Friends Met, Enemies Made

Alec sat up blinking as Seregil threw open the shutters early the next morning. Cold air and early sunlight flooded the room. "I doubt you'd have heard a prowler in the night, but you blocked the door nicely," Seregil observed, tucking his harp under his arm. "While you've been snoring the morning away, I've been thinking. Your idea of singing for the mayor was an inspiration. That's where this Boraneus fellow is staying, after all. I have a few things to attend to at the market. Find yourself something to eat and meet me there later so we can see about getting you properly outfitted. Look for me at the swordsmith Maklin's in an hour if you don't see me sooner. Now out of my way!"

As soon as he was gone Alec rose and pulled on his boots. Outside, the sun shone across the calm surface of the lake, shimmering around the distant sails that dotted the waters to the horizon.

Anxious as he was to catch up with Seregil, the scents of porridge and frying sausage that met him as he hurried downstairs were too good not to investigate.

"You're the bard's 'prentice, ain't you?" a woman asked as he paused in the doorway. "Come in, lad! Your master was just here and said I was to see you have all you want."

Seregil must have been generous, Alec thought as she piled his trencher with plump sausages and oat porridge, then fetched a pitcher of milk and some hot ash cakes to go with it.

"However did you get so thin with a master as kind as that, eh?" She smiled, watching with satisfaction as Alec tucked in to her cooking.

"He only just took me up," Alec told her around a mouthful. "I had some hard times before."

"Well, you stick by him, love. He'll make an honest fellow of you."

Alec nodded agreeably, though he still had certain reservations on the matter. Leaving a coin of his own on the table when he'd finished, he set off for the market.

"All I have to do is go back the way we came in last night," he told himself, setting off on foot. But for all his skill in the wilds, Alec had always found towns rather baffling. One narrow, twisting street looked very much like another in daylight and before long he was so turned around he couldn't even find his way back to the waterfront. Cursing all towns and those who built them, he gave up and decided to ask directions.

Unfortunately, there were few people about. The fishermen had long since gone out, and most of their women were at the market at this hour, or indoors behind their shutters. He'd passed several gangs of children earlier, but the street he found himself in now came to a dead end in a cluster of warehouses and was quite deserted. Nothing to do, it seemed, but retrace his steps and hope for the best.

Turning a corner, he spotted a tavern and decided to try his luck there. He'd almost reached it when the door swung open and a knot of Plenimaran marines spilled unsteadily out into the street. There were five of them, staggering and singing drunkenly in their foreign tongue. Spotting Alec before he could duck back out of sight, they ambled over in his direction.

Giving them a polite nod, Alec tried to hurry past but one caught the edge of his cloak and yanked him roughly into their midst. His captor, a round-faced man with a scar twisting his lower lip, rattled off some sort of challenge, punctuating it by poking Alec in the chest with his finger.

"Stupid drinker!" a taller fellow with a black beard growled, pushing Scar-Lip away and throwing an arm heavily around Alec's shoulders. His accent was thick but he made himself understood. "What my Soldier Brother says, you is a likely looking man-child to be a marine. Why you don't join us up?"

"I don't think I'd make much of a soldier,"

Alec replied. Several of them casually felt their daggers. "What I mean is, I'm not old enough, big enough-like you!"

A one-eyed soldier fingered the sleeve of Alec's tunic. "Nice, nice. You too good be Soldier Brother?"

"No!" Alec cried, turning within the circle of men. "I respect Soldier Brothers. Brave men! Let me buy you a drink."

Without warning, One-Eye and Round-Face pinioned his arms. The bearded soldier tore Alec's purse from his belt, emptying the contents into his hand.

"Sure, you buy us all many drinks!" he said, grinning as he inspected the coins. Suddenly his face darkened, and he thrust something up before Alec's eyes.

It was the Skalan coin; he'd had it out the night before and forgotten to put it back in his boot.

"Where you got this, man-child?" the bearded Plenimaran snarled. "You don't look no filthy Skalan! What you do having filthy bitch queen money?"

Before Alec could answer, the man punched him hard in the stomach and spat out, "Filthy spy, maybe?"

Maker's Mercy, not that again!

Gasping for breath, Alec doubled over and they knocked him down into the half-frozen mud of the street. Someone kicked him in the back and his vision blurred with dazzling sparks of pain. Struggling up onto his knees, he prayed that his cloak hid the motion of his hand as he reached for his dagger.

"You, Tildus! It's early in the day to be out torturing children, isn't it?"

Alec couldn't see who'd spoken, but the man's deep voice carried a welcome north country accent. The marines paused in their sport as the bearded man turned.

"Micum Cavish, greetings! Not torturing at all, just questioning spy."

"That's no spy, you damned fool, that's my brother's son. Let him go before you strain our friendship!"

Astonished, Alec craned his neck for a better look at this Micum Cavish. Catching sight of the man, he began to understand.

Cavish was the hooded man Seregil had spoken with the night before. The hood was thrown back now to reveal a freckled, strongly featured face under a thick mane of auburn hair. Heavy reddish brows overshadowed his pale blue eyes, and an even heavier mustache drooped over the corners of his mouth. His stance was relaxed, but his right hand, hooked casually into his belt, was in easy reach of his sword hilt. The fate he was outnumbered five to one was apparently not of the slightest concern to him.

"You must forgive," Tildus was saying, "there is much drink in us. When we see money of the bitch queen here, we get mad, you see?"

"Since when does a single coin make anyone a spy?" Micum Cavish's tone was bantering, but his hand remained at his belt. "He got himself 'prenticed to a bard not long ago. They pick up all kinds of coins along the caravan route. Up here silver's silver, no matter whose face it has on it."

"Mistake, eh?" Tildus grinned tightly, motioning for the others to get Alec on his feet. "Not hurt so much, eh, man-child? You singer, maybe we come hear you sing. Give you good Plenimaran silver! Come, Brothers, we sober up now and not get into some more trouble." With that he gathered his glowering men and lurched off down the alley.

"Thanks," Alec said as they gathered his strewn money. At closer range, he was surprised to see that the man's hair was sprinkled with silver around the temples. "So you're my uncle Micum?"

The big swordsman grinned. "First thing that came to mind. It's lucky I happened along when I did, too. That Tildus is a nasty bastard to begin with, and worse when he's drinking. What are you doing wandering around here alone?"

"I was heading for the market, but I got lost."

"Just go back up the street, turn left and keep straight 'til you get there." Favoring Alec with a knowing wink, he said, "I think you'll find Aren at the second tailor's to the right of the corner."

"Thanks again," Alec called after him as Micum strode away. The tall man raised his hand in a brief salute and disappeared around the corner.
 

* * *
 

Alec found Seregil busy haggling over the price of some tunics. Taking in Alec's disheveled appearance, he broke off quickly and stepped away from the booth.

"What have you been up to?"

Alec's tale was quickly told. Seregil raised an eyebrow at the mention of Micum's intervention but made no further comment.

"There's a good deal of activity in the square today," he told Alec.

"Seems we got here just in time. The Plenimarans are leaving tomorrow and the mayor is holding a banquet tonight in their honor, quite a grand affair. He is, however, somewhat at a loss for entertainment. I've just been working out a way to make myself conspicuous."

"What are you going to do, sing on the steps of his house?"

"Nothing so obvious. There's a very pleasant fountain right across the street from it. I think that's close enough, don't you?"

He concluded his business with the tailor and they set off across the bridge to Armorers Street.

The clamor of hammer on metal there was almost more than Alec could stand, but as they came abreast of a bowyer's shop, he paused, face brightening noticeably.

"I don't know much about that sort of thing, but I've heard Corda's the best," Seregil remarked.

Alec shrugged, not taking his eyes from the display of bows. "Corda's are fancy enough, but they don't have the range of Radly's. Either way, though, they're beyond my means. I'd like to stop in at Tallman's, if you don't mind. I don't feel comfortable traveling without a bow."

"Certainly, but first I want to see Maklin about a sword."

Somewhere behind the front room of the swordsmith's shop, hammers rang down on steel and Alec had to resist the impulse to put his fingers in his ears.

Seregil, however, poked happily through the gleaming collection of swords and knives that covered the walls. Most of these weapons were the swordsmith's own work, but one section was given over to an assortment of older weapons traded in for new.

Seregil paused to look these over, pointing out those of antique or foreign design, as well as certain clever modifications. Alec could scarcely hear him.

Mercifully, the din lessened suddenly as a portly man in a stained leather apron stepped in through a doorway at the back of the shop, shouting a greeting to Seregil.

"Well met, Master Windover! What can I do for you today?"

"Well met, Master Maklin," Seregil shouted back. "I need a blade for my young friend here."

"For me?" Alec asked in surprise. "But I told you—" The swordsmith turned an appraising eye on Alec. "Ever held a sword before, lad?"

"No."

Pulling out a set of calipers, the smith set about measuring Alec's various dimensions. Kneading his arm muscles with a serious expression, Maklin bellowed, "I've just the thing for him!" and disappeared into the workshop again. He returned with a sheathed long sword cradled in the crook of one arm. Presenting the hilt to Alec, he motioned for him to draw it.

"He has the height and span to wield it,"

Maklin remarked to Seregil. "It's a good blade, well balanced and easy to cast about with. I made it special for a caravaneer, but the bugger never called back for it. Not overly fancy, but it's a lovely bit of steel. I slaked it in bull's blood during the forging, and you know there's nothing finer than that short of magicking."

Even Alec could see that the swordsmith was being modest. The gleaming blade felt like a natural extension of his arm. It wasn't light, but he felt a certain natural flow to the movements as Maklin had him hold his arm this way and that. The hilt was wire-bound, with a round, burnished pommel.

The bronze quillons arched gently away from the hilt, terminating in small flattened knobs carved to look like the tightly curled head of an unopened fern. The blade was unadorned but mirrored the light with a faintly bluish sheen.

"A pleasing design," Seregil remarked, taking the sword in his hands and fingering the quillons. "Not fancy, as you said, but not cheap-plain, either. See how the quillons curve away from the grip, Alec? Just the thing to snap your enemy's sword out of his hand or break his blade, if you know what you're doing."

Drawing his own sword, he held the two up together to show Alec the similarity between them. For the first time Alec noted that the quillons of Seregil's weapon, which ended in worn dragon's heads, were notched and scarred with use.

"It's a fine blade, Maklin. How much?" asked Seregil.

"Fifty marks with the sheath," the smith replied.

Seregil paid his price without quibbling and Maklin threw in a sword belt, showing Alec how to wrap it twice around his waist and fix the lacings so that the blade hung at the proper angle against his left hip.

Back in the street again, Alec tried to thank Seregil.

"One way or another, you'll repay me,"

Seregil said, brushing the matter aside. "For now, just promise me that you won't draw it in public until you've learned how to use it. You hold it just well enough for someone to give you a fight."

As they passed the bowyer shops again, Seregil paused in front of Radly's.

"There's no point going in there," Alec told him.

"A good Radly bow costs as much as this sword."

"Are they worth it?"

"Well, yes."

"Then come on. If it comes down to you protecting our lives with it, I for one don't want you using some three-penny stick."

Alec's heart beat a bit faster as they entered the shop. His father, a competent bowyer himself, had often pointed the place out with uncommon reverence. Master Radly, he'd told his son, had gifts beyond the natural for bow making. Alec had never imagined that he'd enter the place as a customer.

The master bowyer, a stern, grizzled man, was instructing an apprentice in the finer points of fletching as they came in. Inviting them to look about for a moment, he continued on with his instruction.

Alec was in his element here, inspecting the array of bows with the same relish that Seregil had obviously felt at the swordsmith's.

Great longbows, six feet tall unstrung, hung on cords from the ceiling. Crossbows of various types were displayed on wide shelves, along with lady's hunters, composite horse bows-nearly every type common in the north. But Alec's eye settled on those known simply as the Black Radly.

Somewhat shorter than the regular longbow, these were fashioned from the Lake Wood's black yew, a difficult wood to work. Less experienced bowyers were likely to ruin half a dozen staves for every bow they came out with, but Radly and his apprentices had the knack. Rubbed with oil and beeswax, the black bows gleamed like polished horn.

Seven of these lay on a long table in the center of the shop and Alec inspected each one, checking the straightness of the tapered limbs, the smoothness of the nocks and the ivory maker's plate set flush into the back of the grip. Then, choosing one, he grasped it on either side of the grip and twisted sharply; the lower limb of the bow came free in his hand.

"What are you doing?" Seregil hissed in alarm.

"It's a wayfarer's bow." Alec showed Seregil the steel ferrule on the end of the limb, with its tiny pin that locked in place inside the sheath of the hand grip. "They're easier to carry in rough country, or riding."

"Easier to conceal, too," Seregil noted, fitting the sections back together. "Is it as powerful as a longbow?"

"They can have better than eighty pounds pull, depending on the length."

"And what, pray tell, does that mean?"

Alec picked up another bow and held it out in front of him as if to draw. "It means that if you could get two men to stand one in front of the other, you could shoot a broadhead arrow through the both of them.

They'll take down most anything from a hare to a stag. I've heard they can even shoot through chainmail."

"They'll draw heart's blood from a brass weathercock!" said Radly, joining them at last. "Sounds like you know something of archery, young sir. What do you think of 'em?"

"I like these." Alec indicated the two he'd laid aside. "But I'm not certain on the length."

"We'd best check your draw," Radly said.

Alec held out the bow and drew an invisible string back to his ear while the bowyer stretched a measuring line between the back of his left forefinger and the angle of his jaw below his right eye.

"Either of these would do for you," Radly concluded, "or that there." He pointed to one on the table that Alec had passed over.

"I'll go with these two," Alec said, sticking by his first choice.

Radly held the bows up side by side. "Have a look at the plates."

The shop mark, a black yew scrimshawed into the ivory, seemed almost identical until he pointed out a tiny R visible in the crown of the tree on both of Alec's choices, indicating that they were the work of the master bowyer and not one of his assistants.

"You've a good eye for a youngster," said the bowyer. "Come and try them."

Radly strung the bows, then led the way out through the workshop and into the alley beyond.

At the far end, several targets had been set up.

The first was a simple bull's-eye painted on a cross section of a large log. The second was another bull, but to reach the center of it the arrow had to pass straight through three iron rings hung from wickets between the target and the archer. The last was simply eight long willow wands stuck upright in the ground.

"What's all this?" Seregil whispered as the bowyer went to adjust the wands.

"I've heard it said that he won't sell a Black to anyone who can't hit all three targets," Alec whispered back, strapping a leather guard to his left forearm.

Returning, Radly handed him a quiver of arrows.

"Now then, let's see you shoot."

Selecting his first shaft with care, Alec sent it straight into the center of the first bull. Using the second bow, he repeated the feat easily, shaving some of the fletching off the first shaft.

At the next target, his first arrow glanced off a ring and fell short. Looking up at the clear blue sky, he drew in a deep breath, letting the necessary calm flow through him. On the second try he shot true, then repeated the shot just to be sure.

Switching to the other bow, he made three clean shots in quick succession.

It was a good day for shooting, he decided, relaxing into the almost supernatural sense of calm and well-being that came over him at such times. Moving to face the last target, he let fly four arrows in quick succession, hitting every other wand and nipping each off at nearly the same height.

Behind him, Seregil let out a low whistle of appreciation, but Alec kept his eye on the targets.

Changing bows, he quickly hit the remaining wands, shearing them off at a different height. As he lowered the bow, applause erupted behind him and he turned to find Seregil, Radly, and several apprentices grinning approval.

Blushing, he muttered, "I guess I'll take this one."

Seregil's afternoon foray was a success; he returned with the news that they were to entertain at the mayor's banquet that evening. As soon as he'd made apologies to the innkeeper, he dragged Alec off to a nearby bathhouse, then back to their room to put the final touches on his grooming.

"You look better in this than I do," Seregil remarked as he adjusted Alec's sash.

Alec wore "Aren's" second-best garments: a long tunic of fine blue wool edged with embroidered bands along the hem and sleeves. One of the scullery girls had been paid to burnish his boots to a respectable shine.

Seregil himself was magnificent in a crimson tunic bordered with an intricate black and white pattern at neck, sleeves, and hem. His dark hair was bound back with a thin band of scarlet and black silk twisted into an elaborate knot at the back. Draping a new cloak of rich midnight blue gracefully over one shoulder, he pinned it in place with a heavy silver brooch.

"While I was striking the bargain for our wages with the mayor's bailiff I was able to quiz him on the guests," Seregil told him. "Lord Boraneus, ostensibly a trade envoy, is the head of the Plenimaran expedition. There's another noble, a Lord Trygonis, who also seems to have some pull, though he doesn't say much. With a little sweet talk to one of the house maids I also found out that Boraneus and Trygonis are housed in the best front rooms on the second floor. Besides the usual honor guard at the banquet, I imagine there'll be plenty of soldiers scattered around outside. Now, are you absolutely certain you understand what we have to do tonight?"

Alec was trying with little success to arrange the folds of his cloak in imitation of Seregil's. "We sing until everyone is well into the wine. You'll pause to tune the harp and break a string. Then I'm sent home for a new one and you step out for some air. There's a small servants' stairway at the back of the house that takes us up to the second floor. I meet you there and we go up together."

"And you have the extra string with you?"

"In my tunic."

"Good." Seregil reached into the pack lying on the bed and pulled out something wrapped in a bit of sacking.

Unrolling it, he showed Alec a handsome dagger. The handle was fashioned from black horn inlaid with silver. The slender blade was deadly sharp.

"This is for you," said Seregil, balancing the dagger across his palm for a moment. "It caught my eye while Maklin was fussing over you. It's longer than your other one and better balanced. A little fancy for a bard's apprentice, perhaps, but nobody's going to see it in your boot. If we do our job right tonight, you shouldn't need it anyway."

"Seregil, I can't—" the boy stammered, overcome. "I can never repay you as it is and—"

"Repay me for what?" Seregil asked in surprise.

"For this, for all of this!" Alec exclaimed, sweeping a hand around the room. "The clothes, the sword, the bow—I haven't ever made enough in my life to repay all this. Maker's Mercy, I haven't known you a week yet and—"

"Don't be silly. These are the tools of the trade. You'd be useless to me without them. Don't give it another thought or insult me with talk of repayment. I can't think of anything that means less to me than money; it's too easy to come by."

Shaking his head, Alec slid the dagger into the pocket of his boot and grinned. "It fits."

"Well, let's get to work, then. And may Illior watch over us tonight."

 

The stars were out by the time they set off for the mayor's hall. A cold wind cut in off the lake and they pulled their cloaks around them against the cold. As promised, Seregil had found Alec a pair of gloves, and he suspected the boy was grateful now for their warmth.

Not for the first time that day Seregil asked himself what he was doing dragging a green boy he'd known for less than a week's time off on a burglary job. Or what Alec was doing going along with him, for that matter. Shrewd as he was in some matters, the boy seemed to place an alarming amount of trust in him.

Never having been responsible for anyone but himself, Seregil wasn't quite certain what to make of it, except that taking Alec on as a partner of sorts out on the Downs had seemed like a good idea at the time. However much logic might dictate otherwise, looking at Alec striding along beside him, Seregil's intuition told him he'd somehow stumbled into a fortuitous decision.

At the mayor's house they were taken to the kitchen for the customary meal. The tapestry over the door had been pulled back and they could see the guests in the hall being entertained by a juggler. When the last of the platters had come back to the kitchen and the wine and fruit had been passed, Aren Windover was announced.

The great hall was ablaze with firelight and wax tapers. The trestles had been set up in a U facing the hearth and the company, made up mostly of rich merchants, guild masters, and craftsmen of Wolde, clapped approvingly as Seregil and Alec took their places on a small platform set up there. Alec handed Seregil the harp with a flourish he'd learned less than an hour before, then stepped back deferentially.

In Aren Windover's most flowery manner, Seregil introduced himself and made a brief speech of gratitude to the mayor and his lady. His words were well received and he struck up the first song amid a flutter of applause. He captured his audience at once with a rousing hunting lay, then moved on to a succession of love songs and ballads, throwing in a raucous ditty here and there once he saw that the ladies approved. Alec took frequent turns at the harmonies and fetched ale for his master as the occasion demanded.

The one calling himself Boraneus sat in the place of honor to the right of the fat mayor and Seregil studied him surreptitiously as he played. Boraneus was tall, with the high coloring and thick, blue-black hair of a true Plenimaran.

He was younger than Seregil had expected, no more than forty, and extremely handsome despite the thin scar that ran from the inner corner of his left eye to the cheekbone. His black eyes sparkled rakishly as he shared some joke with the mayor's wife, but when the smile faded his face had a veiled, unreadable quality.

By the Light, that's Duke Mardus—whatever he calls himself here, Seregil thought as he played. Though he'd never seen Mardus before, he knew him both by description and reputation. The most highly placed officer of the Plenimaran intelligence system, he was also known to be a sadistically ruthless inquisitor. Seregil felt an involuntary chill as Mardus' impassive gaze rested briefly on him. To have such a person study your face was the worst sort of luck.

The other envoy didn't look like he amounted to much.

A narrow, whey-faced fellow with lank dark hair, Trygonis was apparently doing his dour best to avoid being drawn into conversation with the garrulous matrons seated on either side of him.

Splendidly dressed as he was in the regalia of a Plenimaran diplomat, to Seregil's practiced eye his pale skin and silent, peering manner told a different tale. He had more the look of one who spent his life huddled over books in rooms where sunlight never penetrated.

Seregil played on for nearly an hour before he judged the time to be right. Pausing to tune the harp, he snapped the string and, after a tense, whispered exchange with Alec, rose and bowed to the mayor.

"My most gracious host," he said, affecting an air of barely concealed irritation while Alec did his best to appear shamefaced. "It seems my apprentice has neglected to bring extra strings for my instrument. With your kind permission, I will send the boy back to my lodgings for replacements."

Comfortably into his cups, the mayor waved agreeably and Alec hurried out.

Seregil bowed again. "If I may ask your further indulgence, I will take this opportunity to freshen my throat with the cool night air."

"By all means, Master Windover. I think it may be some time before we let you go. Your fine singing goes well with the wine."

Once outside, Seregil made a show of clearing his lungs and admiring the stars. Spotting a Plenimaran guard posted near the front of the building, he asked after the privy and was directed to the yard in back of the house. As soon as he was safely around the corner, he pressed into the shadows and checked again; no guards back here. Alec was waiting for him beneath the servants' stairs.

"Did anyone see you?" Seregil whispered.

Alec shook his head. "I went across the square, then doubled back to the other side of the house."

"Good. Now stay close and pay attention. If anything goes wrong, you're on your own, understand? If it comes to that, I'll do my best to come back for you, but your best guarantee is to not get into trouble in the first place. All right?"

Looking rather less than reassured by this advice, Alec nodded gamely and followed him up the stairs to the second level of the house.

The door was locked, but Seregil produced a long pick. Beyond they found a dimly lit service passage. Seregil signed Quickly and moved to a door at the far end. Beyond it, they could hear sounds of the revelry below. Opening it the merest crack, Seregil found that they were near the upper landing of the great staircase.

Just as they were about to make a dash for the guest rooms, a black-clad marine came upstairs from the hall and disappeared into one of the rooms overlooking the street. Emerging a moment later with a small chest, he went back downstairs. Seregil counted slowly to ten, then drew Alec behind him into the hall. Moving quickly to the room the soldier had entered, they found the door unlocked.

"This is Trygonis' room," whispered Seregil. "Keep watch, and if you touch something, anything, be sure to leave it exactly as you found it."

Against the right wall stood a carved bedstead with a clothes chest at the foot. A tall wardrobe and a writing table stood by the window.

"This first, I think," Seregil murmured, kneeling in front of the chest. After a moment's examination he drew a small leather roll from his tunic and spread it out in a workmanlike fashion on the floor beside him; it contained an impressive collection of various lock picks and other implements, each in a narrow pocket of the roll. The chest's heavy padlock came open on the first attempt.

Except for a brass map tube, the chest contained little more than the usual mundane articles of clothing and equipment, all seeming to confirm that the man was a diplomat rather than a soldier. Quickly shaking out the rolled parchment from the tube, Seregil moved to the thin sliver of light at the door and unrolled it to find a map of the northlands. Alec peered over his shoulder for a moment, then went back to his watch-keeping while Seregil studied it more closely, committing the details to memory.

Small red points had been inked in next to the Gold Road towns of Wolde, Kerry, and Sark. Several other points marked remote freeholdings along the Ironheart foothills, Asengai's among them.

Nothing so surprising there. Seregil rolled up the map and replaced the contents of the chest as he'd found them. The desk yielded nothing of value, but in the wardrobe he found a small silk pouch containing a golden disk hung on a golden chain.

One side of the pendant was smooth; on the other a peculiar, abstract device of intricate lines and swirls stood out in raised relief.

Try as he might, Seregil couldn't make sense enough of it to reproduce it later. Mildly annoyed, he replaced it and joined Alec at the door. No more than five minutes had elapsed.

The next room was very much like the first, except for a dispatch box sitting on the table. It was banded with nailed strips of brass and secured with an internal lock rather than a hasp. Moving to the light again, he examined the lock plate, noting tiny imperfections in the metal around the keyhole. A less experienced thief might have dismissed them as pits in the metal; Seregil recognized the needle holes lightly plugged with wax and brass dust. Anyone attempting to force the lock while the device was engaged would end up with at least one tiny but no doubt heavily poisoned needle embedded in his hand.

Running sensitive fingertips over the brass nail heads, he found one on the back left corner that depressed with a barely audible click.

Double-checking to be sure he hadn't missed any others, he picked the lock and raised the lid.

On top was a sheaf of documents written in cipher. Setting these aside, he found a map much like the larger one, but with only two red points marked on it: one deep in the heart of the Blackwater Fens at the southern end of the lake, the other apparently somewhere in the Far Forest. The point in the Fens was circled.

Beneath the map was a leather pouch containing another of the golden pendants.

What in the name of Bilairy are these? he wondered, frustrated again at not being able to make sense of the design.

At the clothes chest he felt carefully down through the layers of tunics and robes until his fingers encountered studded wood near the bottom. Lifting the clothing out, he found a rectangular casket a foot long and perhaps half that deep, its lid secured only by a hook. His mouth twisted into a humorless smile as he cautiously opened it; inside lay a collection of small but effective torture instruments and several earthenware vials.

More certain than ever that his man really was Mardus, Seregil took extra care to replace the box as he'd found it. As he was replacing the clothing, however, another leather pouch dropped from the folds of a robe. Probing inside, he found a few Plenimaran coins, two rings, a case knife, and some small wooden disks.

There were eight in all, fashioned from some dark wood and pierced through the center with a square hole. They had a slightly oily feel, and each was carved on one side with the same frustrating design he'd seen on the gold pendants.

Now here's a piece of luck at last, he thought. These crude things didn't look like something anyone would miss in a hurry. He pocketed one for later study.

He'd just locked the chest when Alec made a frantic gesture at the door. Someone was coming.

With Alec at his heels, Seregil moved smoothly to the window. Swinging the casement wide, he looked up to find the overhang of the roof within easy reach.

He'd already pulled himself up onto the slates above before he noticed the two guards lounging near the fountain. For a brief second his breath caught in his throat; he was in plain sight if they looked up.

The noise from the hall must have covered his scramblings, however, or perhaps they were drunk, for neither of them did.

Alec snaked out the same way, and Seregil caught his wrists to help him up. The boy looked scared, but still had presence of mind enough to gently push the window shut with his foot on the way up.

The slick slate roof was steeply pitched, but they managed to get over to the back side, reaching the servants' stairway without mishap. At the bottom Seregil grasped Alec's shoulder for a moment in silent approval, then pointed him off toward the kitchen door.

Alec was nearly there when a tall figure reached from the shadows and caught him by the cloak. Seregil tensed, hand stealing to his dagger. Alec jerked back instinctively and the man laughed. Just as Seregil was about to spring to his aid, however, he heard the man speak and realized this must be one of the soldiers who'd accosted the boy earlier that day.

"Hey, you sing good in there," the man exclaimed. His tone seemed friendly enough, but he hadn't released his grip on Alec's cloak. "You sing more for me now maybe?"

"I've got to get back in." Stepping away as far as he could, Alec pulled the harp string from his tunic and waved it like a pass. "My master needs this. I'll be in trouble if I make him wait."

"Trouble?" The man squinted at the string. "No trouble for you, Cavish's man-child. Go sing some more for the fat mayor and my master!" Turning Alec loose, he sent him on his way with a resounding slap on the back.

Letting out a soundless sigh of relief, Seregil waited until the way was clear, then skirted back through the shadows to reappear from the direction of the mayor's privy.

 

It was after midnight before they returned to the Three Fishes. Nonetheless, Seregil insisted on making ready to leave at first light.

"You did well tonight," he said as he finished strapping up his pack. "That was quick thinking, with the window."

Alec grinned happily at the praise and continued checking over his new equipment. Master Radly had included an oilskin bow case and a covered quiver in the price of the bow, to which Alec had added a score of arrows, linen twine and wax for bowstrings, and packets of red and white fletching.

Seregil was just turning to say something more when they both were startled by the sound of someone pounding up the stairs. Micum Cavish burst into the room.

Panting, he said, "I don't know what you did this time, Seregil, but a pack of Plenimaran marines are on their way here right now!"

Somewhere below they heard a door bang open, then the sounds of heavy feet.

"Grab your things, Alec!" Seregil ordered, throwing back the shutters.

A moment later Tildus and a dozen Plenimaran soldiers burst into the room, only to find it dark and empty.
 

6

Alec Earns His Bow
 

From the inn window the three of them dropped thirty feet into water cold enough to knock the breath from their lungs. Alec floundered, gasping as he tried to hang on to his gear and keep his head above water.

A strong hand closed over his wrist; Micum hauled him to a handhold on the slimy pilings supporting the building.

"Quiet!" Seregil whispered against his ear.

Working their way back to the shallows, they crawled out onto a narrow mud bank and huddled there as the sounds of a violent search rang out overhead.

"I doubt you two will be welcome again at the Fishes," Micum whispered through chattering teeth.

It was a miserably cold vigil they kept, and dangerous. At one point several marines found their way under the building, forcing the three fugitives to turtle back into the icy water until they were gone. It was over an hour before Micum judged that it was safe to go.

They made a sorry trio as they staggered from the shadows of the tavern. Covered in mud, their hair and clothing stiffened into fantastic configurations, they moved as fast as their numbed legs would allow, heading for the market square.

Micum led the way to the Temple of Astellus that stood next to the Fisherman's Guildhall on the square. It was a plain, windowless structure, but the large double doors at its front were elaborately carved with boats and water creatures. The lintel above displayed the stylized wave symbol of Astellus the Traveler.

By custom, the doors of the temple were never locked, and they slipped inside without challenge.

Alec had never been inside the place before, though he'd passed it often enough. The plastered walls of the central room glowed with fanciful underwater scenes and icons showing several of the patron deity's more noteworthy labors.

Near the central shrine a young acolyte dozed at his post. Passing quietly, they found their way to a door at the back of the temple and into the storeroom beyond.

Offerings, sacks of food for the priests, and oddments of furniture were stacked carelessly about. Alec sat down on an upended crate while Micum cast about, looking for something.

"Isn't it over to the left more?"' asked Seregil.

"I've got it." Micum pulled open a trapdoor in the floor.

Looking over his shoulder, Alec saw a ladder descending into the darkness. Cold, earth-smelling air rose up the shaft.

"Let's hope the mayor neglected to tell his visitors about this route," Seregil muttered.

Micum shrugged. "A good fight puts the fire of Sakor in your blood. I think we could all use the warmth!"

Seregil cocked a wry eyebrow at Alec.

"He works as hard to find trouble as I do avoiding it."

With a derisive chuckle, Micum climbed down the ladder. Alec followed while Seregil took a moment to prop several small crates to fall over the door when it closed.

Once down, Micum rummaged in a belt pouch and drew out a small glowing object. Its pale radiance spilled out through his fingers, spreading a small circle of light.

"Magic?" Alec asked, leaning closer.

"A lightstone," Seregil told him. "I lost mine in a dice game two months ago and I've been fumbling around with flint and steel ever since."

"Too bad it doesn't give off any heat,"

Micum said, chaffing his arms as he led the way down the tunnel.

"Where are we?"

"An escape tunnel leading out of town," Micum explained. "It has openings near the lake shore and another just inside the woods. The Temple of Dalna has one, too. The idea was to be able to evacuate the town secretly if it was ever besieged. I doubt it would work, though-most likely bring you right up in front of the enemy. But it was thought up by merchants, not generals. As it is, Seregil and I have probably made the best use of them over the last few years."

"Where to now? The cave?" Seregil was shivering visibly now as he tried to pull his stiff cloak more closely about him.

"That's the closest place."

The passage ran in a fairly straight line back from the river. It was hardly wide enough for two men to pass, and the roof was so low that Micum had to stoop in places. The damp earthen walls, shored up at intervals with timber, gave off an unpleasant chill. Blotches of lichen and pale fungi sprouted from the support beams. After some time, the tunnel branched.

Taking the right fork, Micum drew his sword and whispered over his shoulder, "Look sharp, boy, in case we have company."

Alec moved to draw his own blade but Seregil nudged his hand away from the hilt. "Never mind that," he said. "You couldn't get by to fight and if you stumbled, you'd probably run Micum through. If we meet anyone, fade back with me and stay out of the way."

But they met nothing except a few rats and slow-moving salamanders, and soon the tunnel began to slant upward, ending at a narrow cave. It was hardly more than a thin cleft in the rock and the floor of it narrowed sharply to a y making for uncomfortable going.

Barking shins, hands, and heads against sharp-edged stones, they clambered up the fissure. Micum pocketed the lightstone as they reached the top and they pushed their way through a dense thicket of bramble at the mouth of the cave.

Looking around, Alec saw that they were somewhere in the woods; stands of oak, birch, and fir grew thickly around them. The sinking moon cast netted shadows through the canopy of branches overhead, curling darkness beneath the firs. Dawn was a few hours away and all was still.

Seregil was trembling more violently than the others.

"You never could stand the cold," Micum said, unclasping his cloak. When Seregil moved to shrug it away, Micum stopped him with a stern look and swung it around his shoulders himself.

"Save your pride for warmer days, you damn fool. The boy and I are bred to it. Your blood's too thin. Come on."

Still scowling, Seregil tied the cloak strings under his chin without further protest.

Moving quietly over the snowy ground, they headed deeper into the forest. The ground rose and fell sharply, and the shadows were thick, but Micum went along as confidently as if they were hiking a highroad.

Halfway up a hillside, they reached another cave. It was larger than the last and its opening lay in plain sight. High-roofed and shallow, it narrowed at the back to a tiny passage leading farther into the hillside. Alec and Seregil were slim enough to pass through sideways without much trouble, but Micum grunted and swore as he worked his way in.

"I don't recall you having so much trouble a few years back," observed Seregil.

"Shut up, you," Micum wheezed, pulling free at last.

The crevice twisted sharply several times, threatening to close altogether, but finally opened into a wider space.

Micum brought out his light again, and Alec saw that they were in another cave, this one quite large.

Wood lay arranged for a fire in a circle of stones. Hunkering down beside it, Seregil found a small jar among the logs and shook what appeared to be hot coals onto the tinder.

"More magic for you." Grinning, he handed Alec the jar. Small chips of stone glowed bright as embers but, like the lightstone, gave off no heat.

"Those are fire stones," he explained. "Be careful with them. They won't hurt skin but the second they touch anything that will burn-cloth, wood, parchment-they ignite. I've seen too many accidents to carry them traveling."

Flames licked up through the dry wood, dispelling the chill and darkness. The natural chamber narrowed overhead to a crevice, and by some trick of the draft the smoke was drawn neatly up this natural chimney.

Firewood, folded blankets, and a number of pottery jars lay on various ledges around the caves. Piles of dry bracken and fir boughs were formed into rough pallets against the walls.

"This is snug camp," said Alec, admiring it.

"Micum found it a while back," Seregil said, huddling over the flames as closely as he dared. "Only we and a few friends know about it. Who was here last?"

Micum inspected the stone shelf that held the jars and held up a black feather. "Erisa. She must have stopped here before going into town. Let's see what she's left in the larder."

Carrying a few of the jars to the fire, he inspected some marks carefully incised on the wax seals. "Let's see. There's a bee on these, that's honey. A wheat stalk, that's hard biscuit.

A bee and a cup-mead. What've you got?"

"I'm not certain." Seregil held a jar closer to the light. "Dried venison. And here's some tobacco for you."

"Bless her kind heart." Micum took a pipe from somewhere inside his tunic and filled it. "I left my pouch behind in all the scuffle."

"And these two must be herbs," Seregil continued.

"Looks like yarrow and fever bane. Well, thanks to our good friend Micum Cavish, we're in no need of healing. I just want to get dry!"

Stripping off their filthy garments, they spread them by the fire and wrapped up in blankets.

Too cold to concern himself with modesty for once, Alec noticed that both of his companions had a number of scars, though Micum's were by far the more numerous and serious. The worst was a pale rope of tissue that began just beneath his right shoulder blade. It curved down around his back to end just short of his navel. Noticing the boy's interest, he turned to the light and ran a thumb proudly over the end of the welt.

"Closest I ever came to Bilairy's gatepost." Lighting his pipe, Micum puffed out a few rings of mellow smoke. "It was nine winters ago, wasn't it, Seregil?"

"I believe it was." Seregil gave Alec a wink. "A group of us were traipsing up around the Fishless Sea and ran into a particularly unfriendly bunch of nomads."

"Unfriendly!" snorted Micum. "I'd never seen their like before-great hairy giants. We still don't know where they came from. They were too busy trying to kill us to answer questions. We stumbled across their camp by accident one evening, and figured we'd say hello and try to trade for supplies. But just as we reached the pickets, a whole pack of them—big as bears and twice as mean—came charging out of nowhere at us on foot. We were mounted, but they had us surrounded before we realized what was going on. The weapons they used looked something like a big flail; a long haft with several lengths of chain attached, each two or three feet long.

Only the links of the chains were flattened and the edges ground keen as razors. Of course, we didn't know about that until after we'd started to fight. Cyril lost an arm, cut clean off, and Berrit was blinded and died soon after. One of the bastards took the front legs off my horse and then laid into me. That's when I got this beauty." He ran a hand over the knotted ridge of flesh again. "I was all tangled up in the stirrups, but I managed to get my sword up in time to block his swing— all but one of the chains, and that laid me open to the bone right through my jerkin. If I hadn't blocked the rest, I believe he'd have cut me in half. Seregil popped up from somewhere and killed him just as he was going for another stroke. It's lucky we had the drysian Valerius traveling with us, or I'd have crossed over right then and there."

"I suppose this was my worst," said Seregil, showing Alec deep indentations in the lean muscle on either side of his left thigh.

"I was exploring an abandoned wizard's keep. She'd been dead for years, but a lot of her wards were still in place. I'd been very careful, spotted all the symbols, disarmed device after device. She'd been something of a genius in that way and I was feeling pretty proud of myself. But no matter how good you are, there's always a trap with your name on it somewhere, and I found one that day. I missed a trigger of some sort—never did see it—and the next I knew my foot went through the floor. An iron spike shot across, pinning my leg like a speared fish. Half an inch to the left and I'd have bled to death. I couldn't reach far enough into the hole to free myself, short of cutting off my leg. I've no stomach for pain. From what little I remember, I did a lot of yelling and fainting until Micum found me and carried me out. Not a very heroic tale, I'm afraid."

Alec had stripped the oilskin cover from his bow to check for damage. Without looking up from his work, he ventured shyly, "Still, you were brave enough to do all that."

"You've got a short memory all of a sudden,"

Seregil scoffed, passing him the mead jar. "Aren't you the same half-starved lad who survived Asengai's dungeons and followed me out, not to mention what we did tonight? That's a lot to claim before you're even grown."

Alec shrugged, embarrassed. "That wasn't bravery. There just wasn't anything else to do."

Micum laughed grimly. "By Sakor, then you've learned the secret of being brave. All you need is some training."

Reaching over the fire, he retrieved the mead jar from Seregil. "So what will you do now?"

Seregil shook his head. "I'd planned to blend into some caravan and take the Gold Road all the way to Nanta, but now I'm not so sure. What was all that fracas about tonight? I was certain nobody saw us."

"I was watching the house from the square. Everything was quiet until well after you left. The party broke up soon after, the guests went home, and the lamps inside were mostly out. I was just about to leave myself when all hell broke loose. Someone started yelling, then there were lights all over the place, and soldiers running everywhere. I got as close as I could—which wasn't too hard with all the excitement—and looked into the hall. That big fellow, Boraneus, had the mayor cornered. All I heard was that anyone who'd been at the feast was to be arrested and brought back immediately. That's when I lit out after you. Those Plenimarans are a damned well-organized bunch. I didn't think I was going to get to you in time."

Seregil tapped his chin with one long forefinger. "If someone had actually seen us, then they wouldn't be arresting all the guests. That's a bit of luck, I'd say."

"And what, exactly, did you steal?"

"Just this." Seregil dug into his belt pouch and handed Micum the wooden disk. "I wanted to show Nysander the pattern."

Micum turned it over on his palm and tossed it back to him. "Looks like a gaming piece to me-not the sort of thing anyone would make that kind of fuss over. You know, I think you might not have been the only ones ghosting around there tonight. Could be one of the guards got a case of light fingers."

"We saw one coming out of Boraneus room before we went in, carrying a box," Alec recalled. "And someone nearly caught us in the other room as we were leaving. It could have been one of them."

"I suppose so." Seregil frowned into the fire for a moment. "At any rate, we've certainly made ourselves look guilty enough, leaving the way we did. I say we avoid the Gold Road. We'll find some horses—"

"Find?" Micum interjected wryly.

"And head cross-country to Boersby Ford," Seregil went on, ignoring the remark. "That should be far enough to shake loose of any pursuit. Then we can take passage down the Folcwine to Nanta. With any luck, we'll be there in less than a week. If the weather holds, we can get a ship across to Rhíminee."

"I think I'd better stay clear of Wolde until the Plenimarans are well gone," Micum said, stretching out on a pallet and yawning until his jaws cracked. "I'll go back with you as far as Boersby, in case there's any trouble."

"Did they get a good look at you?"

"I'm not sure they didn't. They were right on my heels all the way to the Fishes. Better safe than dead, eh?"

 

Sheltered in their hidden cave, they slept deeply until afternoon.

"We'd better wait until dark to move on," said Seregil, squinting up at the narrow crack of light from the smoke hole. Pulling his harp from its case, he satisfied himself that it had survived the dunkings of the previous night, then set about tuning it. "We've still got a few hours to kill. Micum, how would you like to give my young apprentice a few lessons in swordsmanship? He'll benefit from learning your methods as well as my own."

Micum winked at Alec. "What he means is that my ways aren't as dainty as his, but I manage to make my way well enough."

"Come on now, old friend," Seregil demurred, "I'd be hard pressed if I had to face you in a fight."

"That's true—but it would be the time I wasn't facing you that I'd worry about! Come on, Alec, I'll show you daylight methods."

Micum began with the basics, teaching Alec how to grip the weapon so that it balanced to his advantage, what stances presented the smallest target to an opponent, and simple slash and parry maneuvers. Seregil finished his tuning and lazily plucked out a tune, pausing occasionally to offer advice or argue points of style.

As Alec moved slowly through Micum's drills, he began to suspect that he was learning from two masters of uncommon ability. His arm was soon aching as he tried to deflect Micum's mock attacks. Though Micum's blade was of a heavier make than his own, the man flashed it about as if it weighed no more than a glove.

"I'm sorry," Alec said at last, slicking sweat from his forehead. "It's hard, moving so slow."

Micum flexed his shoulders. "It is, but you have to learn to control the movements and direct the blade, not just wave it about until it hits something. Come on, Seregil, let's show him how it's done."

"I'm busy," replied Seregil, working on a tricky bit of fingering.

Moving to stand over him, Micum growled, "Put away that twopenny toy, you tit-sucking coistril, and show me the length of your blade!"

Seregil laid his harp aside with a sigh. "Dear me, that sounds rather like a challenge-" Lunging swiftly past Micum, he sprang to his feet and drew his sword, then swung a flat-bladed attack at Micum's sword arm.

Micum blocked and countered. Grinning fiercely and showering each other with blistering insults, they battled around the confines of the cave, leaping over the fire pit and threatening to trample Alec underfoot until he wisely retreated to the narrow crevice at the back. From there he watched with delighted admiration as the two of them moved over the uneven floor, graceful as acrobats or dancers.

At first it seemed to him that Seregil spent more time avoiding attacks then returning them—his movements seemingly effortless as he sprang here and there, his sword flashing up to block a blow, then dodging away, making Micum change his stance to follow him.

But Micum was no clumsy bear, either. There was a powerful grace to his motions, a steady, implacable rhythm as he pressed his attacks. Soon Alec couldn't have said if Micum was driving or chasing, if Seregil was leading or being driven.

The mock battle ended in a draw of sorts; choosing his moment, Micum side-stepped an attack, slapped Seregil's blade away, and skewered a loose fold of his tunic.

At the same moment, however, the wickedly slender poniard appeared somehow in Seregil's left hand, its tip pricking through Micum's jerkin just below his heart. They stood frozen for an instant, then broke away laughing.

"So arm in arm we tumble down to Bilairy's gate!" Micum said, sheathing his sword. "You marred my jerkin, I see."

"And you ventilated my new tunic."

"By Sakor, it serves you right for pulling that rat-sticker in the middle of a proper sword fight, you sneaky bastard!"

"Isn't that cheating?" Alec inquired, emerging from his crevice.

Seregil gave the boy a wink and a crooked grin.

"Of course!"

"It's no wonder you swear by Illior's Hands,"

Micum growled in mock exasperation. "I always have to keep an eye on both of yours."

"Illior and Sakor." Alec shook his head. "You say they're like my gods, but that they've been forgotten in the north."

"That's right," said Seregil. "Dalna, Astellus, Sakor, and Illior; all part of the Sacred Four. You'll need to know more of them, down in Skala."

Micum rolled his eyes. "We could be here the rest of the week now. He's worse than a priest on such things!"

Seregil ignored the protest. "Each one of them rules a different part of life," he explained.

"And they possess the sacred duality."

"You mean like how Astellus helps with birth and guides the dead?" asked Alec.

"Exactly."

"But what about the others?"

"Sakor guards the hearth and directs the sun,"

Micum told him. "He's the soldier's friend, but he also inflames the mind of your enemy and brings on storms and drought."

Alec turned back to Seregil. "And you always swear by Illior."

"Where's that coin I gave you?" Taking it, Seregil turned it to the side with the crescent moon.

"This is the most common sign of Illior. It symbolizes the partial revelation of a greater mystery. The Lightbearer sends dreams and magic, and watches over seers and wizards and even thieves. But Illior also sends madness and nightmares.

"All the Four are a mix of good and ill, bane and blessing. Some even speak of them as both male or female rather than one or the other. The Immortals show us that it's the natural way of things that good and ill be mixed; separate one from the other and caret both lose their significance. That's the strength of the Four."

"In other words, if some must be priests, then others must be murderers," Micum noted wryly.

"Right, so my cheating in a fight is actually a sacred act."

"But what about the other gods?" asked Alec. "Ashi, and Mor of the Birds, and Bilairy and all?"

"Northern spirits and legends, for the most part,"

Seregil said, rising to gather his belongings. "And Bilairy's just the gatekeeper of souls, making certain that none go in or out before the time appointed by the Maker. As far as I know, there was only one other god great enough to challenge the Four—an evil, dark one."

"Seriamaius, you mean?" said Micum.

Seregil made a hasty warding sign. "You know it's bad luck to speak the name of the Empty God! Even Nysander says so."

"Illiorans!" the big man scoffed, nudging Alec. "They've got superstitious streaks a mile wide. It was all legends anyway, started by the necromancers back in the Great War. And good true steel took care of them."

"Not without considerable help from drysians and wizards," Seregil replied. "And it took the Aurënfaie to put an end to it."

"But what about this other god?" asked Alec, feeling a chill go up his back. "Where did it come from if it wasn't part of the Four?"

Seregil snugged down the straps of his pack.

"It's said the Plenimarans brought the worship of the Empty God back from somewhere over the seas. It's supposed to have been a pretty unpleasant business, too—all kinds of nasty ceremonies. This deity was said to feed off the living energy of the world. He did grant uncanny powers to the faithful, but always at a terrible price. Still, there are always those who will seek such power, whatever the risk."

"And this Empty God is supposed to have started that great war?"

"The worship of that god would have been well established by that time—"

"Sakor's Flame, Seregil, a man could grow old waiting for you to draw breath once you start talking!" Micum interrupted impatiently.

"We've a long ride ahead of us, and horses to 'find.'" Seregil made him a rude gesture, then went to the supply shelf and left a few coins.

"We don't have much for the larder, but I think this will do." He replaced Erisa's feather token with a bit of knotted cord.

Micum fished a fir cone from a pouch and added it to the collection. "We'll need a sign for you, now that you know the place," he said to Alec. "It's good manners to let others know when you've been here."

Alec found a bit of fletching and placed it with the other things.

Micum clapped him on the shoulder approvingly.

"I guess I don't need to ask you to keep our secrets."

Alec nodded awkwardly and turned to pick up his gear, hoping the others didn't see his embarrassed blush. Whoever these men really were, it felt good to have their trust.

 

They left the woods as soon as it was dark and made their way back to the edge of the farmland surrounding the town. It was impossible not to leave a trail across the snow-covered fields, so they kept to the back roads and lanes as much as possible, eyeing each farm as they passed.

As the last lights in the distant town winked out, Seregil paused on a rise overlooking a prosperous steading.

"That's what we want," he said. "Dark house, big stable."

"Good choice," said Micum, rubbing his hands cheerfully. "That's Doblevain's place. He breeds the best horses in the area. You see to the animals. Alec and I will find the tack."

"All right," Seregil agreed. "Alec, we'll continue your education with a lesson in horse thieving."

Keeping to the road and the trampled ground of the corral, they managed to leave almost no trail at all as they approached the stable. Just as they reached the door, however, two large mongrels came out of the shadows and advanced on them with raised hackles.

Facing them calmly, Seregil spoke softly and made the left- handed sign Alec had seen him use on the blind man's dog a few days earlier, with nearly the same effect. Both curs halted for a moment, then trotted forward to lick Seregil's hand, tails whipping happily. He scratched their ears, murmuring to them in a friendly tone.

Micum shook his head. "What I wouldn't give to be able to do that! He's got a drysian's own touch with animals. Must come from his—"

"Come on, we haven't got all night," Seregil interrupted impatiently, and Alec thought he saw him make some sign to Micum, though he couldn't make out what it was.

The stable shutters were down, so they decided to risk a light. Micum reluctantly cracked his lightstone into two pieces, handing half to Seregil.

By the light of the remaining half, he and Alec located the small tack room and began pulling down saddles and gear.

Seregil soon emerged from the rich, sour darkness of the stalls leading three glossy horses, the dogs still padding contentedly at his heels.

Snowflakes were spiraling down again as they led their mounts away from the farm. When Seregil judged they were out of earshot, they mounted and set off at a gallop over the fields, trusting the new snow to cover their tracks.

 

By sunup they'd covered the miles of open hill country between Wolde and the Folcwine Forest. They came within sight of Stook at the forest's northern border but avoided the town, heading instead down the highroad through the forest.

New snow lay deep on the road and weighed heavily on the boughs of the trees that flanked it. The sky overhead was a stolid, even grey.

Seregil and Micum rode slightly ahead of Alec, deep in conversation. Studying their profiles, Alec wondered at how his old life sometimes seemed years gone already, and with it the simple hunter he'd been.

Lost in his own thoughts, it took a few seconds for him to make the connection between the searing pain that suddenly burned across the top of his left thigh, and the arrow protruding from his horse's side just in front of the girth strap. The animal screamed and threw him, then bolted down the road.

The snow cushioned his fall. Dumbfounded, he reached down and felt the shallow gash in his leg. The wound was minor, but the suddenness of it all seemed to numb him momentarily. It wasn't until he'd struggled up to check his bow that he truly understood what was happening. As if time had paused and was now resuming its normal course, the air around him was instantly filled with an angry hail of arrows.

"Alec, get down!" Seregil shouted from somewhere nearby.

Clutching his bow and quiver, Alec dropped and scrambled on his belly to the nearest trees. Rolling into their shelter, he peeked cautiously around a tree trunk, realizing too late that he was on the opposite side of the road from Micum. Four archers stood in the road less than two hundred feet away, sending out a volley of arrows. Alec also caught a glimpse of others working their way through the trees in his direction.

The archers kept up their steady attack; arrows sang in the air, nipping off a hail of twigs around him, thudding into the trees he sheltered behind. There was no sign of Seregil except a third track snaking off through the snow into the trees beyond Micum.

Left more or less on his own, Alec knew what his next step had to be.

His heart pounded sickeningly as he fitted an arrow to the string and took aim at a man for the first time in his life. A tall archer standing boldly at the edge of the road presented an easy target, but try as he might, Alec couldn't seem to hold steady.

Startled by a horse's scream, he released the shaft high and it sped off uselessly into the trees.

Micum's gelding drove itself into a heap just in front of him, a shaft protruding from its throat. Another arrow slammed into the beast's chest and it gave a final bellowing groan.

"The bastards know their business, killing the horses," Micum called over to him. "I hope you have a few shafts left—I'm pinned down here!"

Nocking a second arrow, Alec drew the fletching to his ear and tried again.

"O Dalna!" he whispered as his bow arm wavered again. "Let me pull true!"

 

Damn, he can't do it, Micum thought in alarm, watching Alec's face.

Before he could decide how to get across to help him, however, a bandit with a sword rushed him from the trees.

Silently commending Alec to whatever gods he had, Micum turned to meet the attack.

It was his habit to look into his opponent's eyes as he fought; in this scarred, swarthy face he read no fear. Their swords rang out a steady, grim music as each, conscious of the uncertain footing beneath the snow, tried to draw the other into a clumsy misstep. Suddenly Micum saw the man's gaze flicker to the left.

Jumping aside, he faced the second swordsman before the man had time to swing at his back. Thinking Micum had off-balanced himself, the first man overextended a lunge and Micum's blade took him under the ribs.

Even as he jerked the blade free, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and barely avoided a slicing cut at his shoulder from a third swordsman. Drawing a long dagger with his left hand, Micum moved back, trying to keep them both in front of him. These two were younger, less sure of themselves than the first, but they knew their trade. Learing like wolves, they stayed wide apart, making it difficult to defend from both at once. One would cut at him to draw a parry, while the other tried to hamstring him on his open side. But Micum had been in too many fights like this to be drawn. Using his sword and dagger, he managed to fend off their attacks and return a few thrusts of his own.

Pinking one of them on the arm, he said easily, "I think it's only fair to tell you that my purse is far too light for you to go to such trouble to take it." His attackers exchanged a quick glance but made no reply, grimly pressing to break his guard.

"Suit yourselves, then."

The man to his right feinted forward strongly, managing to nick Micum on the ribs just deeply enough to make him regret leaving his mail shirt behind in Wolde. Springing back, however, the man missed his footing in the churned snow and staggered. Micum killed him before he'd regained his balance and was just turning to address his final opponent when a sharp blow from behind knocked him to his knees. Looking down, he found a bloody arrowhead protruding from the front of his leather shirt just beneath his right arm. The two swordsmen, unable to break through his defense, had managed to push him out onto the road and into the archers range.

Serves me right for not paying attention, he thought angrily, seeing the final stroke coming down. Before it could, though, the bravo fell backward with a red-fletched arrow squarely through his chest.

Ducking for cover again, Micum looked across the road. Alec knelt behind the dead horse, returning the archers' shots with a singing volley of his own. Two lay dead already, and another dropped as Micum watched.

"By the Flame," Micum gasped. "By the Flame!"

* * *

 

Seregil disappeared into the forest at the first sign of ambush. Making a wide circuit, he outflanked three swordsmen headed in Alec's direction and then worked his way into their path, concealing himself behind a fallen tree until they came abreast of him. When all three had passed, he jumped out and swung at the hindmost, killing him with a slash across the back of the neck. The second man turned in time to catch Seregil's blade in the throat.

Unfortunately, the third man—a great, heavyset villain armed with a broadsword—had ample time to face him. He caught Seregil's first blow at midblade, throwing it back in an attempt to wrench it free. Seregil maintained his grip, but the force of the blow sent an unpleasant shock up his arm.

He considered a timely retreat into the woods, but the snow was too deep for sprinting. Springing back a pace, he sized up his opponent.

Evidently the other man was doing the same; he gestured derisively at the slender blade Seregil carried, spat into the snow, then launched a mighty swing at his head. Hoping for the best, Seregil pulled a dagger and ducked under the blade, throwing himself at his adversary's knees. The unexpected move caught the man off guard just long enough for Seregil to bury the knife in his thigh. With a bellow of pain, the man tumbled backward, dragging Seregil with him, and immediately rolled to pin him.

Caught face down under the larger man's bulk, Seregil choked on the powdery snow. Try as he might, he couldn't break free. Then the weight shifted and cold, callused hands were around his throat, cutting off his wind and shaking him like a rat.

Summoning all his will, he managed to draw up his leg to reach his boot top. A sizzling haze of stars swam before his eyes, but practiced fingers found the grip of his poniard. With the last of his strength, he drove it back between his assailant's ribs.

The big man let out a startled grunt, then crumpled over on top of him, still pinning him down.

Gasping for air, Seregil heaved the body aside and staggered to his feet.

"Illior's merciful today," he panted, bending to make certain the man was dead.

Something buzzed past his head like an angry wasp and he flung himself down, pulling his poniard free of the body. But it was Alec, another arrow ready on the string, who stepped from the trees. The boy's left thigh was bloody and he looked decidedly pale. Micum Cavish was with him, holding a bloodstained wad of cloth against his side.

"Behind you." Micum nodded past Seregil's shoulder.

Turning, Seregil found another ambusher sprawled dead in the snow not four feet from his back, a red-feathered arrow through his throat.

"Well," he gasped, standing up to brush off the snow, "I believe you just repaid me for that bow."

"By Sakor, this child can shoot!" Micum grinned.

"He just put me in his debt back at the road, then picked off two more as easy as you please. I saw another take off through the trees when Alec was coming over to tend me."

"Damn," Seregil muttered as he collected his weapons and searched the dead men scattered around.

"Get your arrow from that one, Alec."

Alec approached the dead man and gingerly tugged on the shaft protruding from his neck. As he pulled it free, the man's head rolled to the side, his open eyes seeming to fix on his killer. Alec backed away from him with a shudder, carefully wiping the arrowhead in the snow before dropping it into his quiver.

Back at the road they gathered the other bodies into a heap. Alec pulled the arrow from the first man he'd shot, but before he could clean it, Micum took it from him.

"That was your first man, wasn't it?" he asked.

"Micum, it's not his way," Seregil warned, knowing what his friend was up to.

"It's best to do these things proper," Micum replied quietly. "I did it for you, remember? It's you should be doing it for him."

"No, it's your ritual," Seregil sighed, slouching against a tree. "Go ahead, then. Get it over with."

"Come here, Alec. Stand facing me." Micum was uncommonly serious as he held up the arrow.

"There's a twofold purpose in this. The old ways, the soldier ways, say that if you drink the blood of your first man, none of the others you ever kill will be able to haunt you. Open your mouth."

Alec shot a questioning look to Seregil, who only shrugged and looked away. Under Micum's commanding gaze, Alec opened his mouth. Micum laid the arrowhead briefly against his tongue, then withdrew it.

Seregil saw the boy grimace, remembered the salt and copper taste that had flooded his own mouth years before when Micum had done the same with him. His stomach stirred uneasily.

When it was over, Micum patted Alec's shoulder.

"I know you didn't enjoy that much, any more than you enjoyed killing those fellows. Just remember that you did it to protect yourself and your friends, and that's a good thing, the only good reason to kill. But don't ever get so that you like it, any more than you liked the taste of the blood. You understand that?"

Alec looked down at the steaming crimson stains spreading out from the bodies in the snow and nodded.

7

South to Boersby

 

In spite of his wound, Micum agreed with Seregil that they should bolt through as quickly as possible to Boersby. Giving wide berth to the few steadings and inns that lay along the road, they kept up a steady pace for as long as Micum could stay in the saddle, slept in the open, and ate whatever Alec shot. Micum's wound didn't fester, but it was giving him more pain than he cared to admit. More aggravating still, however, was Seregil's increasing silence during the day and a half it took to reach the banks of the Folcwine.

From past experience, Micum recognized this as a sure sign that something was amiss; Seregil's black mood could go on indefinitely if something didn't happen to shake him out of it.

They rode out of the forest at late afternoon and sat looking out over the broad course of the Folcwine.

Micum was bleeding again, and it left him faint and irritable.

"Bilairy's Guts, Seregil, come out with it before I knock you down!" he growled at last.

Scowling down at his horse's neck, Seregil muttered, "I wish we'd taken just one of them alive."

"One of-oh, hell, man! Are you still brooding about that?" Micum turned to Alec. "A nest of forest bandits-hardly a rarity in the Folcwine—surprises him, and instantly there's some dark plot afoot. I think he's just piqued that he didn't hear them coming."

Alec looked down at his hands, apparently finding it politic not to comment.

"All right, then." Seregil turned in the saddle to face Micum. "We searched the bodies. What did we find?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Micum snapped. "Not one solitary thing!"

"That's right. But think again, what did they have?"

Micum snorted with exasperation. "Cloaks, boots, belts, tunics, all local stuff."

"Swords and bows," Alec ventured.

"Locally made?"

"The bows were. I don't know about the swords."

"Looked to be," Micum said slowly, thinking back. "But what in the name of all-"

"Everything was new!" Seregil exclaimed, as if they should immediately understand. "Did they have gold, jewelry, fancy clothes?" he demanded. "Not a scrap! A little silver in their purses, but not so much as a luck charm or knucklebone otherwise. So what we're left with is a gang of ruffians in new local clothing, carrying new local weapons, who are either so inept at their trade or of such austere temperament that they forgo any of the usual adornments."

With that he sat glowering at the others, thin mouth twisted in an exasperated grimace.

He looks like a filthy young lordling berating dim-witted servants, thought Micum, again resisting the temptation to knock his friend off his horse.

Alec suddenly straightened in his saddle. "They weren't bandits at all. They were just rigged out to look like it!"

Seregil's features relaxed into something like a smile for the first time that day. "But more than that, they were foreign to the area. Otherwise, they'd have had no need to buy everything new."

"When we searched the bodies there weren't any guild marks, were there?" asked Alec. "You know, like that Juggler at Asengai's?"

"No, at least none that I recognized. But that may not be significant in itself."

Micum smiled to himself, watching them go over the details of the ambush again like two hounds on a fresh scent.

The boy was hooked for certain.

"So who are they?" he broke in at last.

"Plenimarans? Even if they tracked us, which I doubt, how could they get far enough ahead of us to set up an ambush?"

"I don't think they could," said Seregil. "These fellows were already in place, waiting for us."

Micum stroked down the corners of his heavy mustache. "But that still means they'd have to have gotten word of who we were and which way we were corning."

"That's right," Seregil agreed. "It could have been by magic, or pigeon. In any case, it means there's a good deal more afoot here than we thought. All the more reason for staying off the main roads and getting to Skala as soon as possible. Time may be shorter than we think."

"If the Overlord's forces—" Micum began, but Seregil cut him short with a quick glance toward Alec.

"Sorry, Alec," he said, "we trust you well enough, but we answer to others in this matter. It's probably safer this way anyhow."

Seregil looked up at the lowering clouds.

"We're losing the light fast, but we're too close to town for me to spend another night outside. What do you say, Micum? Are you well enough to press on?"

"Let's press on. You've got contacts there, don't you?"

"At the Tipsy Frog. We'll stay the night there."

 

The lamps were lit by the time they reached the town.

Unlike Wolde, Boersby was a rough and ragged wayside town consisting almost entirely of establishments catering to the traders. Jumbled together at the water's edge like thirsty cattle, inns, taverns, and warehouses competed for frontage with the long docks stretching out into the river.

With winter coming on, the town was crowded with the last rush of traders trying to make a profit before the roads closed until spring.

Seregil led the way to a dubious-looking hostelry at the edge of town. The battered signboard over the door displayed a bilious green creature—no doubt intended by the artist to be a frog—draining a hogshead.

A sizable crowd milled about in the dim confines of the main room, hollering back and forth and pounding on tables for service. A fire smoldered on the large hearth, filling the room with an eye-stinging haze. A heavy plank laid across two barrels served as the bar, and behind it stood a lean, pasty-faced man in a leather apron.

"Any rooms?" Seregil inquired, giving the taverner a discreet hand sign.

"Only got one left at the back, nothin' fancy," the taverner replied with a quick wink. "One silver penny per night, in advance."

With a curt nod Seregil tossed a few coins on the bar. "Send up some food-whatever you've got and lots of it—and water. We're just off the trail and hungry as wolves."

The room was hardly more than a lean-to built onto the back of the tavern. A sagging bedstead against the far wall, its linen hinting broadly of previous lodgers, was the only furnishing. A scruffy lad appeared a moment later with a candle stand and a covered firepot, closely followed by another with a platter of roast pork and turnips, and pitchers of ale and water.

A soft knock came at the door as they were eating.

It was the landlord this time. Without a word, he handed Seregil a bundle and left.

"Come along, Alec," said Seregil, tucking it under his arm. "Bring the pack. There's a bathhouse next door and I could do with a wash. What about you, Micum?"

"Good idea. I doubt I could stand the three of us in a closed room tonight." He rubbed a hand ruefully through the thick, coppery stubble on his cheeks. "I could do with a good shave, as well, not that either of you would understand!"

 

The bathhouse was a drafty establishment. After some determined haggling with the woman who owned it, Seregil saw to it that the two splintery wooden tubs the place boasted of were emptied of their murky contents and refilled with clean water. For an additional fee she heated two buckets of water to take off the chill. As they stripped down, she brought in towels and coarse yellow soap, then took their clothes away to be washed. No stranger to naked customers, she greeted Alec's hot-cheeked discomfort with open disdain.

"You've got to get over that, you know," Seregil remarked as he and Micum settled in their tubs.

"What?" Alec huddled closer to the room's tiny fire, waiting his turn.

"This modesty of yours. Or at least the blushing part."

Micum sank back with a sigh, letting the tepid water soften the crusted blood around his wound.

Seregil scrubbed himself quickly head to foot and climbed out again.

"All yours, Alec. Use the soap and have a care for your nails. I've a notion to elevate our station in life by tomorrow." He was shivering as he scrubbed the ragged towel over his hair and shoulders. "Illior's Hands!" he grumbled. "I swear when I get back to Rhíminee I'm going to head for the nearest civilized bath and stay there a week!"

"I've seen him fight through fire, blood, starvation, and magic," Micum remarked, speaking to nobody in particular, "but deny him a hot bath at the end of it and he fusses like a kept whore."

"A lot you'd know about that." Unrolling his bundle, Seregil shook out a coarse woolen dress and pulled it on over his head.

Alec gaped in astonishment, and Seregil give him a wink. "Time for another lesson, I think."

He quickly plaited his hair back into a loose braid and pulled a few strands free to hang untidily around his face. Greyish powder from small pouch dulled his hair and skin. Unwrapping the rest of the bundle, he pulled out a huge striped shawl, battered wooden clogs, and a leather girdle. Satisfied with his work, he tucked the smallest of his daggers out of sight under his belt and turned away for a moment, rearranging his body beneath the loose gown to give the impression of the stooped frailty of age. When he turned back again, Alec and Micum saw an unremarkable little servant woman.

"Would the two gentlemen be good enough to give an opinion?" Seregil asked in an old woman's voice heavy with the soft accent of Mycena.

Micum gave his nodded approval. "Well met, gramma. Where are you off to in that getup?"

"Less said, less heard," Seregil replied, going to the door. "I'm off to see which way the wind blows. If anyone asks, just say I had other clothes, which of course," he added, dropping a rusty curtsy and flashing his best crooked grin, "I do!"

 

* * *

 

When their clothes came back, Alec and Micum returned to their room at the Frog. The candles were lit and the firepot glowed cheerfully on its tripod in the center of the room.

"How's your side feel now?" Alec asked.

"Better, but I'll rest easier on the floor," Micum said, eyeing the sagging ropes showing beneath the bed frame. "Just be a good lad and help me make up a pallet with the cloaks here next to the door."

Alec laid down blankets and cloaks for him and Micum sat down gratefully, sword across his knees.

"Bring your sword over and I'll show you how to keep a proper edge on it," he invited, taking out a pair of whetstones.

They worked in silence for a while, listening to the singing of metal against stone. Bone-tired, Alec was grateful to find Micum a person easy to be quiet with. The man's uncomplicated good nature demanded no idle chatter.

He was rather startled, therefore, when Micum said without looking up from his task, "You're as quiet as a stump. You might not think it, but I'm just as nosy as Seregil in my way."

When Alec hesitated, he continued, not unkindly,

"I never imagined him taking on an apprentice at all, and certainly not a simple young woods colt like you. Not that I mean any offense, mind you. It's just that you've more the look of a gamekeeper's son than a spy. So tell me, what do you think of our friend?"

"Well, to be honest, I'm not quite sure what to think. From the first he's treated me like—as if—" He stopped in confusion; he'd seldom been consulted about his opinions, and had to search for the words to frame them. Besides, while Micum's open, jovial manner invited candor, it was clear that he and Seregil were close friends.

"It's as if he knows all about me," he managed at last. "And sometimes like he assumes I know all about him. He's saved my life, clothed me, taught me all sorts of things. It's just that every so often it occurs to me that I don't know much about him. I tried asking him about his home, his family—that sort of thing—but he just smiles and changes the subject. He's good at that."

Micum gave a knowing chuckle.

"Anyway," Alec continued, "he seems to think he can make me into whatever it is that he is, but it makes me nervous sometimes. I don't know enough about him to know what he expects of me! You're his friend and all, and I wouldn't ask you to break a confidence, but isn't there something you can tell me about him?"

"Oh, I think so." Micum ran a thumbnail along the edge of his sword blade. "We first met years ago up near the Gold Vein River. We got on well enough and when he went south to Rhíminee again, I went with him.

"He has an old friend there, Nysander, and it was from him that I learned most of what I know about our closemouthed friend. Where he came from and why he left is for him to tell you. I don't know much of it myself, except that he has some degree of noble blood that connects him to the Skalan court. He was hardly older that you are now when he came to Skala, but he'd seen some trouble already. Nysander's a wizard, and he took Seregil on as an apprentice. It must not have worked out, though—Seregil's no wizard, for all his tricks with animals—but they've stayed friends. You'll meet him when you get there. Seregil always visits him first thing when he comes home from a jaunt."

"A wizard! What's he like?"

"Nysander? He's a good old soul, kind as the Maker on a summer's day. A lot of the other wizards act pretty grand and mighty, but let old Nysander get a drink or two in him and he's likely to start conjuring green unicorns or setting the knives to dancing with the spoons, for all that he's one of the old ones."

"Old ones?"

"Wizards live as along as Aurënfaie, and Nysander's been around a good long time. He must be pushing three hundred these days. He knew Queen Idrilain's grandmother, and Idrilain's a grandmother herself now. He's a great favorite of hers. She has him to her chambers frequently, and he's always at banquets."

"Seregil said there were a lot of wizards at Rhíminee."

"There's a whole place full of them, called the Orëska House—though it's more like a castle than a house. Like I was saying, a lot of them are pretty full of themselves and take him for a doddering old fool, snub him even. But you just wait until you meet him, then make up your own mind. As for Seregil, don't worry about him. He's not the trusting type, so if he's chosen to take you along with him, you can be sure he's pleased with you—whatever his reasons. One thing I can tell you for certain is that he'll lay down his life for a friend, and never leave a comrade in the lurch."

"Never."

"He may tell you different—and once you see how he lives in Rhíminee, you may wonder—but I know him and he's as true as the sun in the sky. The one thing he can't forgive is betrayal; you'll do well to remember that. Somewhere, back before he came to Skala, someone betrayed him badly somehow and it's left a mark on him for life. He'll kill anyone who betrays him."

Alec mulled this over for a moment, then asked, "What's Rhíminee like?"

"It's the most beautiful city in the world. It's also rotten with intrigue. The royal family has more branches than a willow and they're always scheming against each other for a higher place on the tree.

"Political plots, old feuds, secret lovers, and who knows what else. And more often than not, when one of them needs a document stolen or some token delivered in the dead of night, it's our friend Seregil who does the job. The people who hire him never actually meet him, mind you, but those who want his services know how to contact him. You ask for the 'Rhíminee Cat.' He's the best and worst kept secret in the city."

"It's all so hard to imagine." Alec shook his head ruefully. "He thinks I can do that sort of thing?"

"I told you before, if he wasn't certain you could, you wouldn't be here. I wager he sees something in you that neither you nor I do. Oh, he'd have rescued you anyway, no matter what, but there must be something else that's caused him to keep you on with him."

Micum caught his eye and winked. "Now there's a mystery for you to solve, for I doubt you'll ever hear it from Seregil. In the meantime, though, don't worry about pleasing him. Just keep your eyes open and follow his lead."

Slipping back into the room, Seregil threw his shawl aside and sprawled across the bed to ease the kinks from his back. Micum and Alec looked at him expectantly.

"There's a price on Aren Windover's head, and yours, too, Alec," he informed them. "There was also mention of an unknown third man. I trust this information was furnished by the man who got away on the road the other day."

"Don't start on that," Micum warned. "Who's offering this reward? Our good mayor of Wolde?"

"Supposedly. The message came by pigeon yesterday, saying that we've carried off the guild money box or some such nonsense."

"How much is Aren worth this time?"

"Twenty silver marks."

"Bilairy's gateposts!" Micum gasped. "What the hell have you gotten into?"

"Damned if I know." Seregil scrubbed a hand wearily through his hair. "Where's my pouch?"

Alec tossed it to him and he took out the wooden disk, regarding it with a puzzled scowl. "This is the only thing we took. I can't figure what would make it worth all this trouble, but I guess we'd better keep a close guard on it, just in case."

Threading a length of leather lacing through the square hole in its center, he stared at it again for a moment, then tied the thong around his neck. "If they want it back that badly, I'm all the more determined to get it to Skala."

"And how much do they want for me?" Alec asked. "It's the first time I've been an outlaw."

"Twenty marks, same as me. Not bad for one of your tender years. They only offered half that for Micum."

"You're certain there was no mention of me by name?" asked Micum.

"None at all. Seems you got away clean."

"I've always come and gone as I pleased around there, so I won't be missed. Are we in danger here?"

"I don't think so. If they had agents in Boersby, they wouldn't have involved the locals. It sounds like they sent similar messages all over: Stook, Ballton, Osk, even Sark. Whoever they are, they've lost us and they're not pleased. Just the same, I think we'd best be very careful."

"If they're looking for two men and a boy, I say we split up." Micum stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "I believe I'd like to circle back anyway, have a look at that place you saw marked on the map, down in the Blackwater Fens. I'll head out before first light."

"Are you sure you're up to it?"

"I'll ride easy."

"Take our horses with you when you go and send word as soon as you can. I've already booked passage for Alec and myself down to Nanta. If you need to find us, we'll be aboard a river trader called the Darter. She's got a black hull with a red cutwater. Ask for Lady Gwethelyn of Cador Ford."

"Lady Gwethelyn?" Micum grinned. "It's been a while since I've heard from that good lady. You're in for a singular treat, Alec my lad!"

 

8

The Captain and the Lady

"That's a warm-lookin" wench, even if she is a bit past her prime, eh, Captain Rhal?" the helmsman remarked.

The Darter's triangular sail was bellied out in the brisk wind, and Rhal moved to the rail for a better view of his passenger, still seated in the prow.

The captain was a stocky, dark-haired man of middling years. Though somewhat balding, he was still comely enough in a rakish, weather-beaten sort of way to attract the graces of a good many women in a good many ports—a fact he was glad to capitalize on.

"That she is. I've always fancied a trim-cut wench," he agreed, discounting Skywake's appraisal of her age; coming from him that meant anything over the age of fourteen. Though the lady in question was clearly past the first blush of youth, she was no beldam. Perhaps twenty-five?

Lady Gwethelyn and her young squire had come aboard at dawn. After seeing her gear stowed in the small passenger cabin, she'd asked the captain if she might sit in the prow, as she was prone to seasickness and thought that the breeze might help ward it off until she became accustomed to the motion of the ship. Her soft, low voice and gentle manner had charmed him right down to his boots.

The trip downriver might not be so monotonous this time, after all.

Studying her in the morning light, Rhal found no cause to alter his first assessment. Her carefully draped wimple framed a demure, fine-boned face. Under her mantle she wore a high-necked traveling gown that showed to advantage a slender waist and gently rounded bosom. She might be a bit thin through the hips for some, but as he'd remarked to Skywake, he liked his women trim. The chill wind off the water had brought out the roses in her pale cheeks, and her wide grey eyes seemed to sparkle as she leaned toward her traveling companion to point out some detail on the distant bank. Perhaps she was closer to twenty?

The Darter's primary cargo was generally furs and spices, but years ago Rhal had found it lucrative to add an extra cabin below decks, and he often ferried passengers up and down the Folcwine. The previous evening, an old servant woman had booked passage as far as Nanta for the lady and her squire. In return for a glass of ale, the old gossip was happy to extol the beauties of her mistress and bemoan the frailty of health that forced her to spend the harsh winter months with her relations in the south.

This was common enough; many of the more well-to-do merchants in the northlands found themselves southern wives, and often these ladies preferred to migrate back to their warmer homelands before the icy grip of the northern winter brought all normal activity to a halt.

Seeing to it that the sail was properly trimmed, Rhal went forward to con the river. The Folcwine was broad and generally forgiving, but this was the season for gravel bars.

His new position afforded him a better view of his passengers, and he found himself distracted again. The ever-present squire—scarcely more than a raw boy for all his livery and sword—had stepped to the rail. The woman sat gazing pensively toward the shore, hands clasped in her lap.

Her dress, her manner, the large garnet ring she wore on one gloved forefinger, all confirmed her a lady of quality, but Rhal round himself again wondering about her reasons for traveling, she'd come aboard with nothing but a large hamper and one none-too-heavy trunk. The squire had a battered old pack that weighed nearly as much; hardly the baggage of a gentlewoman. That, together with her lack of women servants and the late hour at which her passage was booked, suggested a more interesting possibility. Could it be she was a runaway wife? One could always hope, and, by Astellus, he had a week to find out!

 

While Seregil would have been more than pleased with the impression he had made upon the captain, his pensive mood was no ruse.

The previous night, he'd found suitable clothing for himself and Alec, then checked Micum's wound and tried unsuccessfully to get him to take the bed. When all efforts had failed, Seregil had tumbled into it beside Alec and fallen asleep almost at once. Aside from the fact that he was worn out from the events of the last few days, he knew it was the only way to escape Micum's thunderous snoring.

Sometime later, he'd awakened with the sense of something amiss. A strong wind had come up in the night. It gusted around the corners of the building, sighing through the cracks in the walls. The firepot had died to a dim glow and he was cold except for the warmth of Alec's naked back resting lightly against his own.

This in itself was odd, he'd thought, because together with the fact that he didn't remember disrobing, the boy's persistent modesty would hardly have allowed him to sleep naked with anyone else.

Yet that wasn't it, he decided sleepily. By the faint light of the firepot, he could make out Micum's bulk on the pallet by the door. Something wrong there, something obvious—if only his foggy brain would clear.

Sliding out of bed, he crossed softly to where Micum lay, disliking the feel of the rough, cold boards under his bare feet. The sense of unease grew stronger as he crouched beside him; he had never known Micum to sleep so quietly.

His friend lay curled on his side, facing away from Seregil so that he could scarcely hear the man's breathing. In fact, he couldn't hear any breathing at all.

"Micum, wake up," he whispered, but his throat was so dry that hardly a sound came. Dread-thick and palpable-pressed around him and he grasped his friend's shoulder, suddenly desperate for him to wake up, to speak.

Micum was as cold to the touch as the floor beneath Seregil's feet. Jerking his hand away, he found it darkly stained with blood. Micum slumped slowly onto his back, and Seregil saw the gaping wound in his friends throat where his own poniard was still lodged. Micum's eyes were open, his expression one of terrible surprise and sadness.

An anguished cry welled in Seregil's throat.

He lurched back and pushed himself away from the body, snagging tender skin on the rough planking.

The wind mounted a sudden assault on the house, slamming one of the window shutters back in a frigid blast of air. Fanned by the draft, the coals blazed up for an instant, and by their brief illumination, Seregil caught sight of a tall figure standing in the corner nearest the window. The man was closely muffled from head to knees in a dark mantle but Seregil recognized the implacable straightness of back, the slightly inclined head, the sharp thrust of a cocked elbow under the cloak as an unseen hand rested on belt or pommel. And, with an utterly unpleasant mingling of precognition and memory, he knew exactly how their conversation would begin.

"Well, Seregil, this is a pretty state I find you in."

"Father, this isn't how it appears," Seregil replied, hating the pleading note he heard in his own voice—the very echo of a past self who'd uttered these same words in a situation not unlike the present one—but powerless to sound otherwise. But his older self was also uneasily aware of his empty weapon hand.

"It appears that you have a dead friend on your floor and a catamite in your bed." His father's voice was just as he remembered: dry, sardonic, full of calculated disapprobation.

"That's only Alec—" Seregil began angrily, but the words died in his throat as the boy rose naked from the bed with a wanton grace completely unlike his usual manner. Coming to Seregil, he pressed warmly against him and exchanged an arch glance with his father.

"Your choice of companions has not improved."

"Father, please!" A dizzying sense of unreality closed in on Seregil as he sank to his knees.

"Exile has only strengthened your baser tendencies," his father sneered. "As ever, you are a disgrace to our house. Some other punishment must be found."

Then, with that rare gentleness that had always taken Seregil off guard, he shook his head and sighed.

"Seregil, my youngest, what am I to do with you? It has been so long! Let us at least clasp hands."

Seregil reached to take his father's hand. Shameful tears burned his eyes as he peered up into the depths of the hood, hoping for a glimpse of the well-remembered face. Yet even then a tiny, sickening tendril of doubt uncurled at the back of his mind. Alec's hands tightened on his shoulders as his father's hand closed around his.

"You're dead!" Seregil groaned, trying too late to pull away from the fleshless grasp that held him. "Nine years ago! Adzriel sent word. You're dead!"

His father nodded agreeably, pushing back his hood.

A few strands of dark hair clung to the shriveled scalp. The sharp grey eyes were gone, leaving two black craters in their place; the bridge of his nose was eaten away. Shriveled lips twisted into the parody of a smile as he inclined his ruined face, engulfing Seregil in a sullen, mouldy odor.

"True, but I am still your father," the thing went on, and you shall be properly punished!"

A sword flashed from under the cloak and he stepped back, holding Seregil's severed right hand in his—Seregil had bolted up in the bed, drenched in sweat, clutching both hands to his heaving chest. There was no wind, no open shutter. Micum's snoring rose and fell in a comforting rumble. Beside him, Alec stirred and mumbled a question.

"It's nothing, go back to sleep," Seregil whispered, and with his heart beating much too quickly, he'd tried to do the same.

Even now, with the sunlight glancing off the water and the rapid chuckle of the current beneath the bow, the ominous, disorienting feel of the dream haunted him. He'd certainly had nightmares before but never about his father, not since he'd left home, and never one that had left him with such a throbbing headache the next day. A cup of mulled wine at the tavern had helped, but now it was creeping back, hammering at his temples and bringing a bitter taste into his throat. He wanted desperately to rub his eyes, but the carefully applied cosmetics prevented even this slight relief.

"Are you still unwell, lady?"

Seregil turned to find the captain towering over him.

"Just a bit of headache, Captain," he replied, modulating his voice to the softer tones he'd adopted for this particular role.

"That's probably from the sun off the water, my lady. Come around behind the mast. You'll still feel the breeze, but the sail will shade you from the glare. I'll have one of the men heat some wine for you; that should put you right."

Offering his arm, Rhal led his fair passenger back to a bench attached to the deckhouse. To his ill-concealed annoyance, Alec followed them back and took up a station at the starboard rail.

"That boy keeps a close watch on you," Rhal observed, seating himself next to "Gwethelyn" rather more closely than the span of the bench required.

"Ciris is a kinsman of my husband's," Seregil replied. "My husband has entrusted him with my safety. He takes his task very seriously."

"Still, it doesn't seem that a slip of a boy could be much protection." A sailor appeared with a pitcher of wine and a pair of wooden cups. Rhal served Seregil himself.

"I'm certain you have nothing to fear on my account.

"Ciris is a fine swordsman," Seregil lied, sipping delicately at his wine; it had not escaped his notice that his cup was a good deal fuller than the captain's.

"Just the same," Rhal replied gallantly, leaning closer, "I'm making it my duty to watch over you until we reach port. If there's any service I can render, day or night, you've only to call on me. Perhaps you would do me the honor of taking supper with me in my cabin tonight?"

Seregil lowered his eyes demurely. "You're very kind, but I'm so weary from my journey that I shall retire quite early."

"Tomorrow night, then, when you're rested," the captain parried.

"Very well, tomorrow. I'm sure you've many tales that will entertain my squire as well as myself. We will be honored."

Captain Rhal rose with a slight bow; the fleeting look of frustration Seregil caught as he turned away assured him that, at least moment, he'd held the day.
 

* * *

 

"Captain Rhal's out to seduce me," Seregil announced in their little cabin that evening, applying fresh cosmetics while Alec held the lantern and a small mirror.

"What are you going to do?"

Seregil winked. "Go along with him, of course. Up to a point, anyway."

"Well, you could hardly let him, you know—" Alec gestured vaguely.

"Yes, I know, though I rather wonder if you do." Seregil raised an appraising eyebrow at his young companion. "But you're right, of course. Letting him under my skirts now would certainly spoil the illusion I've worked so hard to create.

"Still"—dropping into the manner of Lady Gwethelyn, he looked up at Alec through his lashes—"this Captain Rhal is a handsome rogue, wouldn't you say?"

Alec shook his head, unsure whether Seregil was being serious or not. "Are you going to sleep with all that on your face?"

"I think it might be wise. If the man is determined enough to invite a married woman to his cabin on the first day, I certainly wouldn't put it past him to find some excuse to wander in here during the night. That's why I'm also going to wear that."

He gestured toward the fine linen nightgown on the bed. "The key to successfully traveling in a disguise is to maintain it at all times, no matter what. Unlace me." Standing up, he held his hair to one side while Alec undid the back of the gown. "The practice may come in handy for you someday."

From this angle, Alec was uneasily aware of the completeness of Seregil's disguise. Throughout the day, watching from across the deck as Seregil played Gwethelyn for the captain and crew, he'd been halfway taken in himself.

The illusion was considerably diminished, however, as the gown fell away and Seregil began untying his false bosom. It was his own creation, he'd explained proudly—a sort of close-fitting linen undershirt, the modest breasts consisting of domed pockets stuffed with balls of soft wool.

"Better than some real ones you'll run across," he said with a grin. "I think I can do without that for now, though." He tucked the garment carefully away in the chest. "As the defender of my honor, it's up to you to keep our good captain from discovering their loss, should he appear."

"You'd be safer with Micum along."

"Micum hates working with me when I go as a woman. Says I'm 'too damned pretty by half and it makes him nervous.'"

"I can understand that," Alec replied with a self-conscious grin. "Lady Gwethelyn" sounded a troubling chord in him, as well. Seregil's convincing illusion stirred up a confusion that Alec hadn't the philosophy to put into words.

"You'll do fine. Besides, a lady is allowed some protection of her own." Smiling, Seregil pulled a small dagger from the sleeve of his discarded gown and tucked it under his pillow. "I've heard that Plenimaran women are expected to use these on themselves if some stranger invades their bedchamber, so as to protect their husband's honor. I call that adding injury to insult."

"Have you ever been to Plenimar?" Alec asked, sensing the opening for a tale.

"Just along the borders and territories, never into the country itself." Seregil pulled on the nightdress and set about braiding his hair over one shoulder.

"Strangers don't pass unnoticed there. Unless you have some good honest reason for going there, it's better to stay away. From what I've heard, spies there have extremely short lives. I find more than enough to keep me busy in Rhíminee."

"Micum says—" Alec began, but was interrupted by a heavy knock at the door.

"Who's there?" Seregil called in Gwethelyn's voice, wrapping himself in a cloak and signaling for Alec to retreat to the curtained servant's alcove.

"Captain Rhal, my lady," came the muffled reply. "I thought some tea might help you to sleep."

Alec peeked out of his alcove, and Seregil rolled his eyes. "How very thoughtful."

Alec stepped forward on cue as Rhal came in, taking the steaming pitcher with a bow that effectively blocked further progress into the room.

"I was just about to put out the candle," Seregil said with a yawn. "I shall have a cup, and I'm sure I shall go directly to sleep. Good night."

Rhal managed a strained bow and left, but not before shooting a decidedly unfriendly glance in Alec's direction.

Alec closed the door firmly and turned to find Seregil shaking with silent laughter.

"By the Four, Alec, you'd better watch your back," Seregil whispered. "My new swain is jealous of you! And the way you met him at the door— He broke off, wiping his eyes. "Ah, I'll sleep soundly tonight knowing my virtue is so well guarded. But I believe your constancy deserves a reward. Pour the tea and we'll have a tale!"

When they'd settled comfortably on either end of the bunk with their cups, Seregil took a long sip and said expansively, "So, what would you like to hear about?"

Alec thought for a moment; he had so many questions, it was difficult to know where to begin. "The warrior queens of Skala," he replied at last.

"Excellent choice. The history of the queens is the essence of Skala itself. You recall me. saying that the first of these queens appeared during the first great war against Plenimar?"

Alec nodded. "Queen Gera-something."

"Gherilain the First. The Oracle's Queen, she's sometimes called, because of the circumstances of her crowning. At the start of the war Skala was ruled from Eros by her father, Thelatimos. He was a good leader, but Plenimar was at the height of her strength and by the tenth year it looked as if Skala and Mycena were going to fall. Plenimar had overrun Mycena as far as the Folcwine River years before and controlled the farmlands and territories to the north. With their superior sea power and ample resources, they had every advantage."

"And they had the necromancers," Alec interjected. "And their armies of walking dead, you said."

"I see that certain subjects stick in your mind. I believe I said that legends mention rumors of such things. The Plenimarans are known for their brutality and thoroughness both during battle and after. It's a short step from there to monsters, wouldn't you say?"

Noticing that Alec looked a little crestfallen, he added kindly, "But it's important to have a good ear and a sharp memory; you're well equipped in those respects. In our trade you have to sift every tale, separate the true weave from the embroidery, as it were.

"But to resume my tale, things looked quite hopeless that tenth winter of the war. In desperation, Thelatimos resolved to consult the Afran Oracle. This meant making a long, dangerous journey to Afra, which lies in the hills of central Skala. But he reached the precinct by the solstice and asked what he should do. The royal scribe who accompanied him took down the Oracle's reply word for word. Thelatimos later had it inscribed on a golden tablet that is displayed to this day in the throne room at Rhíminee. It reads:

"So long as a daughter of Thelatimos line defends and rules, Skala shall never be subjugated."

"Those words changed the course of history forever.

"Since the Afran Oracles were renowned for the accuracy and wisdom of their prophecies, Thelatimos, though rather surprised, decided to follow the edict. The divine covenant was proclaimed and his four sons duly stepped aside in favor of their sister Gherilain, a girl just your age and the youngest of his children.

"There was a great deal of controversy among the generals as to whether the Oracle meant for an untried girl to take over the actual leading of the armies. Thelatimos meant to follow the letter of the prophecy. Declaring his daughter Queen, he instructed his commanders to prepare her for war. As the story goes, they had other ideas. They gave her a bit of training, dressed her up in fine armor, and stuck her in the center of a sizable bodyguard at the rear of the army. During the next battle, however, young Gherilain rallied her guard, led them to the front, and personally killed the Overlord Krysethan the Second. Although the war continued another two years, her actions that day bought Skala and her allies enough time for the Aurënfaie to arrive. From that day no one doubted Gherilain's divine right to lead."

"And there have been queens ever since?" asked Alec. "No one ever questioned the Oracle's words?"

"Some did. Gherilain's son Pelis secretly poisoned his sister when he was passed over as king, then took the throne, claiming that the Oracle had really meant's long as the daughter of Thelatimos rules rather than "a daughter of the line of Thelatimos." Unfortunately for him, there was a devastating crop failure during his second year of rule, quickly followed by an outbreak of plague. He died, along with hundreds of others. As soon as his niece, Agnalain, took the throne things began to improve."

"But what if a queen had no daughters?"

"That's come up a few times over the last eight hundred years. Queen Marnil was the first. She had six fine sons but no acceptable successor. In desperation she journeyed to Afra where the Oracle instructed her to take another consort, specifying that she choose a man on the basis of bravery and honor."

"What about her husband?" asked Alec.

"That did present a problem, since the Oracle wasn't very specific. Since then, various queens have interpreted the directive in a number of ways. Some even used the office as a sort of reward. Queen Idrilain's grandmother, Elesthera, had more than thirty "consorts," but even the Skalans considered this rather eccentric."

"How could a queen produce legitimate heirs if she slept with any man who took her fancy?" Alec exclaimed, looking scandalized.

"What does legitimate mean, after all?" Seregil said with a laugh. "A king may be cuckolded if his wife can fool him into thinking that her lover's child is his own, not a difficult thing to do. But any child a queen bears is her own, no matter who the father was, and therefore a legitimate heir."

"I guess so," Alec conceded with obvious disapproval. "Were there any bad queens?"

"The usual mix over the years. Divinely instituted or not, they're still human."

Alec shook his head, grinning. "All these stories and histories. I don't see how you remember all that!"

"One has to, to do any sort of business among the Skalan nobles. Importance is judged by which branch of the line one is related to, how far back you can trace noble blood, which consort one is descended from, whether your ancestor was directly descended from a female or male branch, whether or not they were legitimate—I could go on, but you get the idea."

He set his cup aside and stretched. "And now I think we'd both do well to turn in. I've a busy day tomorrow dealing with our good captain, and you've got your work cut out for you defending my honor!"

9

The Lady is Indisposed

Seregil jerked awake just before dawn, a strangled groan crawling up his throat. He tried to choke it back, but the muffled croak was enough to bring Alec from his alcove.

"What is it? What's wrong?" the boy whispered, groping his way across the cramped cabin.

"Nothing, just a dream."

Alec's hand found his shoulder. "You're shaking like a spooked horse!"

"Strike a light, will you?" Seregil clasped his aims tightly around his knees, trying to quell the fit of trembling that shook him.

Alec quickly lit a candle at the companionway lantern and regarded Seregil with concern. "You're pale as anything. Sometimes the quickest way to make a nightmare pass is to tell it."

Seregil let out a long, slow breath and motioned for him to draw up the cabin's single chair; he was certainly in no hurry to sleep again.

"It was morning," he began softly, staring at the candle flame. "I was dressed and about to go on deck. I called for you but you weren't around, so I went alone.

"The sky was a hideous, boiling purple, the light through the clouds harsh and brassy—you know, the way it is just before a thunderstorm? The ship was in ruins. The mast was snapped off, with the sail hanging down over the side, the deck all littered with wreckage. I called out again, but there was no one on board but me. The river was black as oil. There were things floating in the water all around the ship, too—severed heads, hands, arms, bodies." He scrubbed the back of one hand across his mouth. "What I could make out of the shore was a desolate waste, the land burned and torn up.

"Smoke from ruined fields flowed out over the water and as I watched it seemed to gather itself, moving toward the ship in great coils and billows. As it came closer I began to hear sounds. At first I couldn't make out their direction, but then I realized it was all around me. It was the things in the water. They were all moving, limbs flexing and kicking, the faces twisting into horrid expressions as they rolled in the water."

He heard a small gasp of revulsion from Alec; to a Dalnan, there was nothing more horrible than a desecrated corpse. Seregil drew another shaky breath and forced himself to continue.

"Then the ship lurched and I knew that something was climbing up the torn sail. I couldn't see what it was but it jerked the vessel around like a fishing float. I clung to the far rail, waiting for it. I knew that whatever it was, it was unspeakably vile—that the very sight of it was going to shatter me.

"Yet even in the midst of my terror, a small, sane part of my mind was screaming that there was something terribly important that I should be remembering. I didn't know if it would save me, but it was imperative that I think of it before I died. And then I woke up."

He managed a faint, self-mocking laugh. "There it is. Sounds rather silly, telling it like that."

"No, it was a bad one!" Alec shuddered. "And you still don't look too well. Do you think you can sleep some more?"

Seregil glanced at the brightening square of the window. "No, it's almost morning. You go back to bed, though. No sense both of us losing sleep over nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, you were right about telling it. It's fading already," Seregil lied. "I'll be fine."
 

* * *
 

As Seregil moved through the details of the morning, the nightmare did begin to fade, but in its wake came a strong sense of unease. His headache had returned, too, shortening his patience and unsettling his stomach. By noon he was so out of sorts that he retreated to his place by the cutwater, hoping to be left alone. Alec seemed to sense that he would do well to make himself useful elsewhere, but the captain was not so easily put off.

Traveling in disguise always posed complications, but Seregil was finding his current role more restrictive than usual. Rhal's inopportune attentions were more than he felt up to dealing with in his present state. The captain found frequent opportunities to make himself available to Lady Gwethelyn, noting points of interest along the shore, inquiring after her comfort, suggesting innumerable diversions for her young squire. He accepted her apologies graciously enough, but was firm in his intention to entertain them at supper that evening.

Soon after the midday meal, Seregil excused himself and spent the remainder of the afternoon dozing in the cabin.

By the time Alec roused him to prepare for dinner he was feeling considerably better.

"Sorry to leave you on your own up there," he apologized as Alec worked at a knotted lacing on his gown. "Tomorrow we'll find a way to get in some training. Lady Gwethelyn can keep to her cabin with her squire in attendance. Swordplay would be rather awkward down here, but I'm sure we can come up with something. More signing and palming tricks, maybe. That's something you have to keep at or you'll lose it."

Wriggling out of the wrinkled garment, he lifted a fresh gown from the trunk and dropped it over his head.

When Alec had pulled the lacings snug, he carefully draped a gauzy wimple over his hair, binding it with a silk cord and arranging the folds to spread gracefully over his shoulders. In addition to the garnet ring, he added a heavy chain of twisted gold and large pearl earrings.

"Illior's Fingers, I'm famished," he said as he finished. "I hope I can manage to eat in a ladylike fashion. What's for supper? Alec?"

The boy was regarding him with a perplexed expression.

Blushing a bit, he blinked and replied, "We're having stewed fowl. I dressed out the birds for the cook while you were asleep." He paused, then added with a grin, "And from what I heard from the sailors today, this disguise of yours is working."

"Oh? What did they have to say?"

"The cook claims he's never seen the captain so taken with a woman. Some of the others are taking bets on whether he'll have his way with you before we reach Nanta."

"Highly unlikely. I trust you to see to your duty, Squire Ciris, until we're safely ashore."

 

Rhal opened the door at their knock.

He'd donned a fusty velvet coat for the occasion and had given his beard a proper trimming as well.

With an inward groan, Seregil presented his hand and allowed himself to be escorted in.

"Welcome, dear lady!" Rhal exclaimed, pointedly ignoring Alec as he drew Seregil's arm through his own. "I hope you'll find everything to your liking."

A small table stood neatly set for three, the wine already poured, fine wax candles alight in place of the malodorous oil lanterns.

"Why, you look fresh as a spring rose at dawn," he went on, seating Seregil with practiced courtesy. "It pained me to see you looking so peaked this afternoon."

"I'm much better, thank you," Seregil murmured. Alec gave him a quick wink behind Rhal's back.

Both fowl and wine proved to be excellent.

Conversation during the meal was somewhat strained, however.

Rhal made little effort to include Alec, and replied somewhat stiffly when the boy made several pointed allusions to Lady Gwethelyn's fictitious husband. Having grown accustomed to his part, Alec was clearly beginning to revel in it.

"You must give us news from the south, Captain,"

Seregil interjected when a particularly grim pause threatened.

"Well, I suppose you've heard about the Plenimarans?" Rhal took a large, blackened pipe from a nearby rack. "With your permission, my lady? Thank you. Before we sailed from Nanta the week before last, news came through that the old Overlord, Petasarian, was ailing again and not expected to last long. That bodes ill for the rest of us, if you ask me. Being Skalan born, I don't care much for the Plenimarans, but Petasarian has held to the treaties these last five years. That heir of his, young Klystis, is another matter. They say he's been ruling in all but name this last year, and it looks to most like he's sharpening up the swords again. Rumor has it that he may even have a hand in the old man's illness, if you take my meaning. What I pick up along the coast is that there's a good many in Plenimar who think the Twelfth Treaty of Kouros should never have been signed, and that those who say so are anxious to get Petasarian out of the way so his son can set things to rights."

"Do you think there could be a war?" Seregil effortlessly counterfeited feminine alarm.

Rhal puffed sagely at his pipe. "Skala and Plenimar hardly know what to do with themselves when they're not killing each other off, though I hold the Plenimarans are generally the ones to kick the beehive. Yes, I think they're getting ready to go at it again, and mark my words, this time it'll be a bad one. Those that have business over that way say that there's an uncommon amount of ship building going on in Plenimaran ports. The press gangs are out in force, too. Sailors are getting shy of taking shore leave there."

This was fresh news to Seregil, but before he could pursue it further they were interrupted by the cabin boy who'd been sent in to clear the table. While the cloth was being changed, Rhal unlocked a small cabinet over his bunk and brought out a dusty decanter and three small pewter cups.

"Aged Zengati brandy. Quite rare," he confided as he poured. "My trade connections in Nanta give me access to a good many luxuries of this sort. Come, Squire Ciris, let's drink the health of our most excellent lady. May she continue to delight the eye and gladden the heart of those privileged to look upon her."

Though he spoke to Alec, his gaze never left Seregil's face as he raised his cup to his lips.

Seregil lowered his eyes modestly, sipping at the fiery spirit.

Alec lifted his cup again, adding with apparently ingenuous gallantry, "And to the fair child she carries, my next cousin!"

Rhal choked on his brandy, going into a brief coughing fit. Seregil looked up in startled amusement, but managed to compose himself by the time Rhal recovered.

"I would not have spoken of it had not my dear cousin, in his youthful enthusiasm, broached the indelicate subject," Seregil murmured, setting his cup aside. Mycenian ladies of quality were noted for their modesty and discretion.

But Rhal was clearly less put off than Alec had intended. Seregil could guess at the new train of thought behind those dark eyes.

After all, if a woman's already plowed and planted and still has a pleasing shape, what harm can be done?

"My lady, I had no idea!" he said, patting her hand with renewed warmth.

The cook entered with a tray of covered bowls and Rhal set one in front of him. "No wonder you've been off your feet. Perhaps the dessert will be more to your liking."

"Indeed?" Seregil lifted the lid from his dish with a small expectant smile, then froze, the color draining from his face. Inside maggots writhed over severed ears, eyes, and tongues. A hot wave of nausea and panic rolled over him. Dropping the lid with a clatter, he rushed from the room.

"Don't be alarmed, boy!" he heard Rhal say behind him. "It's quite common in her condition—" Reaching the rail, he sagged over it and vomited up his supper, dimly aware that Alec was at his side.

"What's wrong?" the boy demanded in an urgent whisper when he'd finished.

"Get me below," groaned Seregil. "Get me below now!"

Alec half carried him down the companionway to their cabin, where Seregil collapsed on the bunk and buried his face in his hands.

"What happened?" Alec pleaded, hovering anxiously over him. "Should I go for the captain, or fetch some brandy?"

Seregil shook his head violently, then raised his head to look up at the boy. "What did you see?"

"You ran out!"

"No! In the bowls. What did you see?"

"The dessert, you mean?" Alec asked in confusion.

"Baked apples."

Striding to the cabin's single small window, Seregil threw it open and inhaled deeply. Fear, keen as a dagger's point, coursed through him; every instinct screamed for him to arm himself, watch his back, run somewhere, anywhere.

His head was pounding again, too, twisting his empty belly into a painful knot.

Turning to face Alec again, he said softly,

"That's not what I saw. The dishes were full of a steaming mess of—" He stopped at anxiety that had overwhelmed him at the sight. "Never mind. It's not important. But it wasn't baked apples."

A convulsive shudder racked him and he sagged against the cabin wall.

More alarmed than ever, Alec drew him to the bunk and made him sit down again. Seregil curled into the corner at the head of the bunk, back pressed to the wall. But he was still master of himself enough to send Alec to Captain Rhal with Lady Gwethelyn's apologies; it seemed that in her present state, she could not bear the odor of certain foods.

 

When Alec returned, he found Seregil pacing restlessly in the narrow confines of the cabin.

"Bolt the door and help me out of this damned dress!" Seregil hissed, but could scarcely stand still for the unlacing. When Alec had finished, he pulled on his leather breeches beneath his nightdress, wrapped a mantle about his shoulders, and returned to his corner of the bunk, sword hidden between the pallet and the wall behind him.

"Come here," he whispered, motioning for Alec to sit beside him.

Pressed shoulder to shoulder with Seregil, Alec could feel the occasional fits of trembling that still seized him, and the feverish heat of his body.

But Seregil's voice was steady, though barely audible. "Something's happening to me, Alec. I'm not sure what, but you should know about it because I don't know how I'm going to end up."

With that said, he told Alec of his latest nightmare, and of the unreasoning dread that had come over him before.

"It's either magic or madness," he concluded grimly. "I'm not sure which would be worse. I've never felt anything like this. The things in the bowls? I've seen sights a hundred times worse and scarcely given it a second thought. I may be a lot of things, Alec, but I'm no coward! Whatever this is, I imagine things are going to get worse before they get better—if they get better." He tugged distractedly at the wooden disk hanging around his neck. If you want to move on without me, I'll understand. You don't owe me anything."

"Maybe not," Alec replied, trying not to think about how frightened he suddenly felt, "but I wouldn't feel right about it. I'll stay on."

"Well, I won't hold you to that, but thank you."

Drawing up his knees, Seregil cradled his head on his arms.

Alec was about to retreat to his alcove when he felt another shiver rock through Seregil. Leaning back against the wall, he stayed silently by him well into the night.

 

10

Seregil Descending

 

Seregil struggled free of another nightmare just before dawn. Throwing open the window, he dressed quickly, then sat watching the sky brighten. The anxiety of the dream gradually faded, but the first hint of a renewed headache seemed to grow with the light. Before long he heard Alec moving around in the alcove.

"You've had another bad night," the boy said, not bothering to make it a question.

"Come hold the mirror for me, will you?" Seregil opened a pouch of cosmetics and set to work. Dark circles stood out like bruises under his eyes; the hand holding out the mirror was not as steady as it had been a week before.

"I think Lady Gwethelyn will keep mostly to her cabin today. I'm not up to lengthy dissemblements," he said, inspecting his handiwork when he'd finished.

"Besides, it will give us a chance to get on with your training. It's high time you learned to read. In fact, you can hardly manage our trade without it."

"Is it difficult?"

"You've caught on to everything else I've thrown at you," Seregil assured him. "There's a lot to it, but once you know the letters and their sounds, it comes quickly. Let's take a short walk on deck first, though. I could use the air before attempting breakfast. Let the captain see how ill I look and perhaps he'll leave us alone."

It was snowing in earnest this morning; wet, heavy flakes draped into a heavy curtain about the ship, deadening sound and making it impossible to see much farther than the end of the bow. Every rope and surface was outlined in white, and the deck was a mass of slush.

Captain Rhal stood by the mast, giving orders to several men at once.

"Tell Skywake to keep her in the middle of the channel if he can figure out where it is!" he called to one sailor, jerking a thumb in the direction of the helmsman. "Keep dropping that lead until this clears. We're less likely to get hung up so long as we stay well out in the channel. By the Old Sailor, there's not enough breeze to fill a virgin's- Well, good morning to you, my lady. Feeling better, I trust?"

"The motion of the ship is most unsettling," Seregil answered, leaning on Alec's arm for good effect. "I fear I shall have to spend the remainder of our journey below."

"Aye, it's filthy weather, and damned early for it this far south. At this rate we'll be lucky to reach Torburn by dark tomorrow. It's going to make for a long day, so if you'll excuse me—Ciris, why don't you fetch your mistress some hot wine from the galley?"

With this, he strode off toward the helm.

"I don't know whether to be relieved or insulted!" Seregil chuckled under his breath. "Go fetch us some breakfast. I'll meet you below."

 

Despite the strange visions of the previous night, Seregil wasn't prepared for what he saw in the porridge Alec brought back. Pushing his bowl away, he retreated to the bunk.

Alec frowned. "It's happening again, isn't it?"

Seregil nodded, not caring to describe the slithering mass he saw in the bowl, or the stench that wafted up out of the teapot. Gathering up the dishes, Alec carried them away and returned with a mug of water and a bit of bread.

"You've got to get at least this into you," he urged, pressing the cup into Seregil's hand.

Seregil nodded and downed it quickly, doing his best to ignore the disturbing sensations that skittered across his tongue.

"You won't last long on that," Alec fretted.

"Can't you manage a little bread? Look, it's fresh from the ship's oven."

Alec unwrapped a napkin and showed him the thick slice. Sweet, yeasty steam curled up in the sunlight and Seregil's empty belly stirred at the fragrance. As he reached for it, however, maggots erupted out of the bread, tumbling through the boy's fingers onto the table.

Seregil averted his eyes with a grimace. "No, and I think it might be better if you took your meals elsewhere until this is over.

 

They commenced the writing lesson later that morning.

Seregil's battered leather pack yielded up several small rolls of parchment, quills, and a pot of ink. Crowded together over the small table, Alec watched Seregil draw the letters.

"Now you try," he said, handing Alec the quill.

"Copy each letter underneath mine and I'll tell you its sound."

Alec knew as little about handling a quill as he did about swordplay, so they paused for a brief lesson in penmanship. He was soon inked to the wrists, but Seregil saw progress being made and held his tongue. After he'd mastered the characters, Seregil took the quill and swiftly spelled out their names, then the words for bow, sword, ship, and horse. His script flowed graceful and elegant next to Alec's smudgy scrawls.

Alec watched all this with growing interest. "That word there; that means me?"

"It means anyone named Alec."

"And this is "bow." It's as if these little marks have power. I look at them and the things they stand for just pop into my head, like magic. That one there doesn't look anything like a bow, yet now that I know the sounds of the letters, I can't look at it without seeing a bow in my head."

"Try this." Seregil wrote out "Alec's Black Radly bow" and read it aloud, pointing to each word in turn.

Alec followed along, grinning. "Now I picture my own bow. Is it magic?"

"Not in the sense you mean. Ordinary words simply preserve ideas. Still, you have to be careful. Words can lie, or be misunderstood. Words don't have magic, but they have power."

"Well, the mayor of Wolde wrote a letter to the mayor of Boersby and it said something like "Aren Windover and his apprentice stole my money. Capture them and I'll reward you." Because the mayor of Boersby knows the mayor of Wolde, he reads and believes. Did we steal the money?"

"No, we just went through those rooms and you—"

"Yes, yes," Seregil snapped, cutting him short. "But the point is that a few words on a piece of paper were all it took to convince the mayor of Boersby that we did!"

Seregil stopped suddenly, realizing he was practically shouting. Alec shrank back, looking as if he expected a blow. Seregil pressed his palms down on his knees and took a deep breath.

The headache was back from wherever it had been lurking, and with the pain came an extraordinary surge of anger.

"I'm not feeling very well, Alec. Why don't you go above for awhile?" It was an effort to speak calmly.

Jaw set in a stubborn line, Alec strode out without a word.

Sinking his head into his hands, Seregil wrestled with the sudden, inexplicable surge of conflicting emotions. He wanted to go after him, try to explain and apologize, but what was he going to say?

 Sorry, Alec, but for just a moment there I really wanted to throttle you?

"Damn!" He stalked around the confines of the tiny cabin. The pain in his head swelled to a blinding ache. Beneath the pain, a vague urge began to resolve itself into an almost sensual feeling of need.

It flowed through him, drawing his lips back from his teeth in a terrible, vulpine smile, filling every fiber of him with the desire to lash out. He wanted to grasp. He wanted to strike. He wanted to rend and tear—

He wanted—

And then, in a final searing flash, it was gone, taking the worst of the headache with it. When his vision cleared he found himself grasping the hilt of the penknife they'd been using. Somehow he'd driven it into the tabletop with such force that the little blade had snapped in two.

He didn't even remember picking it up.

The room seemed to spin slowly around him as he stood looking down at the broken knife.

"Illior help me," he whispered hoarsely. "I'm going mad!"
 

* * *
 

Hurt and confused, Alec paced the deck.

Until last night Seregil had treated him with nothing but kindness and good humor; if not always communicative, he'd certainly been evenhanded and generous.

Now out of the blue, this coldness.

The shock of the morning's events gradually faded, allowing worry to replace his anger. This was what Seregil had been trying to warn him of last night, he realized. Of course, he had only Seregil's word that this was some new aberration; what if he'd been crazy all along?

And yet he couldn't forget his conversation with Micum Cavish back in Boersby. Alec had trusted Micum from the start, and this behavior just didn't fit with what he'd told him that night. No, Alec decided, Seregil wasn't to blame for this behavior.

He didn't have to get me out of Asengai's, he reminded himself sternly. I've said I'll stand by him through this and I will!

Nonetheless, he couldn't help wishing that Micum had come south with them.

 

Alec wandered the deck disconsolately that night, ignoring the questioning looks the sailors exchanged as he passed.

Seregil's erratic behavior had continued throughout the day. Still unable to eat that evening, he'd grown more agitated and irritable as the night wore on.

Alec had tried to talk to him, calm him, but only succeeded in upsetting him more. Seregil had finally ordered him out again, speaking slowly through clenched teeth.

It was too cold to sleep above, so Alec retreated to the companionway, his back to the cabin door. He was just dozing off when Rhal came below.

"What are you doing out here?" the captain asked in surprise. "Is something amiss with your lady?"

The lie he'd rehearsed earlier came out smoothly enough. "My snoring disturbed her sleep, so I came out here," Alec replied, rubbing his stiff neck.

Rhal frowned down at him a moment, then said,

"You're welcome to my bunk. It doesn't look like I'll be needing it, not with this weather."

"Thank you, but I think I better stay close, in case she needs me," Alec replied, wondering at this unexpected generosity.

Just then a hoarse cry came from inside the cabin, followed by what sounded like a struggle.

Scrambling to his feet, Alec tried to prevent Rhal from rushing in. "No! Let me—"The burly captain thrust him aside like a child.

Finding the door bolted, Rhal kicked it open and took a step inside.

Behind him, Alec watched with alarm as the man stopped abruptly, then reached for the long knife at his belt.

"What the hell is this?" growled the captain.

Alec let out a small groan of dismay.

Haggard and white, Seregil stood swaying in the far corner, sword in hand. His nightgown was torn down the front, effectively dashing any illusion of Lady Gwethelyn. For a moment it looked as if he might attack. Instead, he shook his head slightly and tossed his sword down on the bunk.

Waving one thin hand, he motioned for them to enter.

Alec moved to Seregil's side. Rhal remained where he was by the broken door.

"I'll ask you this once," he said slowly, his voice dark with anger. "Whatever it is you're up to, has it endangered my ship or my crew?"

"I don't believe so."

Rhal sized the two of them up for a long moment. "Then what in the name of Bilairy are you doing waltzing around in women's rigging?"

"There were some people I needed to get away from. If I tell you any more, then you will be in danger."

"Is that so?" Rhal looked skeptical.

"Well, I'd say it was either political or you've got one angry husband after you. The Darter wasn't the only ship at Boersby that night. Why load this onto me?"

"I heard you were a man of honor."

"Horse shit!"

Seregil smiled slightly. "But it's no secret that you've no great love for Plenimar."

"That's true enough." Rhal took another long look at him. "I see what it is you're aiming to make me believe. Assuming I buy it, which isn't saying I do, it still doesn't explain all the mummery that's gone on since you came aboard. You've played me for a cully, and I don't care much for that!"

Seregil dropped wearily onto the bunk. "I'm not going to explain my motives; they don't concern you. As for your attentions to the late Lady Gwethelyn, the boy and I both did everything we could to discourage you."

"I'll grant that, I suppose, but it's still my inclination to escort the pair of you over the side."

"You'd have a bit of explaining to do to your crew, wouldn't you?" Seregil suggested with a meaningful lift of an eyebrow.

"Damn you!" Rhal ran a hand over his beard in frustration. "If any of my men find out about this—the story would travel the length of the river before spring!"

"That's easily avoided. We dock at Torburn tomorrow. Lady Gwethelyn can disembark there, pleading ill health. I understand there are some wagers riding on whether or not she'll give you a tumble? If you like, I can be seen emerging from your cabin in the morning, winsome smile playing about my lips—"

Rhal darkened again. "Just see to it that both of you keep to your cabin until we arrive. Play your parts until you're out of sight of my ship and don't ever let me set eyes on either of you again!"

Striding furiously out, he collided with the first mate in the hall. Before the man had time to do more than grin, Rhal snarled, "See to your duties, Nettles!" and slammed into his own cabin.

"Well, that was undoubtedly one of the most embarrassing moments of my life," Seregil groaned, bravado falling away. "It's no easy matter, facing down a big, angry sailor in nothing but a woman's nightgown."

"You threw your sword away!" Alec exclaimed in disbelief, pushing the door back into place.

"We'd have fought if I hadn't. Win or lose, you and I couldn't afford the results. How would we have explained things if I'd killed him, eh? You defending my virtue? The crew would kill you in an instant, and Illior only knows what they'd do with Lady Gwethelyn. If he'd killed me, things would turn out just about the same. No, Alec, it's best to talk your way out whenever you can. As it stands, I don't think our secret could be in safer hands. Besides, he interests me. Blustering rogue that he is, I suspect he's intelligent and shrewd enough when women aren't involved. You never know when someone like that might be useful."

"What makes you think he'd ever help you?"

Seregil shrugged. "Intuition, maybe. I'm seldom wrong."

Alec sat down and rubbed his eyes. "What was all that commotion before we came in?"

"Oh, just another of those nightmares," Seregil replied, affecting a nonchalance he didn't feel. He didn't like to think what might have happened if Alec had been in the cabin with him when he'd thrashed his way up out of this latest one.

Sitting up, he reached for his cloak on top of the trunk. The torn nightdress slipped off his shoulder, revealing a patch of reddened skin on his chest, just above the breastbone.

"What's this?" asked Alec, reaching to move the wooden disk aside for a better look.

Icy fingers clamped around Seregil's heart.

Overwhelmed by a sudden, inexplicable fury, he caught Alec by the wrist and shoved him roughly away. "Keep your hands to yourself!" he snarled.

Yanking the cloak around his shoulders, he retreated into the corner of the bunk. "Go to bed. Now."

 

Hunched in his alcove much later that night, Alec heard Seregil stir.

"Alec, you awake?"

"Yes."

A long pause followed, then, "I'm sorry."

"I know." Alec had been thinking and already had the beginnings of a plan. "Micum said you know a wizard at Rhíminee. Do you think he could help you?"

"If he can't, then I don't know who can." There was another pause. Alec heard something like a dark chuckle, and the sound raised the hair on the back of his neck.

"Alec?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful, will you? Tonight, for just an instant—" Alec tightened his grip on the sword lying across his knees. "It's all right, now. Go back to sleep."

Their last day aboard the Darter was a long one. Seregil spent the morning staring morosely out the window.

Alec maintained a careful distance, preoccupied with his own plans. By afternoon, he was ready to chance Rhal's displeasure and went above.

He settled behind the cutwater, hood pulled up against the wind. By the time they neared Torburn just before sundown, he'd managed to speak with the helmsman and several of the other sailors without their captain noticing. If it was up to him to get them both to Rhíminee, then he had to know how to get there.

 

To Rhal's relief, Lady Gwethelyn did not appear until the ship had put in at Torburn.

The first mate's tale, already gleefully if discreetly spread among the crew, had amply explained both the silence of the lady and his sudden coolness toward her. Surreptitious nods and nudges were exchanged all around the deck when she finally came above to disembark.

No one but Rhal noticed, however, when the lady slipped a small something into his palm as he handed her down the gangway. Unwrapping the little silk square later that night in his cabin, he found the garnet ring his strange passenger had worn.

"A peculiar character, and no mistake." he exclaimed under his breath. Shaking his head in bemusement, he hid the ring safely away.