made Roxanne nervous. Was this brittle cheer what failurea"temporary failure, she a.s.sured herselfa"brought out in a man? If so, how long would it last? He certainly wasn't behaving sensibly. First, he insisted on covering the evening's expenses, then wanted to hire an electric cab. She coaxed him onto the trolley instead. He might prefer to play the gentleman of means, but pride wouldn't protect his reserves.

Giving their seat a surly swipe with his handkerchief, he muttered under his breath about people who pinched a penny until it screamed.

Heat swamped her face at the unexpected barb. Yes, she economized, but why buy everything new when there were so many nice old things that only needed a bit of care to catch their second wind? Besides, she had two boys' futures to consider. And her own. And Adrian's, in a way. She knew it galled him to accept anything from her, but he'd gotten fired on her behalf. She wasn't about to let him swing in the wind. He'd have her support and be d.a.m.ned to him. Even if he wouldn't take her money.

She resettled herself on the hard wooden seat. Stupid male. Had their positions been reversed, he'd have sheltered her in a minute.

They debarked at Front and First. Adrian stepped onto the cobbles and inhaled deeply.

"See"a"he handed her downa""you can smell tea."

"I smell old fish," Roxie teased.

They stood a stone's throw from the docks. Oil lanterns lit the pier. Between bursts of noise from the taverns, waves slurped at barnacled pilings. Her nose detected the faintest whiff of oolong. The strongest smell, however, was the aroma of fresh lager. And why not? These brews made their way to Awar from all ports of Victoria's Empire. After a long journey spent inhaling the yeasty perfume, the sailors were understandably eager to sample the goods.

"Over there." She pointed to the sign swinging above one entrance. It portrayed a grinning terrier guarding a mug between his paws. "The Hair of the Dog serves the best beer in Harborside. And they've got a piano."

The fact that the owner was a personal friend and would make sure they didn't stumble into trouble, she kept to herself.

When they entered the noisy tavern, the piano sat abandoned. To Roxie's relief, Adrian put up no protest. Not that he had much opportunity. As soon as Genevieve Bleeker spotted her former s.h.i.+pmate, she let loose a whoop that rattled the bottle-bottom windows.

Built like a bulldog and twice as determined, Bleeker had been forced from the sailing life when she lost half an ear in a dockside brawl. Not only did the injury offend their captain's sense of aesthetics, the fight represented a serious breach of discipline. The heartbroken Bleeker was obliged to find a new love. Fortunately, Roxie was a well-heeled landlubber by then and could afford to stake her bar. The day Bleeker paid back Roxie's loan, she thanked her for the first time. Roxie understood. Some people couldn't rest easy until they'd paid their markers.

Sparing a brief glance for Adrian, the grizzled salt pulled Roxie into a bone-crus.h.i.+ng hug. Her short silver hair clung to her head like a cap, beneath which her mangled ear was defiantly visible. When she pushed back, her sea green eyes twinkled like stones in a streambed.

"Long time no see, Red. Been too busy playin' Hide the Sausage with the pretty boys?"

"Get swived," Roxanne retorted, falling easily into her former foul-mouthed seafaring ways. "Queen's crew always know where the sausage is."

At this, Bleeker gave Adrian a once-over direct enough to bring color into his cheeks. "Hard to lose track with a two-fister like that, eh?"

Roxie grimaced on Adrian's behalf. "Take pity, Bleeker. This one's a daisy."

"Fresh enough to pick," Adrian threw out, still red in the face. Bleeker laughed and walloped his shoulder. His good sportsmans.h.i.+p established, a friends.h.i.+p commenced. With Bleeker's help, Adrian snagged two pints and a table.

"For the sake of appearances," he said when Roxie looked askance at her br.i.m.m.i.n.g tankard. "Otherwise, these old salts will think I'm drinking alone."

He downed his drink with the appreciation of a thirsty man, after which he braced one hand on the smoke-blackened wall and stood.

He certainly didn't have a hollow leg. Roxie grinned into her fist as, swaying slightly, he shouldered through the crowd toward the battered black upright on the far wall. Her eyes widened when he tipped the bench down off the top, sat, and slid back the cover.

Adrian played?

Apparently so. He cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders in preparation. His hands descended. At first, she couldn't hear a note above the din but, gradually, as a circle of quiet spread outward from the piano, the music reached her. No childish plunking, this, but a lyrical sonata, deceptively simple, exquisitely timed. Her eyes burned, her intuitive response to artistry. Brine-tinged air gusted through the room as people on the street heard and came in. Even a few rohn braved the rowdy surroundings.

Roxie didn't bother to wonder why. Adrian was good: concert quality, anda"unlike well-born Yama, who tended to suppress such proclivitiesa"rohn were as susceptible to the enticements of human music as they were to etheric-force. Adrian's fingers must have seemed magical as they flowed over the keys. His body swayed. His eyes closed. Then, as though embarra.s.sed by his solemnity, he broke into a champagne waltz so bubbly it made her feet itch for dancing slippers.

When the last note faded, she put two fingers to her mouth and whistled. "More," she called. "More."

Suckers for a good tune, no matter what sort, the Dog's nautical patrons seconded her.

A sheepish grin split Adrian's face. "Only if you come up here and sing," he shouted back through cupped hands.

"Sing!" demanded the crowd, lifting her bodily out of her chair. They pushed her forward until she reached his side.

Adrian thought he'd never seen anything as beautiful as the flush of laughter on her face. He might have embarra.s.sed her, but not badly.

"How do you know I can sing?" she hissed by his ear.

He tilted his shoulders. "You've got your mother's voice."

"Well, scoot over at least." She used her hip to make room for herself on the bench. "I want to be sure you play something I know."

Elbowing his arm out of the way, she jumped into the prelude of a popular drinking song. Her style fit their surroundings better than his. Heedless of missed or ill-counted notes, her playing raced onward like a runaway carthorse. Within moments, she had toes tapping and heads nodding. She was clearly trying to stump him with her choice of music, but as the son of a s.h.i.+p's carpenter, Adrian knew plenty of sailors' favorites. Determined not to be outdone, he bounced an impromptu embellishment off the lower octaves. The barmaids cheered.

That'll show her, he thought. One more pleasure we have in common.

Roxie laughed and tossed her head. Her chest inflated with a breath. She opened her lovely mouth to sing.

Her mother's voice did not come pouring out. Roxie's was too gruff and underused to reach the diva's s.h.i.+mmering perfection. She had no vibrato, catch-as-catch-can volume, and an overfondness for slide. What she did possess was absolute and perfectly rounded pitch, as though the notes had been hammered into her in the cradle. And there was something about the way she sang, some quirk of phrasing, some knack for tugging the emotional heartstrings, that reminded the listener of the Incomparable One.

"La Belle's daughter," he heard someone whisper after they finished in a crash of chords.

Before they had time to think of returning to their table, a balloon of brandy was placed on top of the piano, a silent request for an encore from an extremely polite-looking Yama with his hair slicked like a seal's behind his ears. The demon melted back into the crowd before anyone could express surprise at his presence. Adrian experienced a twinge of concern for the man's well-being but supposed the music made temporary brothers of them all.

Refusing to worry, he nudged the gla.s.s toward Roxie with a wink. "Good for the throat."

She rolled her eyes, but she took a sip, and another when the whn's small table sent a second offering. The crowd began to cheer both the Yama and Roxie on, making a joke of their bowing generosity. Adrian was sober by the time Roxie slipped into a giddy sort of melancholy, crooning out a string of sailors' laments: deaths at sea, unfaithful wives, all of which she ruined by dissolving into giggles at inappropriate intervals.

The "Song of the Love-Mad Rohn" a G.o.d-awful piece of sentiment that for some reason was popular with both races, nearly brought down the house.

Adrian didn't care if the tune was maudlin. The sight of Roxie's glowing face entranced him. Her eyes danced with the music. Her hair spilled little curls from the edges of Jher sunny braid. For once, she was glad to be her mother's daughter. He wished he could surround her with adulation for the rest of her days, that he could keep her safe from worry.

In the end, he had to force her hands off the keys.

"That's enough, you drunken parakeet." He kissed her cheek. "Any more and you won't be able to talk tomorrow."

"I will," she protested, but she had to cough to get the words out.

The night was black and star-strewn, the city silent as it held a long predawn breath. They ambled across deserted Victoria Bridge, their arms around each other's waists, trying to walk off Roxie's inebriation. Adrian had no gloves, so she coaxed his hand into the pocket of her long tweed coat and slipped her own beneath it. Of his own volition, Adrian tangled their fingers together.

I love this man, she thought, knowing the ache in her throat was due to more than strained vocal chords. What will I do if he decides I'm not worth his sacrifice ?

Given her preoccupation, it was no wonder she didn't see the danger behind them until it was too late.

The five laughing Yama appeared out of nowhere, drunk and stumbling and attempting to sing in the horribly off-key manner of their race. From their choice of tunes, they must have followed them from the Dog. Not wis.h.i.+ng to insult them, Roxanne fought a compulsion to plug her ears.

"You!" one of them called, b.u.mping up against her and taking her arm. "La Belle Yvonne's daughter. We throwing party. You come sing for us, and we pay gold."

A second Yama hooked her arm familiarly. She was about to offer a polite refusal when she noticed three of the others had stumbled between her and Adrian and were crowding him back into the bridge's bal.u.s.trade. They were dressed like rohn in simple blue and gray, but their hair was not short the way it should have been. Instead, it was tied back in crisscrossed leather and fell to their waists. Her drunkenness cleared in an instant.

These were daimyo.

"Hey!" she said, abruptly alarmed.

Before she could shout any further warning, something cold p.r.i.c.ked her neck. Her knees crumpled, her body going numb with what felt like a ma.s.sive dose of narcophane. Paralyzed, unable to speak or fight, she struggled simply to breathe while the two Yama who had b.u.mped her wrapped their arms around her waist. Lifting her to her feet, they started dragging her to the opposite end of the bridge.

The tall black lampposts blurred as if she were pa.s.sing them at a dead run. Roxie didn't think this perception was the effect of the drug. The demon's swiftness was impressive, far greater than humans would have managed with a limp burden. Their manner, too, had undergone a transformation. Gone was the laughter and drunkenness, gone the humility. As they pulled her along, they wore the haughty masks daimyo preferred to expressions.

To her dismay, she recognized them as the Yama who'd bought her all those gla.s.ses of brandy at Bleeker's place. Obviously, this was a well-planned attack.

She barely had time to register the presence of the electric automobile before they shoved her into its backseat.

"Whaa"" she gasped, trying to wedge her dangling foot into the open door, not an easy task when one's muscles felt like overcooked noodles.

While the Yama struggled to close the door, she heard cries back on the bridge, followed by a splash. Unable to turn her neck, she could only hope Adrian hadn't been thrown into the river.

Her captors began to argue in Yamish above her heada"at least, it sounded like an argument. They threw her leg in and climbed into the seat beside her. A sixth Yama started the car, which rolled speedily into motion.

Good Lord, she thought. I'm being abducted.

Her body slumped half-upright against the door, exactly as the demons left it.

"Whaa"you want?" she managed to ask, her tongue as thick as cotton.

Perhaps because she'd spoken Ohramese, the Yama did, too.

"How much did you give her?" the second demon asked the first, all hint of halting accent gone.

"Enough to knock out one of us," the other replied. "The man said not to give her a chance to fight. Said he didn't want damaged goods."

What man? she wanted to demand. Who sent you to do this?

Clearly they'd given her a larger-than-human dose of sedative. Just as clearly, she wasn't reacting as they expected. Maybe her mixed heritage made her respond differently. Maybe if she tried, she could throw off even more of the drug's influence.

They rattled past a repair shop she frequented, the "Toasters Fixed Like New!" sign wavering before her bleary eyes. Two of her fingers twitched. If she could open the door latch, she might be able to roll out of the car and scream for help.

She heard a new sound then, one that caused her captors to turn and exclaim with un-demonlike surprise.

Someone was running after the speeding car. Not only that, someone was catching up.

Adrian, she thought, anxiety and hope twisting in her breast. He must have activated his implants. That splash she heard must have been him throwing the other three into the river.

As long as her captors were distracted, Roxanne gritted her teeth, maneuvered her tingling hands around the door latch, and pulled feebly.

Luckily, the door wasn't locked.

As her weight toppled, she fell out, hit the rus.h.i.+ng ground like a sack of flour, and rolled into a hitching post. Her head smacked something hard, but for the moment she was free. If she could have gotten up and run, she would have felt better about her chance of staying that way.

As she'd feared, the electric car turned with a squeal of brakes and started coming back for her. Adrian was waiting. She watched, astonished, as he ripped off the door she hadn't fallen out of, yanked one of the Yama from the opening, and tossed him through a shop window. Gla.s.s shattered noisily. The car screeched to a halt.

Though the Yama wasn't as badly hurt as a human would have been and was only bleeding from several cuts, he did seem dazed as he tottered out through the shards.

Adrian didn't give him time to recover.

"Who sent you?" he demanded, grabbing the stunned daimyo and shoving him against a wall.