Feathers and Brass Knuckles

By L L Watkin

Robbie is a demon, able to fly, disguise his appearance and use magic, but also enslaved, forbidden from attempting to escape or to disobey his master. His new master wants to take back the throne that was stolen from him, and Robbie must fight on his master's side. Whether or not he agrees with him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L L Watkin
• Release date: Jul 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201885571

L L Watkin

LL Watkin is the pen name for writing partnership Liz Smith and Louise Smith, two sisters from the North of England who've been writing together since, well, forever. We write a mixture of short stories and full length novels in the science fiction and fantasy genres, and while some stories may be more Louise's and others more Liz's, all spring from a collaborative process.In summer 2022 we will publish our new four part novel series, The Snowglobe, which is a double-stranded narrative set in a multi-dimensional universe. It concerns a criminal investigation by Divine Law Enforcement (DLE), which aims to locate and arrest a psychotic demi-god, Kaelvan, who is determined to murder a specific human child. Although the plot includes fantastical elements, most often ESP and telekinesis, the settings are all post-industrial societies, some of them more technologically advanced than our own and others steam-punk in feel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I looked at the floor. It was made of smooth, earthenware tiles, warm to look at and cool to touch. They were polished by many years of footsteps and scrubbed spotlessly clean. They were three inches from my nose, where I had bowed over my kneeling legs. My hands were cuffed behind my back, these manacles linked to a chain leash, which had been held by my master, but which was now laid, almost casually, over a dining chair which should rightly be pushed under the kitchen table.

That was all I could see at the moment, but I knew that the rest of the room was homely, filled with simple, rural furniture and dominated by a large cast iron stove set back into its own chimney. There were blue and white patterned tiles on the walls and copper pots hanging from dozens of hooks. On the table and the dresser were oil lamps with blown glass hoods, lending everything a soft, smokeless glow. I could hear the gentle lowing of cattle next door, brought in for the night and waiting for their milking.

The owners were not present. The farmer had let us in, taken his payment and vanished. I had spotted a brief flash of grey skirts as his lady fled our arrival into the depths of her house. The place was well to do enough that she probably had a parlour somewhere and hadn’t been forced to choose between her sleeping alcove and the adjoining barn. If there were children, they had been put to bed in the hayloft.

My master was pacing nervously. His boot heels clicked on the tiles as he traced and retraced the path of the mud he’d dragged in. I thought he might be chewing his nails; it was hard to be sure. He hadn’t told me why we were here, in this remote hill farm two days ride from town, but I gathered that whoever we were meeting was late.

It was uncommon for my master to conceal things from me. He trusted the geas more than he should and had always spoken more honestly to me than to any of his family or friends, even before we’d left them all behind. He’d been young and cocky then, proud to spend his inheritance on powerful magics, believing that made him a mage. Possibly that had already been the poppy talking, but certainly his studies had soon stalled, and we had begun our slow westward drift, until we had washed up on the docks of Deistir, which were laden with the cheapest poppy to be found.

Still, he had many fine qualities as a master. He’d never found anything for me to do, save hauling him home from the smoky dens he passed out in. He wouldn’t stoop to theft, let alone violence, and when he had money, he fed me as well as himself. It had been an easy life, if not an edifying one, but it seemed it was over now.

I had guessed that I was to be sold. It would explain the leash, which was far too cumbersome for everyday use, and the high levels of tension. My master needed money for his vices and needed it badly enough to sacrifice my services, but his addictions had not made him stupid. He knew that once my ownership was transferred, it was even odds that my new master would cover his tracks by the most expedient method.

I wondered if his blood would stain the tiles. I had never been sold in a kitchen before. At backroad crossings, in woodland clearings and in abandoned buildings, but never in a kitchen. It should be a relief to be warm, really, but I was never contented. I was starting to focus on my aching knees.

Outside, it had started to rain again, dripping from the overhanging thatch and splashing from the doorstep and the window ledges. The sun had set an hour ago and the rest of the night boded to be miserable. It was appropriate weather for such dealings as this, or as close as could be got this close to midsummer.

My master was thinking of giving up and returning to town. His steps had slowed and at each turn he lingered longer with his hand hovering over my leash. Then his needs would dominate, and he would tell himself to wait five more minutes, and five more.

At last, his impatience was rewarded. Horses approached across the farmyard, dragging something wheeled, I couldn’t tell if it was a wagon or a carriage from the sound alone. It was a large party, perhaps a dozen strong, but only one approached the door. He knocked firmly to an odd tempo clearly set as a pass code.

My master let out his breath. He crossed the room in wide, eager strides and pushed open the latch. You’re late.

This isn’t business which should be hurried. The buyer had a deep, cultured voice, trained out of any regional accents. He could be a richer sort of merchant, perhaps from the capital, but I thought it more likely he was from the landed gentry or the lower nobility. I could only see his boots and they were good quality leather, extravagantly tooled with gilding on the heels. It was vital we were not seen.

Vital, yes. Neither of them wanted to dwell on the punishments they would face if they were caught. I thought it wasn’t entirely clear that they would be punished. Some things were clearly wrong, without being explicitly illegal, and the laws surrounding witchcraft were enforced or not depending mainly on the whims of the current king, varying from reign to reign and even by case to case. They, no doubt, were only thinking of the worst-case scenario. It is safer to be quick and be gone.

Indeed. This is the creature?

Yes, and this is the control, as I described. I felt his hands on the knife as though they were laid on my soul. It was an ornate dagger, its blade bright and sharp and its gilded hilt encrusted with precious stones. Its intrinsic value would support my master’s habits for months, but here its worth was calculated only by the spells woven through it. The geas spells which gave its wearer the right to command me. I loathed the feeling of the geas in my mind, its eagerness for instructions, and I refused to watch as it traded hands.

How does it work? my new master asked.

There is no magic involved, George Clayton assured him. No doubt the witch who made it was very skilled, but having been made, operating it is very simple. You only need to be clear in your orders. He is obliged to obey to the letter, so be as specific as you can be.

You call it a he?

I believe that is his natural gender. He’s a shapeshifter, of course, so if you commanded him to appear as female, he would.

My new master made a noncommittal, thoughtful sound. I was not unduly worried by this possibility. It was true, and I had occasionally been used to fulfil sexual desires in the past, but not often and never as a primary purpose. Common human prostitutes could be had for a fraction of my cost and no need to trouble the hangman. Most of my masters did work out that, although expensive, I’d already been paid for, but George Clayton had continued to fritter away his pennies on women, so I was slightly surprised, and a little disgruntled, that he’d thought to mention it.

What other powers does he have?

Many. He is an accomplished magician, he speaks all tongues, he can become invisible, and he can travel swiftly. He’s also a skilled musician, companion and adviser.

You trust his opinion?

He is forbidden from deceiving his master. He can be trusted in all but one respect – the geas also forbids him from assisting anyone to break his captivity. Anyone, including his master. He will not tell you anything you could use to break the geas.

I silently objected to the phrase will not. It implied I chose to be obstructive, which was absurd. I could not reveal such information.

Is there much he won’t say?

Not of any daily use. He won’t talk about his previous masters, or how he came to be bound. He won’t tell you which type of demon he is. I assume that’s to stop expert magicians researching weaknesses.

And does he have weaknesses?

All demons have something, but I don’t go out of my way to guess it. I’ve never asked for something he cannot do.

Hmm. My new master thought my old one was a provincial lacking in imagination, and he was not entirely wrong. You didn’t mention skill at arms.

Ah. Well, there is trusting the geas, and then there is giving him sharp blades. It is possible he could fight the geas long enough to do some damage with a sword. Its action is swift, but not instant.

Your concern is noted. One expensive boot tapped its toes, counting to ten as its owner thought. Very well, he said. He had likely been doing his own research before committing to the sale, and therefore his questions were only confirming what he already knew. I have your price.

The transfer of money was silent, no jingling coins being counted here. It was too large a sum for either party to want to carry it in silver, even gold would be conspicuous. It would not be paper promises, either. They were too easily traced. My guess was that the purse contained diamonds. I was curious, (despite the ignominy of enslavement, it is gratifying to have such a tangible measure of worth), but I didn’t ask after my price. In fact, I had yet to speak at all, and I hadn’t been spoken to.

This is in order, Clayton said. If he was surprised, he hid it well, but he shouldn’t have been. No one had come here to haggle. I will leave you. He was quick, and cautious, escaping into the main house heading for the barn doors. He didn’t want to pass the swordsmen waiting in the farmyard. I didn’t think his subterfuge would save him if my new master decided he was better done away with, but I supposed it could not do him any harm.

Alright, slave. My new master crouched down before me. I raised my gaze a little, peering up at him through my straggly hair. The rest of his garb matched his boots, practical but well-made, with several expensive touches such as metal buttons and buckles. He was approaching mid-life, with a spreading belly and thinning hair, but he was still strong and straight-backed. He had a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, originally dark but now shot with grey, which made it difficult to tell his expression. There were some complex emotions hidden there – fear, disgust, loyalty, hope. He suppressed them all under a veneer of professionalism.

He was returning my interest, searching my face for hints of rebellion or hatred. I gave him none, but I was careful not to seem too docile either. I didn’t want to be treated as a mindless tool. He seemed to be satisfied.

Do you have a name?

I do, master. People call me Robert.

Robert? He snorted. That’s an ordinary name for a demon, isn’t it?

It is, I allowed. I hadn’t said it was my name, only that it was what I was called. Even that was only true relatively recently. This was equally true of my mud-brown hair and nondescript, middle-aged features, neither of which bore much relation to my true appearance. It was not to Clayton’s advantage for me to stand out, master.

True. A foreign sounding name wouldn’t suit my purposes, either. Robert it is. I am not your master. I am only the courier to take you to him.

I said nothing. Whoever possessed the dagger was my master, whether or not they had paid for it. If he wished to give me to his superior, that was his business.

Get up. We are leaving.

Yes, master. I pushed up to my feet, a matter made more complicated than it should have been by the handcuffs. A stiffness had set into my muscles while I had knelt there, but my balance was equal to the task. Once upright, of course, I was still trapped by the leash, which my master had yet to grasp.

He waited to see if I would reach for the chain myself, and, when I did not, asked Can you free yourself?

My previous master commanded that I didn’t, and so I cannot.

And if I commanded you to break the irons?

Then I would try. I gave the chain a closer inspection. Clayton had inherited it from the master before him, and it hadn’t fared well through his fall from grace and the many cheap, damp lodging houses we’d stayed in over the years. It was badly rusted and several of the links were bent out of shape. This was aside from the ease of magically turning the lock. I think I’d succeed, I admitted.

Then you might as well be loose, since it’s the word that really holds you. He rubbed his chin, considering. I could have told him that this was not strictly true, that although I could break the chains, I could not do it quickly enough to strike him through the geas whereas without the chains I might do some damage before the pain brought me down, but he didn’t ask, so I didn’t say. No, it would disturb the men. They won’t have you loose among them. They know what you are.

I didn’t merely doubt that – I knew it was false.

My master took up the leash and led me to the door. He pushed me out first, into the dark downpour. I slid in the mud as I tried to make out our company. There were eight of them. Six were mounted guardsmen, armed with swords and bows and clothed in reinforced leather jerkins. The other two were servants in charge of a small, covered wagon drawn by a pair of shaggy carthorses. All of them were shivering and miserable and ready to be gone from this normally homely place.

I looked for my horse, but there was only one riderless beast. I wondered if they intended me to walk, or run, if I could, but they wanted to be inconspicuous and dragging prisoners through the mud would draw attention. I must be intended for the wagon.

I was therefore not surprised to be shown the rear of the covered area and required to climb in. I balked, because the space was clearly too small, but the geas insisted. A sharp, warning pain in my temples was enough to overcome my claustrophobia and I climbed in as instructed. I was more encouraged when my courier unlocked the manacles, though my hopes faded again as he tossed the chains in with me rather than throwing them away. He closed a metal grate over the entrance and locked it in place.

Time to do the necessary, my lord? The guard was deferential, but there was a trace of eagerness in his voice.

Aye, my temporary master agreed. Burn it to the ground.

The guard nodded, striking a light onto the torch he held ready for the purpose. I didn’t see more, because they dropped the covering over the door, hiding their crimes from view. I heard the screams, though. There had been children. Three, I thought.

The reek of burning flesh crept in with the smoke, coming through every small gap in the fabric concealing me. This was familiar, if terrible. It would fade, quickly enough.

Soon, we were moving. At first, I was jostled uncomfortably as we made our way out of the farmyard and down the access lane. I heard the drivers cursing the sticky mud and whipping the horses faster, but it was probably still slow going. I had no way to know for sure. I sensed the change when we reached the highway, the wheels turned quicker and with less protest and the horses moved up to a trot. We’d turned right, away from the sea. Home, for this master, at least.

I felt out my space. Even along the diagonal, I could barely stretch out a single wing at a time. That was something I couldn’t complain about to my master, even if I thought he would care, so I decided to be grateful that I would be able to lie down, at least. I crawled over to a corner and tried to get some rest.

I judged it was about midnight when they pulled off the road and made camp. My circumstances were unchanged. I had no food, no water and no light, but at least the covering kept out the rain and I wasn’t jolted awake every few minutes. With no other options, I chose to wait it out.

Dawn was more helpful. A thin shaft of light found its way through the flap at the back, another through a similar flap at the front, although that was smaller, blocked out by the driver’s bench. It was enough for me to make out my cell. It was a roughly six-feet cubed steel-work cage, bolted to the wagon’s floorboards. Three thick planks ran around the sides, but the upper half was only steel and canvas. There was only one door, padlocked shut. In the corner by that door was a cheap ceramic chamber pot. My leash and cuff were still lying where they had been thrown. It was, overall, rather dismal.

My companions were not early risers. I counted out another hour, long enough for the birds to fall quiet again, before I heard humans about. There was the normal amount of shuffling, grumbling and splashing as they made ready, and then the sizzle of bacon added to a frying pan. Underneath the meaty scents, I smelled sweet porridge and ale. To a passer-by, it might have looked like any other camp at breakfast, if they didn’t see the prison wagon.

I sensed I was being approached. The boots made little sound on the wet grass, but there was a watchful awareness in the air, a sense of danger. I made myself as unthreatening as possible.

My master pulled aside the covering. He had brought a bodyguard, standing to the side with an axe ready in case I tried to run. Neither of them relaxed, even when they saw I was pressed into the back corner.

Do you eat, demon?

Yes. They could probably have guessed as much from the chamber pot, but I wasn’t about to be sarcastic. I would rather not go hungry, if I could avoid it. I have a similar diet to humans. As an afterthought, I added Alcohol disagrees with me.

My master grunted. You’ll have to take your chances with the water, then. It’s usually alright, out here in the country.

Thank you, master.

I stayed out of the way and watched as they emptied my waste and deposited a jug of water and a plate of bread and thick sliced bacon. I let them lock the grate and replace the covering before I moved to grab the food.

I was hungry. Clayton hadn’t seen any benefit to feeding something he was about to sell. He had been so desperate for money he had been barely able to feed himself this past month, though that hadn’t stopped him buying his poison. With money in his pocket, he may already have bought enough to kill himself. There was nothing I could do about that, but I regretted the possibility. Shallow as Clayton had been, his demands on me had been harmless. I suspected my new master would not be so trivial.

With that in mind, I analysed the food and water, checking it for drugs. They might have decided it would be more convenient if I slept the whole journey, in which case I wouldn’t eat it until they commanded me to. I detected nothing untoward and allowed myself to munch.

Chapter 2

For five days we plodded north. I slept. I listened to the drivers complain about the weather and debate random, unimportant matters. I started scratching graffiti into the planks surrounding me. I even considered breaking out. My master had only implied he would be displeased, he hadn’t actually forbidden it, but I didn’t have the measure of him yet to know if I could get away with bending implied orders. I suspected I would be punished in worse ways than this confinement, which was his right, of course. If he was that sort of man, inevitably I would find out, but better later than sooner.

I was safe, pain free and reasonably fed and watered. Boredom should have been easy to bear, in comparison to the alternatives, but I chafed at my captivity. I began to speculate about where we were going, and who we would meet there, even though experience told me this would only lead to disappointment. There was always the option that my new master had no intentions at all – I had served several masters whose only interest in me was to boost their own egos or advance their own knowledge, with no plan to use that power. Nevertheless, I invented motives and prepared how to deal with them.

I thought it must be an important man (it was almost always a man – women didn’t have as ready access to the funds required to buy me). He clearly trusted his men implicitly, which meant he had personal charisma, valuable favours in his gift and probably hereditary authority. Clayton had had no interest in politics, but I had listened at doorways when he didn’t need me and that had been often enough to gather, even from the gossip of a backwater town, that there was a succession crisis brewing in the kingdom. It seemed possible I was being recruited by a claimant to the throne, probably the one with the weaker natural claim. More likely it was a lesser noble hoping to advance during the chaos.

Perhaps I would be sent to court. I liked that idea, but I struggled to justify it. I was a good spy, but equally good human spies could be got almost as easily as whores.

Perhaps a messenger. I liked that idea as well. It promised long periods away from my master, relatively free to choose my own paths and habits. It was feasible, as well. I could travel far faster than this heap of wood and metal was going and that was a great advantage if events were coming to civil war. It could even be exciting.

This was where I had to stop my daydreams. Whatever was coming would certainly not be enjoyable for me. It never was.

Finally, we reached our destination. We were still in rural surroundings, but the sound of the wheels changed back from the clatter of the well-maintained highway to the dust of a minor road. The guardsmen shifted to alert, rattling their weapons and stilling their joking. They did not want to be seen on the approach, but nor did they want to attract attention by waiting for nightfall. I stirred myself to peer through the chinks in my covering, but I couldn’t make out anything further than the hedgerows.

My ears followed our progress from the dirt road onto a gravel driveway. We halted to be interrogated by guards with clear, educated accents. My master was expected, and it was only a short delay before we advanced across a wooden bridge (probably a moat drawbridge) and onto a cobbled surface. This was only a short journey, and then oppressive darkness engulfed me. We were indoors.

Home sweet home. My master’s voice was muffled, but I detected irony in it. This was probably because of the smell, which was redolent of oiled leather and animal muck. I guessed we had come to some sort of barn or stable, a working area my master didn’t have to visit very often. Let’s get him out. The prince will be waiting.

The prince. There were several men with that title, and not a few boys, but my suspicions immediately latched on Prince John, the king’s nephew. He had a ruthless, ambitious reputation and one of the wealthiest estates in the kingdom, which lay in broadly the direction we’d travelled, though I couldn’t be sure of the distance.

They opened the cage door and I hopped out. Two of the burly men jumped back at least a yard, and then raised their weapons as if to prove they really were prepared to fight me. They needn’t have worried. I had been crouched and curled for so long that I had trouble straightening my knees, never mind striking out at them. I rolled my shoulders, gratefully shaking my wings out, not that anyone could see them.

We were in a long, narrow carriage house, mostly empty apart from a single coach at the far end, the sort a high-born lady might travel long distances in. It was significantly more ornate than my recent abode, and its wheels were sprung to reduce the worst of the jostling, but it looked as though it hadn’t been driven out for a while. The outside doors had been closed against my escape and the only light filtered down from narrow windows near the roof. The long interior wall was pierced by arched gaps, crossed with iron bars, and through these I heard the snorts and rustles of stabled horses. There was no one here to meet us.

My master reached behind me for my leash, before deciding against it. He didn’t say why, but I inferred that I would be less conspicuous if I wasn’t dragging chains behind me. They didn’t trust everyone in this place. They would have been stupid if they had. An estate required so many servants, most of them poorly paid and many free to roam almost anywhere, that it was almost inevitable information would be sold at some point. Instead, I was instructed to behave myself and to keep up, to which I nodded assent. He could have told me to make myself invisible, Clayton had clearly told him that I could, but he had either forgotten or didn’t want me out of his sight. I chose not to suggest it to him.

We walked out through the stable and into a yard. When I finished blinking at the daylight, I saw there were two workmen there repairing broken harnesses. They looked up, saw my master and hastily dropped their gazes again. I continued to look about. The yard was surrounded by low built workshops with roofs of expensive slate and walls smoothly plastered and painted an appealing yellow tone. In the background above them rose a more impressive building, several stories tall and decorated with white plasterwork columns. It was a palace, then, and not the defensive castle I had expected.

Soon we left the functional part of the site and entered a formal garden. Neatly pruned box hedging was laid in geometric patterns, separated by wide gravel pathways and centred by a circular pond where large carp were idling along. It was only thirty feet across, though, and probably a private side garden, only a small portion of the grounds. We crossed the deserted space and went into the main building through an extravagant glass paned doorway.

This led to an entertainment space, either a ballroom or a concert hall. It had windows on three sides, all plushily draped, and a polished parquet floor. I pitied the maids who would have to mop our muddy boot-prints. I also wondered at my master, who could surely tell that our passage was clearly marked on the floor as we progressed to a hidden door, cleverly disguised as part of the interior wall.

Once past this we were in safer territory, ascending the back, servants’ stairs to the upper floors. Nothing was ornate here. The steps were simple stone, the walls white-washed plaster and the candle-holders plain ceramic. But there were candleholders, and windows, a banister and low, even steps, proving that the owner (or at least the original builder, if not the current occupier) had cared for the welfare of his staff. We dragged our mud upwards and paused at the upstairs landing.

No one knocked. Murmurs drifted through the oak-panelled door, hints of other, private conversations going on beyond. It was muffled, but when I concentrated, I could make out enough words to infer they were discussing the harvest and the taxes due on it. I thought we could be waiting for a while.

Things were awkward on the landing. Space was too tight for my guards to keep as much distance from me as they wanted, forcing them to lean uncomfortably and pretend they weren’t. They couldn’t leaven the tension by joking or pushing me. Only my master seemed immune, and I suspected even he was only better at controlling his expression. I yawned and sat down. Their knees were marginally more interesting than their faces.

Finally, I heard the estate manager saying his farewells, promising to have the requested details ready for the next day. I imagined a stout, practical man bowing as he backed out of the room and closed the door. That would be the formal door, of course, which would lead to the public apartments, probably a long chain of them stretching along a full side of the palace to a grand staircase.

The doorknob turned and I sprang to my feet. One of the men cursed in surprise, hastily biting his tongue. The woman at the door didn’t allow herself to flinch. If she had, her dress might have fallen off. It was an elegant garment made of cream silks and lace, fashioned with ribbon-like arms lying off her shoulders and supporting itself by the stiff board of the bodice. Even without her finery, she would have been a beautiful woman, with a creamy, indoor complexion and a rounded, well-fed figure. Her cheeks were powdered, and her honey-blonde hair ornately piled on top of her head. The whole was accentuated by large pearls dropping from delicate earlobes and a black ribbon caught tightly about her throat. In any place other than court, it was unsuitable wear before nightfall. The mistress, I thought.

Lord Brackis, she said, forcing her voice low and sultry. His Highness has been expecting you.

My apologies, Lady Celia. My master swept off his hat in a flourishing bow. The roads are always dreadful after summer storms.

I suppose they are, she said negligently, as if she never had to bother with travelling. She pulled the door open further and admitted my master and I to the sanctum. The guards stayed outside – in fact, I heard them retreating as soon as the door was closed, probably heading for the mess rooms.

The room we now stood in met my expectations. The high ceiling carried a skilfully painted procession of chubby angels, assisting some richly dressed royalty up to heaven. Several large portraits of the same sort of people covered the walls, surrounded by heavy, gilded frames and held up on golden chains. There was a dark marble fireplace and a selection of classical furniture, including a desk and several inlaid cabinets. Importantly, it was not too large, giving visitors the impression they were receiving the prince’s full attention. The four of us seemed to fill the space past bursting point. I supposed we all had egos extending out past our skins.

My master bowed again, this time to the gentleman waiting. This was a man slightly past his prime but still in good strength. There were a handful of wrinkles on his face and grey peppered the black in his neatly trimmed beard and at his temples. He was dressed as any lord might be when at rest in his own palace, with a well-tailored waistcoat and starched shirt, over fitted breeches and white stockings. A brown coat lay over a chair back nearby, embellished with gold buttons and embroidered cuffs and lapels. Not a man to show off, I thought, despite the lady’s extravagance.

Is he as promised? Prince John asked. His voice was soft, dangerously controlled. His pale blue eyes were piercing as he formed his opinion of me. They would be cruel, too, sometimes.

I do not know, my prince. My master shook his head, nervously, wondering if this was wrong. I carried him here, as you commanded, but I did not experiment with his powers on the road.

Good. We couldn’t have you revealed to the guard, could we? The key, please.

I watched as the dagger changed hands, as my master became only Lord Brackis, and the prince became my master. I felt the pull in my bones. This new master had plans for me, many of them, harboured and perfected over years. Pushed by the geas, I fell to my knees and bowed my head.

My master took a moment to gather his thoughts. What are you?

I am a demon, master.

What kind?

I am forbidden from revealing that, master.

He grunted. Will you tell this to everyone you meet?

I am only bound to tell the truth to you, master. I will lie to anyone else you ask me to.

Good. I command you not to reveal this to anyone outside of this room. To them, you are a human. Is that understood?

Yes, master. It was not, after all, a difficult or surprising order. Only a fool would let me talk of things which could send him to the hangman. The block, I corrected myself. Royalty were beheaded, not hanged.

You are a shapeshifter?

Yes, master.

Show me what I looked like twenty years ago.

I blinked, then looked up at him. That was not a good angle to work from, mostly revealing his nostrils, so I pushed back onto my feet. He held still, letting me circle him as if I was his tailor, measuring him up. When I thought I had it, I started to change.

I put on three inches in height and filled out my chest and shoulders. My hair darkened to black, and my eyes lightened to blue. There was not much to change in skin tone, almost everyone in the kingdom was pale. I extemporised on the nose, not knowing when his had been bent out of shape or what it had looked like before, and I erased the small scars and nicks which were the legacy of a lifetime of war games. I thought it was a decent effort.

My master backhanded me across the left cheek, splitting my lip open. I staggered, partly in a show of subservience, and downcast my eyes.

It’s a close resemblance, my love. The lady laid a hand on my master’s arm, trying to calm him. Her eyes, at least, were wide with awe. I’m sure he can fix whatever irks you.

I irk myself, my lady. He patted her hand comfortingly. He has an unappealing aspect. However close a match to my own, that won’t help us gain favour at court. He must be more… charming.

Charming? I wondered at this man, who was upset his younger self hadn’t been handsome enough. It hadn’t diminished his sense of entitlement, but it could be causing deep-rooted resentments. What did he think about the current version of himself? It was not my place to guess, I suppose.

I tried again, changing my hair to reddish brown curls and regularising my features. I kept his eyes, which were the true focus of his face. This had the advantage of being very close to my genuine appearance, which made it an easier glamour to maintain, but it had always proved too striking to be allowed in the past. My master, however, seemed to like it better.

That one’s attractive, he complimented, starting to walk around me as I had circled around him earlier. It would fit the purpose, except that it isn’t a fair likeness.

Children do not always favour their fathers, your highness. Lord Brackis frowned. I remember a red-headed lady, he went on. Lady Celia suddenly looked as though she had swallowed a lemon. Very pretty, in a common-bred way, with a gentle way of teasing. I can’t name her, though.

Jane, my master provided thoughtfully. She was a maid in my wife’s household. That would be a bit less than twenty years. Such a child would be seventeen, perhaps eighteen. I will have to consult my journal.

We don’t have to name the mother, Celia objected jealously.

But it’s a lot more believable if we do. Brackis was still frowning. "I’ll need to check what happened to her. We can’t have her turning up and denying