Penric's Demon by Lois McMaster Bujold

very specialized saint, dedicated wholly to the Bastard. Through him, the god eats demons, and so draws them back out of the world.”
    “What happens to the sorcerer?”
    “Nothing, save whatever grief he may suffer at the loss of such powers. However balanced by relief at the return of his own control. Tigney,” she said bitterly, “recovered entirely.”
    Pen’s face scrunched. “Desdemona—did you witness this event? This . . . eating?”
    “Oh, aye.”
    “What was it like?”
    “Have you ever witnessed an execution?”
    “Once, at Greenwell. There was a man hanged for robbing and murdering on the road. Learned Lurenz took us, he said, so that we might learn the true wages of crime. Just the boys, though.”
    “And did you?”
    “Well . . . highwaymen did not seem so thrilling to me after that.”
    “Just like that, then, I expect. If you were a demon.”
    “Ah.” It was Pen’s turn to fall silent.
    He was several pages farther on when Desdemona said, “But if you ever try to take us to Idau, we will try to fight you. With all our powers.”
    Pen swallowed. “Noted.”

    *     *     *

    Pen was closing on the end of the same chapter, a little stiff from sitting, when the door rattled. Swiftly, he thrust the book under his pillow and took up the bit of half-done mending he had ready for such an occasion, but it was only Clee.
    “Ah, there you are,” said Clee. “I was looking for you.”
    “Does Learned Tigney want something of me?” Finally?
    “Not at all. But my brother Rusi has invited the both of us to dine with him at Castle Martenden this evening.”
    Pen’s interest was caught, despite his frustration at being interrupted in the middle of a difficult passage. Castle Martenden, it was said, had never been taken by force of arms, although that might partly be because no great wars had yet come to it, merely local squabbles. Which could be as fatal as any wider struggle to those involved, no doubt.
    “I should like that. But, tonight? It’s a long walk.”
    Clee smiled. “Rusi is a better host than that. There are horses waiting for us outside the gate.”
    “Are we to stay the night?”
    “There’ll be a good moon later, so if the weather holds fine, we need not. But Rusi will provide all that we need if we decide to delay till morning.”
    Gratified both with the prospect of escaping this narrow house for an evening, and an opportunity to see so fascinating a fortress, Pen hurried to don what of his new clothes were now usable. Clee gave him no opening to better hide Ruchia’s book, unfortunately, as he waited politely for Pen to ready himself, and then ushered him out the door before him.
    “I should ask leave of Learned Tigney,” Pen remembered as they started down the stairs.
    “No need,” said Clee.   “I already have.   You aren’t a prisoner here, you know.”
    And yet not quite free, if Clee was detailed to be his duenna. The scribe was by way of being Tigney’s private secretary, trusted with his correspondence; also with his captive, it seemed. Pen wondered if Clee also worked with the ciphers, and if it would be wrong to ask him about them. “Good.”   Giving Learned Cautious no chance to reverse his ruling, Pen followed Clee directly out to the street.
    A brisk walk brought them to the old stone bridge; upstream and down, several millwheels turned and creaked in the steady outflow. They passed over the arch and through the lesser half of Martensbridge. This part of town was devoted to serving the caravans that came down from the north passes, and boasted warehouses, tanners, saddlers, smiths, and lodgings for travelers who wished to stay close to their goods. Beyond the gate that served the road flanking the lake, they found a small livery. Two horses waited, bespoke and already saddled. They seemed better mannered than the usual rental remounts.
    Watching Clee swing up readily to his saddle, Pen asked, “Are these your brother’s beasts?”
    Clee