Tall and slim and centered, she waited on him patiently as he came up the walk, an old man she had never seen before. The demon might have found her pretty—long blond hair gone almost white, brilliant green eyes, fine features—if he had thought that humans in general were the least bit attractive, which he did not. Save for those few who had the use of magic or carried talismans possessed of magic, there was nothing interesting about any of them.
Still, he liked the cool way she appraised him, not in the least afraid, not showing even the smallest deference.
“Good day,” he greeted her, giving a smile and a sort of small bow. “Are you Aislinne Kray?”
She nodded. “I am. And you?”
He gave her his patented shrug. “I don’t really have a name. Haven’t got much use for one. I am a ragpicker, an itinerant, and I never stay long enough in any one place to have need of a name. I had one once, I think, but I have long since forgotten it. I hope that doesn’t matter?”
She gave him a look. “It doesn’t to me. I can’t speak for others. What brings you to my home?”
“A favor.” He gave her another smile. “I am looking for a man. His name is Sider Ament. I am told by some of the villagers that you knew him as a girl and that he sometimes comes here. I was wondering if you might know where he is now.”
She said nothing, green eyes fixed on his face. Her steady gaze gave him an unexpectedly uncomfortable feeling, and he suddenly wondered if he had said something that gave him away.
Then she shook her head slowly. “You’ve come too late. Sider Ament is dead. He was killed last week at Declan Reach. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
The demon was momentarily flummoxed. Dead? That was what the girl in the ruins had said, and he had known at once that she was lying. But this time the words rang true.
“You will pardon me for asking this,” he said to Aislinne Kray, “but are you sure? I came a long way to find him, and this news is heartbreaking.”
“To me, as well. But there’s no mistaking it. The source is unimpeachable. He would not lie. Sider is dead.” She hesitated. “Why were you seeking him?”
The ragpicker shrugged. “He did me a great favor once, something of a personal nature, something I don’t talk about with anyone. But I never had a chance to thank him. It took me until now to find enough coin and courage to come looking for him.” He smiled ruefully. “I waited too long.”
The woman nodded. “Would you like some tea?”
The ragpicker nodded. “That would be nice.”
She did not invite him inside, but left him waiting on her front stoop while she fetched the tea. While she was gone, he gave thought to what this new information would do to his plans.
“Green tea for a cool morning,” she announced, handing him a mug. She sat down beside him. “How long ago was it that you met Sider?”
“Oh, several years. Too long to make excuses.” He sipped at the tea. “This is quite good. I can’t remember when I’ve had better.” He sipped some more. “I was wondering.
When I met him—Sider Ament—he was carrying a black staff carved with symbols.
Quite striking. Do you know what became of it?”
For a second time, her green eyes fixed on him, and this time there was no mistake— he had crossed a line that revealed him. She smiled, reached out, and took the mug of tea out of his hand.
“I can’t imagine,” she said conversationally, “what difference it would make to you, an itinerant ragpicker who met Sider Ament the one time only, what became of the black staff.”
He tried a reassuring smile. “It doesn’t make a difference so much as it satisfies my curiosity.”
She stood up. “I rather doubt that. Just as I am beginning to doubt that you are anything of what you say you are. It was nice meeting you, but I think you had better leave.”
He stood up with her but made no move to depart. “You are a perceptive lady.
Perhaps you have discerned I seldom leave without gaining possession of what I came for. In this case, it was only information. If I am denied, I might choose to come back for something more.”
She gave him a chilly smile. “Others have made the mistake of thinking that way. You can visit their remains in the woods.”
She was only a woman holding two mugs of tea and lacking any weapons at all. But there was something about the way she said it that gave him pause.
By then, it was too late.
“Good morning, Brickey,” she called to someone behind him.
The ragpicker turned to find a gnarled little man with a shock of unruly black hair and a crooked smile approaching, seemingly out of nowhere. There was something dangerous about him, and the ragpicker sensed it right away. He was certain he could dispose of him, that the little man was no match for him. But there was every chance the effort would draw attention, and he did not want that.
“Can I help with something, Aislinne?” the man called Brickey asked, never taking his eyes off her visitor.
The ragpicker bowed to Aislinne Kray. “I have overstayed my welcome. I apologize. I am sure I can find what I need somewhere else. Good day.”
Without a glance for either the little man or Aislinne Kray, the ragpicker turned and walked away. He could feel the woman’s eyes on his back, and it made him smile. She might not realize it, but his business with her was far from finished.
He would be back to see her later.