— Chapter 2 —
Night Work

HOLDING the lightstone’s slim wooden handle between his teeth, Seregil wiped at the drop of sweat rolling slowly down his nose and glanced over one of the many letters they’d found in the duke’s private study, including a bundle hidden in a drawer with a false bottom. Archduchess Alaya, Princess Elani’s chief lady-in-waiting, was apparently a friend of the duke’s and not above sharing some interesting court gossip. According to the latest missive the vicegerent—the queen’s twin brother, Korathan—had taken another lover, young Lord Byris. A long time ago, Seregil had briefly held that honor. Korathan had always liked his bedmates young. In another, she spoke of a man named Danos, saying that the princess royal seemed to regard him warmly and looked forward to his letters.

Across the large study, Alec was a dark silhouette against the glow of his stone as he searched the racks of scrolls and books that filled two walls. According to the duke’s kitchen maid, whom Alec had charmed at the fish stall in Cirna Market earlier that day, their information had been correct: the duke was away visiting friends at a nearby estate, and was not expected back for several days.

It was well past midnight, but still so muggy that everything—the parchments, the leather blotter, Seregil’s thin linen shirt—felt uncomfortably moist. He’d pulled his hair back for the job, but it hung heavy against the back of his neck, making him feel that much hotter as he riffled through the rest of the letters. No breeze stirred the thick velvet drapes that framed the balcony door. The sawing of crickets was so loud it drowned out the sound of the surf against the cliffs below. It was starting to give him a headache. But he did manage to find one more letter of interest among those that had not been hidden. It was from Count Selin, who happened to be a friend of Alec’s. In the brief note, Selin thanked the duke for a night of gambling and a good supper and invited Reltheus to dine with him and his widowed mother the following week.

Alec was on the floor now, lifting the edges of the round wool carpet the desk stood upon. After a moment he let out a low whistle.

“Find something?” Seregil whispered.

“Hidey-hole, with a box.”

“Traps?”

“No.”

Seregil heard him working a pick in a lock, then the rustle of papers. Alec reached up and handed Seregil a packet of letters tied up with dark ribbon. Seregil pulled one out and opened it. Finally, what they’d come for. He quickly checked a few more in the bundle, just to be certain. Judging by what he read, the secret affair had been passionate; Marquise Lania was a very descriptive correspondent and had obviously been thoroughly infatuated with the much older duke. It hadn’t taken much effort to learn that a land deal hung in the balance between Lania’s soon-to-be husband, Marquis Deciel, and another noble. Reltheus wanted the land for himself and meant to use the letters to pressure her into persuading Deciel. It was typical of the endless intrigues and posturing among the Skalan nobility.

Seregil pulled out another letter to check the date, but suddenly Alec grabbed him by the shoulder and propelled him out onto the moonlit balcony. Seregil understood and pressed himself to the wall outside the door, clutching the purloined letters as Alec silently pulled the door shut. An instant later light showed beneath it. Someone was talking, but too low to make out the words. No, there were two voices: a man and a woman. Had the kitchen maid been wrong, or had the duke come home early for some reason? He hoped Alec had managed to get the secret compartment he’d found covered up again.

Whatever the case, they were trapped. The balcony projected out over a deadly drop to the ocean below. The tide was low and there were rocks jutting up out of the foaming surge. If the tide had been in, Seregil might have chanced it as a last resort, but there would still have been the matter of getting Alec to jump. Picking him up and tossing him had worked in the past, but Seregil didn’t like doing it.

The voices rose and fell inside, punctuated with laughter, then took on a decidedly amorous tone. Alec shook his head, then held up what appeared to be a letter.

What is that? Seregil signed.

Alec handed him the letter. It was dated ten days ago, on the fifth of Gorathin, with the salutation “Your Majesty, Most Esteemed Aunt,” and signed, “Elani, Princess Royal of Skala.” He looked up at Alec and saw his triumphant grin. Seregil grinned back and held up thumb and finger, signing Good!

The letter itself was nothing particularly interesting, just the description of the young heir’s daily life—sword and archery practice, the gift of a new horse from a Marquis Kyrin, lessons with the royal falconer, the death of a favorite dog, mention of a letter from the potential suitor, Danos. The tone was very matter-of-fact, with little trace of girlish excitement. That struck him as rather sad, though not surprising. From what little he’d seen of Phoria’s closely guarded heir, she seemed like a very serious sort of girl.

Never mind that, though. What was Reltheus doing with this? Seregil looked at it again with a critical eye. The handwriting looked more like a man’s than a young girl’s, and someone who was adept at fine writing. That suggested a few possibilities.

There was no sign of a seal, either, so it was either a copy or a forgery, though it was puzzling that anyone would bother to forge such a prosaic letter.

The sounds of lovemaking were building to a crescendo now, full of grunts and incoherent endearments. Seregil nudged Alec’s shoulder and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Alec rolled his eyes, shaking with silent laughter.

The lovers came to what sounded like a mutually satisfactory conclusion and tapered off into panting moans and laughter. A happy couple, but who?

After a few moments of silence the light went out and they heard the study door softly open and close. Seregil had barely gained his feet when the door beside him swung open and a burly young man strode out completely naked and apparently quite pleased with himself. He went to the edge of the balcony and leaned on the stone railing, humming a little tune under his breath. He was too young to be the duke, and the duke’s adult sons by his first wife were off at war. Probably a servant taking advantage of his master’s absence for a little fun.

Touching Alec’s wrist, Seregil inclined his head toward the door and silently slipped into the darkened room. Alec followed close behind. The happy lover remained oblivious. There was no choice now but to use the study door. Seregil led the way into the dark corridor and into a bedchamber a few doors down, praying it was unoccupied. It was, and had a disused smell.

They waited there, listening at the door until they heard the happy swain leave the study, then crept back inside. Alec kept watch while Seregil sat down at the desk to copy Princess Elani’s letter, using the duke’s fine parchment and expensive ink. With that done and the documents returned to their hiding places, they hurried down the steep servants’ stair at the end of the corridor, boots whispering on the worn wooden risers.

There were watchmen at the front door and other main gates, but not in the well yard. In a spinning room they squeezed out through a tiny window that a larger man couldn’t have managed and dropped twice their height to the muddy ground below. After that it was a simple matter to scramble over the wall behind the well and make their way along a ditch to the highroad. They kept watch over their shoulders as they went, prepared for an outcry, but the villa was dark behind its ornate stone wall, the night still except for the raucous din of the crickets.

Satisfied that they had gotten away clean, Seregil gave Alec’s braid a playful tug. “I’m glad you heard the lovers coming our way. It would have been a shame to spoil their evening.”

“And ours. Home?”

Seregil patted his shirt where he’d hidden the letters. “Home.”

They took passage on the Nimbus, a small coastal trader, and reached Rhíminee just six days from when they’d left. The evening sun cast the ship’s rushing shadow ahead of them, flecking the surface of the busy harbor with touches of gilt and turning the towering cliffs above the Lower City pink. Joined by the crooked, climbing line of the walled Harbor Way, the Upper City, with its palaces and great markets, crowned the bluffs while the Lower City spread out around the head of the broad bay below—a jumble of warehouses, customhouses, tenements, guild houses, and countless taverns and cheap brothels catering to sailors and traders.

Alec leaned on the rail beside Seregil, watching the city draw closer. They didn’t cut much of a figure today in their rough, well-worn traveling clothes—long linen shirts, stained leather breeches, and salt-stained shoes, with long knives hanging from their belts and hair hidden under their faded straw wayfarer’s hats.

The stench of the Lower City rolled out to meet them on a hot land breeze as soon as they passed the inner moles. Alec scratched absently under one shoulder blade as the sailors furled the sails and the ship glided up to the stone quay. Even without their coats, they were soaked through down the backs of their shirts and under the arms. Thanks to the roles they’d had to play to get into Reltheus’s house, it had been nearly a week since they’d had a decent wash.

“I’d give just about anything to be in the House baths right now,” Alec murmured.

Seregil sniffed himself and grimaced. “We’ll need a wash first before they’ll let us in.”

As soon as the ship docked, they shouldered their packs and slipped over the rail, anxious to lose themselves in the crowd. Here they might be recognized, if someone got a good look at their faces.

The reek of spoiled fish and sour milk hung on the air as they hurried into the maze of stalls and booths in the harbor market.

The beggars were thick as flies here now, many of them proud souls forced to it by rising prices caused by the interminable war. As they passed a bread stall a young boy dodged out with a loaf under his arm, the baker’s boys in hot pursuit. They soon caught the lad and had him down on the ground, kicking him as he cried out for mercy.

It only took a moment for an angry mob to form, coming to the boy’s aid. As Seregil and Alec watched, the baker and his boys were knocked down and beaten, and the stall set on fire.

Seregil shook his head sadly as they made their way into the relative safety of the twisting streets of the slum beyond. “It’s a wonder the city hasn’t burned down already.”

Here the tall tenements leaned against one another like drunken friends, with washing drying over the windowsills and women shouting to their children playing in the filthy street below to come home as it grew dark. The Scavenger crews didn’t patrol this sort of neighborhood very often. Garbage lay stinking in the gutters.

Children ran up to them, begging coins, and Alec tossed them a handful of pennies. They left the children scrambling for the coins and rounded a corner into a narrower lane where big black rats were making a meal of a dead dog. It was growing dark, but Alec caught sight of what looked like a child’s body slumped against a rickety fence across the street. A few rats were crawling over it, as well.

“Hold on.” He went to the boy and bent over him for a closer look. The child was an emaciated little thing. His eyes were open and Alec thought he was dead until he saw the boy’s chest rise and fall. Alec patted his cheek lightly. “Hey boy, what’s wrong?”

But apart from breathing, the child showed no more life than a doll. His eyes were dry and dull, and there were specks of dirt caught in the corners of his lids.

Alec looked around at the blank walls and empty windows. “Someone left him here to die.” Life was cheap in this part of the city, especially the lives of children.

Seregil nodded. “There’s a Dalnan temple a few streets over. They’ll care for him there.”

Alec passed his pack to Seregil and gathered the boy in his arms, then almost wished he hadn’t.

There was no resemblance, of course, but the slight weight of that spindly little body reminded Alec far too much of Sebrahn, his alchemically begotten “child of no mother” he’d lost so recently. But he swallowed the sudden swell of pain and said nothing.

The temple was little more than a shrine cramped between two taller buildings, and its sacred grove consisted of nothing but a pair of apple trees. A few sleepy brown doves cooed softly from the shelter of their branches when Seregil pulled the string of the small iron bell beside the gate.

Two brown-robed young women wearing the drysian’s bronze lemniscate came out to greet them. Their welcoming smiles turned to concern when they saw the boy.

“Maker’s Mercy, another one!” the taller of the two exclaimed softly.

“We just found him lying in an alley,” Alec explained. “I didn’t feel any broken bones, and there’s no blood.”

The other woman held out her arms, and Alec passed the child to her. “We’ll see that he doesn’t suffer,” she promised.

“You’ve seen this before?” asked Seregil.

“A few. Some new summer fever, I think.”

“Thank you, Sister.” Alec, raised a Dalnan, gave her a silver sester.

“Maker’s Mercy on you both, for helping a child of poverty.”

Alec knew a thing or two about poverty, himself.

Emerging from the slum, they hired horses—which took a bit of fast talking, given their attire—and rode up the Harbor Way to the great Sea Market. This square was three times the size of the harbor market. In better days one could find fish, cloth, sugar, spices, and silverwork from Aurënen, the wines of Zengat. In short, a bit of everything that came up from the port below. But here, too, the privations of war were all too evident. Cloth, metals, and horses were hard to come by, and prices were high.

Thankfully there was a night breeze up here and this part of the city smelled considerably better, thanks to a proper sewer system. Crossing the city, they skirted the Harvest Market and entered the warren of twisting streets beside it, making their way to their real home, a respectable inn on Blue Fish Street.

Three stories tall, the Stag and Otter was built of stone and timber, with a steeply pitched roof and several stone chimneys, its yards surrounded by a stone wall. Lamps were lit in the tavern room at the front, and they could hear the night’s guests laughing and singing.

“Sounds like Ema’s having a good evening,” Seregil said as they circled to a narrow lane behind the inn. Finding it deserted, they led their horses in. Seregil produced a large iron key and unlocked the gate at the far end.

The stable yard was empty, too, except for a lone horse drinking at the long stone trough. The stable boy heard them come in, and emerged from his little room to take their hired horses.

Seregil took off his hat and shook out his long hair, combing it back from his face with his fingers. “Ah, that’s better!”

Continuing on around the corner, they walked between the towering woodpile and the stone well, and past Ema’s kitchen garden. As they reached the kitchen door, Seregil’s large cat Ruetha bounded over to them with a dead rat in her jaws so large that both head and tail dragged on the ground. She dropped it at their feet and wound around their ankles, purring loudly as they scratched her tufted ears and white ruff, and stroked her long mackerel-striped fur.

“What a good girl!” Seregil nudged the dead rat away with the toe of his boot. “Come on, puss.”

But Ruetha had further business with her rat and disappeared with it into the weeds by the far wall of the yard, striped tail crooked over her back.

The lamps were lit in the kitchen. The remains of the day’s roast meats, pies, and breads were set out on the long tables and a young scullery maid stood fanning away the flies, while others went in and out with trenchers and flagons for the patrons in the tavern.

Mistress Ema sat at the end of the table, nursing her baby girl. Little Tamia was nearly a year old, now. Ema looked up as they came in. She and her husband, Tomin, ran the inn for them. Tomin was some kin of their friend Magyana, and the couple was utterly trustworthy. Ema was the cook and ran the household.

She greeted them with a smile, not bothering to disturb her babe. “Welcome home.”

It had been only a few weeks since their last visit—sometimes it was months—but she was accustomed to their unannounced comings and goings and never asked any questions except the inevitable, “Are you hungry? It’s only lentil soup, but there’s boiled leeks out of the garden to go with it.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. We’re going out again,” Alec told her.

Hopefully Thero would offer them something to eat later; Ema was a good soul, but they liked her more for her discretion than her cooking, which was worse than usual with the shortages. At least she hadn’t boiled salt cod and onions today, or pickled any more beets, the smells of which made Seregil queasy.

Alec fetched a bucket of water from the cistern while Seregil lit a candle to light their way up the staircase that led from the lading room to the box room on the second floor. A hidden panel in the far wall concealed the narrow staircase that led up to their chambers. Thero frequently changed the passwords on the hidden glyphs that guarded the stairs for them.

“Scera,” Seregil said at the first one—Aurënfaie for “cold.” He always used ’faie words, figuring any Skalan who blundered in here was less likely to guess in that language. Only once, when the Cockerel Inn had stood on this site, had anyone gotten past them, with tragic results. The current ones were wishful thinking in the summer heat.

“Por.” Snow. “Taka.” Cool water. “Ura teshil.” Miserable bastard.

Reaching the landing, he spoke the last. “Temi.” Ice.

The large sitting room was hot and stale. There were, in fact, windows, but obscured with Thero’s magic, which rendered them invisible from the outside even when Alec opened the shutters to catch what breeze he could. Seregil lit several lamps with the candle and carried the bucket into the bedchamber across the room.

They’d used the place sporadically since the spring. A layer of dust had settled over the workbench under the east window, the old sheets covering the couch and dining table, and the clutter of letters, locks, jewel caskets, and oddities on the marble mantelpiece, including three Plenimaran slave collars propped up there, one sized for a child.

Pain closed around Alec’s heart again. Two reminders in one day, and this one his own doing. He had no doubt that the little rhekaro was better off among the Hâzadriëlfaie—safe from harm and from causing it—but the loss was still a raw, throbbing wound in Alec’s heart. The sight of the collar, and the tiny braid of silver-white hair with it, kept the wound bloody, but he couldn’t bring himself to part with either.

“Alec?” Bare to the waist already, Seregil leaned out the bedroom doorway, framed in golden lamplight. Alec’s expression must have given away his thoughts. “Talí, shouldn’t we at least pack them away?”

“No.” Forcing a smile, he went to the bedroom, pulling his sweat-soaked shirt over his head as he went, then sat on the wide, velvet-hung bed to pull off his shoes and rank socks.

Seregil filled the washbasin from the bucket and gave himself a quick but thorough scrub.

As he waited, Alec absently counted Seregil’s various scars; he knew them by heart. The imprint of the cursed disk just over his breastbone—an object that had nearly cost them both their lives—was obscured by magic. Alec carried the mark of that same disk, burned into the palm of his left hand. Of the wounds that had killed him and nearly taken Seregil’s life as well, there were no traces—thanks to Sebrahn.

Seregil turned and caught his eye. “What’s wrong, talí?”

Alec just shook his head.

Seregil rinsed the flannel and wrung it out, then gently washed the day’s grime from Alec’s face and neck. “Come on now,” he said, kissing him on the top of the head and draping the wet cloth over Alec’s shoulder.

When they were both reasonably presentable, they set off for the Orëska House.

The stars were out and it was cool enough now that light cloaks and drawn hoods didn’t attract much notice as they made their way through the Harvest Market and on into the Noble Quarter to the Orëska House.

“My lords!” Thero’s man, Wethis, waved to them from one of the mezzanines and hurried down the stairs to greet them as they crossed the atrium. “He’s upstairs.” He halted at a respectful distance and Seregil saw the man’s nostrils quiver just a bit, though he was far too polite to say anything.

Seregil gave him a knowing grin. “The baths first, I think.”

“I’ll inform Master Thero that you are here.” Wethis bowed and returned the way he’d come, knowing Seregil needed no guide.

Bath chamber would be an understatement. The vaulted room was larger than the entire Stag and Otter. A broad octagonal pool lined with red and gold tiles lay at the center of the room, with four gilded marble griffins spitting arching streams of water into it. This was surrounded by individual tubs sunk into the floor, each with its own accoutrements and servant. Nymphs and sea creatures glowed in rich colors on the frescoed walls.

They made use of the individual tubs first, Alec with a flannel cinched modestly around his waist, then went to the griffin pool to swim. Seregil was floating happily on his back, hair spread around his head like a dark halo, when he opened his eyes and found Thero looking down at him with a wry smile. “I half expect to find you taking up residence here.”

“I’m considering it.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“But I know you’re glad to see us,” Seregil said.

“Especially since we brought you a present,” said Alec, swimming over to join them.

“Really? How nice. Will you join me for supper?”

Seregil grinned. “Have you ever known us to turn down a free meal?”

“When you’re done, then.”

They left the pool reluctantly, and when they were dry and dressed climbed the five flights of stairs to the east tower. Wethis let them in and directed them downstairs, where a light repast of cold sorrel soup, cheese—a rare delicacy these days—and sweet spice bread awaited in the sitting room. With a snap of his fingers, the young wizard summoned a snow-crusted jug of wine from his store on Mount Apos. Some things didn’t change, even with the war.

“First things first,” he told them as they settled down to eat. “I have a letter for you, from Beka Cavish.”

“From Beka!” Alec exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Thero raised an eyebrow. “I just did. It came in a letter Klia sent me.”

“She’s sending you reports from the front now?” Alec exchanged a knowing grin with Seregil.

Thero ignored the comment and did not choose to share the contents of his letter with them, except Klia’s news that the war was being hard fought, and that they’d captured a significant gold shipment on the Folcwine. Going to a cabinet across the room, he took out a sealed square of parchment with their names scrawled across the front and gave it to Alec. “There was one for her family, as well. I sent a servant out to Watermead with it.”

Seregil looked over Alec’s shoulder as he unfolded the letter and read in Beka’s slanting script about the battles she’d fought so far this summer, and the raids she and her celebrated Urghazi Turma had made into enemy territory. Her Aurënfaie husband, Nyal, had proven himself among them and served as a scout.

“It’s dated nearly a month ago,” Alec pointed out. “A lot can happen in a month. I don’t suppose you’ve cast a wizard eye for her?”

“You know how unfeasible that is if I don’t have some idea of where she is,” the wizard replied. “But what about you two? Did you have good hunting?”

“Very good,” said Seregil. “Though we were interrupted while we were at it.”

“Interrupted? As in almost caught?” asked Thero.

“A pair of servants snuck in to have a quick go of it,” Alec explained.

“Go of what?”

“Fucking,” Seregil clarified.

“Ah. Well, the duke is probably on his way back to the city now. Duchess Palmani gave birth earlier than expected—a son. So, what did you find?”

Seregil gave him the copies of the letters from Alaya first.

“The princess royal’s dowager lady-in-waiting?” asked Thero, surprised. “Don’t tell me you suspect the archduchess of some kind of disloyalty to Princess Elani?”

“She never struck me as the type for intrigue of that sort,” said Seregil.

“You know her?”

“I met her when I was at court. She pinched my cheek and gave me sweetmeats whenever she saw me, but I doubt she remembers me after all these years.”

Thero perused the letters. “Hmmm. Not anything treasonous, at least.”

“I saved the best for last, though.” Seregil handed him Elani’s letter.

Thero gave him a questioning look, then began to read. His eyes widened when he realized what it was.

“We thought it was a bit odd, the duke having a personal letter between the princess royal and the queen hidden in a compartment under the carpet in his study,” said Alec.

“Indeed,” Thero replied, frowning. “What could he want with it?”

“Hard to tell yet. But what we saw appeared to be a copy,” Seregil told him.

“So it had to come from someone who has access to her inner apartments. Alaya herself would be in the best position to see Elani’s correspondence, and from what you found, it’s clear she’s in touch with the duke.”

Seregil helped himself to another cup of the excellent wine. “But the handwriting appeared to be in the style of a royal scribe. You wouldn’t happen to know who serves Elani?”

“No idea.”

“Too bad. But the question remains: why would a letter like this be of interest to Reltheus?”

“Perhaps because she mentions Danos.”

Seregil blinked. “You know who Danos is?”

“Of course. He’s Duke Reltheus’s eldest son. I think the duke has some hope of the young man taking the princess royal’s heart. They did spend a lot of time together. He’s of marriageable age, and she will be, too, before long.”

“Still, it seems rather underhanded, stealing Elani’s letters,” Alec remarked.

“I would like you two to find out more about that for me. What can you do?”

“As it happens, we have a mutual friend. Young Count Selin,” Seregil replied.

“He’ll be at my party,” said Alec. “There was a letter from him in Reltheus’s correspondence, too. Apparently he and the duke are friends.”

“Which seems a bit odd, given the difference in their ages, wealth, and rank,” Seregil added. “Their friendship appears to have started since Reltheus began frequenting Alaya’s salons. Selin was already a family friend. His mother and the archduchess are close.”

“So you think Reltheus is trying to worm his way back into the inner court?” asked Thero.

“Easier to charm his way into the good graces of an old woman and a girl young enough to be his daughter than those of the formidable queen herself,” Seregil replied with a shrug.

“That’s certainly a possibility. See if you can insert yourselves into Alaya’s circle.”

Alec reached across the table and tapped the letter. “What about Reltheus?”

“He lives on Silvermoon not far from the archduchess. It should be an easy enough job for you to keep an eye on him, and see who he meets with.”

“We will.”

“When are you two planning to reappear in society?”

“Not until the night before the party,” Seregil replied.

“I don’t need a party, you know,” Alec said for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Yes, you do,” Seregil countered, grinning. “And that gives us some time to pay the duke a visit.”

“Burgle him, you mean?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think we should say anything to Prince Korathan, Thero?” asked Alec.

“I’d like to know what this is really about first. Until we have more certain evidence, I want this kept to Watcher business.” Thero refilled their cups. “Will the Cavishes be at the party?”

“Yes.”

The wizard smiled. “It will be good to see them again. It’s a shame Magyana is away in Sarikali. She’ll be sorry to miss it. So, what else will you two be doing, when you’re not burgling houses or floating around in my bath chamber?”

“The usual small jobs, I suppose,” Seregil said as they rose to go. “Though the Cat has had more commissions from the pleasure houses than Silvermoon with so many nobles out of town.”

“I’m not surprised. By the way, Seregil, I’ve been refining that translocation spell that gives you so much trouble. I’d like to test it to see if it still makes you so terribly ill.”

“Another time. I’d hate to lose this fine supper,” Seregil told him, hurrying for the door.

“Coward!” Thero called after him.

“Sadist!” Seregil shot back with a laugh.