Kassarie

Orëska livery for Alec and Micum, together with a pass presented by "Thero," got the three of them through the Sea iate without challenge. Once outside the walls, they followed the highroad south along the cliffs below the city. A few miles farther on, they turned aside onto another route that climbed into the hills.

Just like old times. Everybody knows the way but me, Alec thought resignedly.

This road climbed into forest to twist along the top of a broad river gorge. The ice-laden boughs of fir trees gradually closed in on their left; the rush of the river followed them on the right.

After several miles, Micum motioned for them to halt. Climbing down, he cast back and forth with a lightstone.

"See anything?" inquired Seregil.

"Not much. The mud must have stayed frozen all day up here."

Riding on, they caught a glimpse of watch fires ahead. Lady Kassarie's keep stood on a high cliff overlooking a bend in the river.

Sheer cliffs rose behind it, and a high bailey guarded the front. Working their way stealthily around the periphery of the wall, the three spies climbed a wooded slope and climbed into the branches of a tall fir overlooking the place.

There seemed to be nothing amiss: an unremarkable collection of small outbuildings-sheds, wood stacks, and stables- cluttered the yard.

The keep itself was an imposing structure. Tall, square-built, and smooth-walled, it had no windows except for arrow slits below the third level. Square, flat-topped towers stood at each of the four corners, and watch fires burned on all but the one overhanging the gorge.

"Tight as a soaked barrel," Seregil muttered, craning his neck for a better look.

"Appears so," Micum agreed, shifting restlessly on his branch. "Looks like we'll do better tricking our way in."

"Too late for that now," said Alec. "It can't be more than a couple of hours to morning."

"True." Frowning, Seregil climbed down again. "Looks like we're spending a cozy night right here."

 

Nysander made his way to Silvermoon Street immediately upon leaving Seregil and the others. The streets were quiet at this hour and he met only one other person as he neared Barien's house, a hasty rider whose passing tore at the stillness of the night with a clatter of harness and hooves. The sound passed away with the rider, and he could hear the annoyed grumbling of the guards at the palace gates ahead.

He was surprised to find Barien's gate locked for the night and the lantern over the door extinguished.

The Vicegerent shared Nysander's preference for the late hours and seldom retired so soon after midnight. Dismounting, Nysander rapped at the gate until the watchman appeared at the postern.

"Good evening to you, Lord Nysander," the man greeted him, accustomed to the wizard's odd hours.

"Good evening, Quil. I wish to speak with the Vicegerent."

"Sorry, my lord, but Lord Barien's abed already. He left instructions not to be disturbed by anyone but the Queen herself. He was quite firm about it, too. And just between you and me, sir, the chamberlain said the master didn't look well when he retired. He'd been out to dinner but come back early looking right Peaked."

"I see," said Nysander. "Poor fellow, I hope it was nothing he ate. Where did he dine?"

"Chamberlain didn't say, my lord, only that Lord Barien wasn't to be disturbed on any account."

"Then I suppose I must call again tomorrow. Please give your master my respects."

Continuing along Silvermoon to a nearby fountain, Nysander sat on its rim and sent a sighting back to Barien's villa.

The Vicegerent was indeed in bed, thumbing listlessly through a small book lying open on the counterpane.

Nysander recognized the book with a pang of sadness; it was a volume of bardic poetry he himself had given to Barien some years before. He seemed to settle at last on a page and Nysander shifted his sighting to read it.

"Break, Noble Heart. Dissolve to ashes if thy Honor impugned be," Nysander quoted silently, recognizing a line.

A swift, tactful brush across the surface of Barien's mind revealed a deep, weary melancholy, nothing more.

It would have been simple enough to translocate himself the short distance to Barien's chamber, but a moment's deliberation left Nysander disinclined to do so. Neither Barien's mood nor current activity warranted such an impertinent intrusion. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

 

Seregil and the others spent a cheerless night beneath the trees, awakening at dawn to find one of Nysander's blue spheres hovering in the air just over Seregil's head. Passing his hand through it, he released the message.

"Learn whatever you can there, but return to the city as quickly as possible. Come directly to me."

Despite the muted affect inherent in the spell, there was an unmistakable hint of distress in the wizard's disembodied voice.

"What do you suppose that's all about?" yawned Micum, brushing damp leaves from his cloak.

"He must have gotten something out of Barien," said Seregil "Let's see what there is to uncover here and get back."

A quick reconnaissance up the fir tree showed little change in the keep yard, though by daylight they learned the reason for the one dark tower.

The tower overlooking the gorge was in ruins. One side of its flat top had been struck by lightning and stood open to the sky. Judging by the weathered look of the broken stone, together with an overgrowth of branching, winter-browned tendrils of some creeping vine, it must have been in this condition for some years. It stood out against the solid symmetry of the surrounding structure like a rotten tooth in a sound mouth.

Waiting for a plausible hour of the morning, they proceeded with their first plan. Changing his Orëska tunic for a workman's smock, Alec set off with another fictitious summons for Teukros.

Leading his horse back through the trees, he reappeared far enough down the road to give the appearance of having just ridden up the hill.

"I've a message for Lord Teukros," he told the gatekeeper, holding up the letter Seregil had prepared.

"You've wasted a long ride, lad," the man informed him. "Lord Teukros ain't here."

"But I was told he was spending the night here,"

Alec pressed, trying to act like a servant who'd just learned he'd ridden a long, hard way for nothing.

"Don't know about that," the man grunted, starting to swing the gate closed again.

"Wait," called Alec, dismounting before the heavy door could slam in his face. "I've got to take some answer back."

"That's nothing to me," said the gatekeeper, eyeing Alec's purse meaningfully.

A discreet coin rendered the man instantly more agreeable.

"Perhaps you'd be wanting to speak with our lady?" he suggested.

"I probably should."

Alec followed the man across the yard, taking in as many details as he could along the way. Three fine horses stood saddled and ready near the front door. Two of them had panniers tied behind the saddles. The third was caparisoned for a lady's hunting.

At the keep door, an elderly house servant eyed Alec disdainfully, asked his business, and left him standing in the middle of the hall with a look that said as clearly as words, Don't steal anything while I'm gone.

The furnishings of the vaulted hall were costly and in excellent condition. Silver urns and bowls gleamed on the mantelpiece without a hint of tarnish, and the rushes strewn over the floor were crisp and fragrant.

Splendid old tapestries covered the stone walls and these, too, had been lovingly maintained. Alec turned slowly, admiring as he always did the Skalans taste for fantastic landscapes and creatures. One in particular caught his eye; it was designed to look like a window casement, out of which one could see a pride of griffins prowling an orchard against a mountainous backdrop.

The piece was over twenty feet wide and bordered with elaborate designs. Scanning it with admiration, Alec was surprised to find one discordant element embroidered in the lower right-hand corner, the stylized figure of a curled lizard.

Looking around, he saw that many of the other hangings had some sort of device in one corner, like a maker's mark-a rose, a crown, an eagle, a tiny unicorn, the curled lizard—a number of the larger ones had several marks together in a row. He was just bending down to study these more closely when he sensed movement behind him and turned, steeling himself to face the old manservant's renewed disapproval.

There was no one there.

It might have been a draft, Alec reasoned, taking a second glance around. Then again, any of the larger tapestries could easily conceal a passageway. Whatever the case, he suddenly had an uncomfortable sense of being observed.

Unsure if it was instinct or fancy, he nonetheless did his best to appear as innocuous as possible, just in case.

The old man soon shuffled back in to announce his mistress, the Lady Kassarie a Moirian.

Kassarie swept in behind him, pulling on a hawking gauntlet as she entered. She was somewhere over forty years of age, with a broad, stern face and a manner to match. Alec stooped forward at once in a halting bow.

"What's all this about Lord Teukros?" she demanded impatiently.

"I've a message for him, my lady—"
Alec began, showing the packet again.

"Yes, yes," she snapped. "But what possessed you to seek him here?"

"Well, my lady, I called at his house first thing this mornin' and was told by Lady Althia that he'd meant to ride out here last night. That's as much as I know of it."

"Dear me, that doesn't bode well," she said with evident concern. "He certainly never arrived, nor did I receive any word from him that he meant to come.

Did you see anyone on the road this morning?"

"No, my lady."

"How very puzzling. I must send word to Althia at once. You can carry it back for me, boy. Who sent you, by the way?"

"Master Verik of Canvass Lane," Alec replied. Seregil had given him the name; Verik, a merchant of genteel but common birth, was a business associate of Teukros'.

"Very good, then. I'll just dash off that note."

Having settled the matter to her own satisfaction, Kassarie turned briskly to the old retainer still hovering at her elbow. "Illester, take the lad to the kitchen while I prepare the letter. He ought to at least have a bit of hot food for his troubles."

Illester turned Alec over to a younger servant and sent them both outside again to come in at the back door.

"He's a sour old stick," Alec remarked when they were out of earshot.

"That's not for the likes of you to comment on," the servant returned stiffly.

Passing several small herb beds and a great black kettle hung steaming over an open fire, they came round to the kitchen door. Inside, two women were hard at work over wooden bread bowls.

"Kora, her ladyship wants this messenger boy fed," snapped the manservant. "See to it he stays put until he's called for."

"As if we don't have enough to occupy us this morning, and us up to the tits in flour," huffed the taller of the two women, pushing a lank strand of hair back with her forearm. "Stamie, Stamie girl! Where the blasted hell are you?"

A thin, pockmarked girl of seventeen or so staggered out of a pantry room with an immense ham in her arms. "What is it now, Auntie? I's just out to boil the ham as you told me."

"Put that aside for a moment and set this lad up in the chimney nook with a bite of tucker. There's some rabbit pie at the back of the larder needs eating. That'll do well enough for him."

Retreating meekly to his corner, Alec was quickly ignored by all but plain Stamie, who seemed to be the only friendly inhabitant of the place.

"You just let me heat this up for you," she said, setting the pot of leftovers in the coals. "Do you fancy a pint of beer with your food?"

"Yes, please. It's a long ride all the way up here from Rhíminee."

"Rhíminee, you say?" she exclaimed softly, stealing a glance in her aunt's direction.

"Gods, what I wouldn't give to find service in the city! But you've a country accent yourself. How'd you manage it?"

"My position, you mean? Well now, there's not a lot to tell," Alec stammered; he'd been sent in as a simple messenger, for the Maker's sake! It hadn't occurred to any of them that he'd need some detailed history. "Master Verik knew my father, that's all."

"Lucky you. I was born into this lot, stuck out here in the williwags, same old faces day after day."

Her callused hand brushed across his as she reached to stir the coals, and hectic patches of color fleeted across her sallow cheeks. "What's your name, stranger?"

"Elrid. Elrid of Market Lane," Alec replied, noting both her blush and the striped bead she wore on a bit of red yarn around her neck.

It was a common country charm to attract a lover.

"Well, Elrid of Market Lane, it's a fair pleasure to see someone new for a change. At least someone I don't have to wait on hand and foot!" she added, rolling her eyes.

"Lady Kassarie's got guests, then?"

"Oh, yes, but even they're the same old lot. I spent half last night trying to keep old Lord Galwain's footman out of my skirts, as usual. Why is it never the one you want that takes the liberties, eh?"

This observation, together with the warm look that accompanied it, left no doubt where Alec stood in her estimation.

"You'd best be seeing after that ham now, Stamie," her aunt interrupted gruffly. "I'm sure this great big lad don't need you spooning his food into him. Off with you, now! And no mooning about."

With a resentful roll of her eyes, Stamie hefted the ham again and disappeared into the yard. Bolting down his pot of tepid scraps under Kora's watchful eye, Alec greeted Illester's reappearance with considerable relief.

The old man dourly handed him a sealed scroll and a silver coin. "See that you put that letter into Lady Althia's hands yourself, boy. Your horse has been watered. Off with you now!"

Message in hand, Alec galloped half a mile down the road before doubling back through the trees to where Seregil and Micurn were waiting.

"Well?" Seregil demanded.

"I spoke to Lady Kassarie. She claims he never came and that she wasn't expecting him. The watchman said the same when he let me in."

"She didn't pretend not to know him, though?" asked Micum.

"No, she just seemed surprised and a bit worried over the whole business. She gave me this note to carry back."

Lifting the seals with his knife, Seregil read the letter. "Nothing unusual here. She sends her regards and hopes that Lady Althia's husband turns up soon. There's no sign of a hidden message or cipher."

"She did ask me if I'd noticed anyone on the road this morning," Alec told him.

"Nothing suspicious in that," said Micum. "What was the household like?"

"I only saw the hall, kitchen, and part of the yard. She has some other guests, though. I saw two horses saddled for traveling and the scullery maid mentioned a Lord Galwain."

"Well done," Seregil said, clapping him on the back. "What about Kassarie and her people?"

"She's civil enough, I guess. She sent me to the kitchen for something to eat while she wrote out the note. The servants, though! They all treated me like something they'd scraped off the bottom of their boots. Illester, the head manservant, seemed to think I was there to steal the silver and muddy up the carpets. The cooks were the same. The only one who was friendly at all was the scullery maid."

"Took a shine to you, did she?" asked Micum with a knowing look.

"I think she's just lonesome, and no small wonder. She asked how I got service in the city. I had to make up a bit, but—"

"Hold on," Seregil interrupted. "This girl who made eyes at you, did you get her name?"

"Stamie. She's the head cook's niece."

"Good work. She could be our key to the back door if we ever need one."

"So what do we do now?" Micum asked restlessly.

"Alec can't show up to romance the girl when he's supposed to be on the road back to Rhíminee."

"I know." Running a hand back through his hair, Seregil encountered Thero's cropped curls and dropped his hand with a grimace. "So far we only have Alec's guess that the papers came here at all. Barien's serving maid could just as well have taken them when she met up with Teukros' man in the tavern."

"That's not what it all sounded like to me," Alec maintained stubbornly, nettled at this sudden doubt.

"Yes, but you only caught a few words. It's unwise to base assumptions on scant evidence. You end up leading yourself into all kinds of blind alleys."

"But what about the horses I saw in the yard?"

"Were any of them white?"

"Well, no. But Teukros could have changed mounts there."

"And ridden home on a different one?" Seregil cocked a skeptical eye at him. "To what end if he's already made no secret of his destination?"

"But the fact remains that we did see Teukros ride out last night," Alec insisted. "And he did tell his wife he was coming here."

"A lie to cover his tracks perhaps," suggested Seregil. "There's no reason to assume that he'd tell her the truth."

"Maybe we should head back to the city and see what Nysander's turned up," suggested Micum.

"You mean we're just going to leave?" asked Alec.

Nysander or not, he'd been inside the place and didn't like the feel of it.

"For now," Seregil said, heading for the horses. "You did a fine job. If nothing else, it was good practice for you."

Thoroughly let down, Alec stole a last resentful look at the keep looming over the gorge, then hurried away after the others.

32

Nasty Surprises

As they reached the Sea Gate that afternoon, Seregil was the first to notice that the guard had been doubled.

"Something's happened," he murmured as they rode into the crowded square.

"You got that right," said Micum, looking around.

"Let's see what it is."

Tight knots of people stood everywhere among the booths, heads together, faces serious. Ignored by their elders, gangs of children ran about wildly, teasing each other and daring their fellows to nick sweets from the unattended stalls.

Riding up to a small group of gossips, Micum threw back his cloak to show his red Orëska tunic.

"I've been away from the city. What's the news?" he asked.

"It's the Vicegerent," a woman told him tearfully. "Poor Lord Barien's dead!"

Alec let out a gasp of surprise. "Illior's Light! How did it happen?"

"No one's certain," she replied, wiping her eyes with a corner of her apron.

"He was murdered!" exclaimed a rough-looking character beside her. "Them Plenimaran bastards will be behind it, just you wait and see!"

"Oh, shut your hole, Farkus. Don't be spreading rumors," growled another man, nervously eyeing Micum's livery. "He don't know nothing, sir. All anyone's heard for certain is the Vicegerent was found dead this morning."

"Many thanks," Micum said.

Kicking their horses into a gallop, they rode for the Orëska House. Nysander looked pale but composed when he let them in at the tower door.

"We heard Barien's dead. What happened?" asked Seregil.

Nysander walked across to his desk and sat down, hands folded on its stained surface. "It appears to have been suicide."

"Appears?" Seregil sensed some strong emotion behind his friend's carefully controlled manner, but could not guess what it might be.

"He was found lying peacefully in his bed with his wrists cut," Nysander continued. "The blood had soaked down into the mattress. Nothing appeared amiss until the bedclothes were thrown back."

"Did you talk to him last night?" asked Alec.

Nysander shook his head bitterly. "No. He had gone to bed before I arrived. It was so late and there seemed to be no danger of him bolting. I actually—"
Breaking off, he handed Micum a parchment. "I suppose he was composing this when I looked in on him. Read it out, if you would."

Barien's last, brief missive was as formal as any of the thousands of state documents he'd drawn up over the course of his long career. The handwriting flowed in dark, perfect lines across the page without a blot or waver, devoid of the slightest hint of hesitation.

"My Queen," read Micum, was "Know that I, Barien i Zhal Mordecan Thorlin Uliel, have in these last years of my service to you committed high treason. My actions were deliberate, considered, and inexcusable. I offer no justification but pray you to believe that in the end I died the Queen's man." He's signed it, "Barien, Traitor."

"Illior's Eyes, how could I have been such a fool?" groaned Nysander, pressing a hand to his brow.

"But this proves nothing," Seregil exclaimed in exasperation. "There are no details, no names, no specifics of any kind."

"Idrilain is aware of our investigations. I believe she understands the import of this letter," replied the wizard.

"Oh, that's fine then," Seregil snapped, pacing to the far end of the room. "Unless she suddenly begins to wonder why he died immediately after you began looking into his activities. Suppose she begins to question whether your loyalty to me is greater than to her? That's still my body there in the Tower, you know. I want it back in one piece!"

Micum looked the letter over again. "Couldn't this be a forgery? Sakor's Flames, we've just been dealing with some of the best forgers in Rhíminee."

"And what about Teukros?" added Alec. "It's his word against Kassarie's that he intended to go there at all. He could have gone to Barien's instead. He could have gotten into the house easily enough, being family. Once in, he kills his uncle, drops the note, and slips out again. I told you before, Barien was angry with him over something."

Nysander shook his head. "There were no signs of violence or magic on Barien's person or in the room."

"Doors?" interjected Seregil.

"Locked from within. And as for the matter of Teukros' disappearance, if a man of Barien's stamp believed his nephew had betrayed the family's honor, he himself may have taken steps to remove the young man, a last act of family duty. There is ample precedent for such practices among that class. But the fact remains that whatever Alec heard them arguing about last night, it must surely have contributed to Barien's death."

"What about Phoria?" asked Micum. "It appears she was one of the last people to see him alive, and at his summons, too. Has anyone talked to her?"

"By all reports, the Princess Royal is in deep mourning and is seeing no one," answered Nysander.

"That's vague enough," mused Seregil. "Do you think she's involved?"

"Before Barien's death I should not have thought so. Now I fear we must admit the possibility. If that does somehow prove to be the case, you may be certain it will be dealt with by higher authorities than you or I."

Seregil continued his uneasy perambulation around the room. "Which still leaves us with one man dead and one missing. Have their houses been tossed?"

Nysander nodded. "A small cache of forged shipping manifests was uncovered at Teukros' villa. With them were found copies of several seals, including yours and those of Lord Vardarus, Birutus i Tolomon, and Lady Royan a Zhirini."

"My seal and that of Vardarus; that's clear enough."

Seregil picked up a sextant from one of the tables and fidgeted absently with it. "What about these others? I've never heard of them."

"Minor nobility with minor commissions. Lady Royan oversees the port of Cadumir on the Inner Sea just north of Wyvern Dug. The commission is an hereditary one appended to her holding. Young Sir Birutus was recently appointed to a post with the sutler corps—something to do with meat, I believe."

"They don't sound like the sort to bring the government toppling down," Micum said, perplexed.

"And just where was all this damning evidence found?" asked Seregil, coming to a momentary halt by the desk.

"An interesting point, that," Nysander said with a mirthless smile. "Everything had been concealed beneath the floorboards of Teukros' bedchamber."

"The floorboards," Seregil exclaimed in disgust. "Bilairy's Codpiece, even a green thief knows better than that. You might as well nail it to the front door! This snarl of events just isn't making sense. Barien certainly had access to the royal seal, but to have handed it over to such a dolt as that? It's absurd."

"You said he had a blind spot for his nephew," Alec reminded him.

Seregil stabbed a finger at Barien's letter. "A man who composes as cold-blooded a suicide letter as that would never be so careless. Mark my words, there's more to this than we're seeing."

The four fell silent for a moment, mulling the seemingly contradictory evidence.

"What about those servants we followed?" Alec asked at last.

"What about them?" Seregil muttered, still scowling down at the letter.

"Well, I don't know about the girl, but that man of Teukros' seemed to know where to deliver the papers. He offered to go, remember? But Teukros said he'd do it himself."

The others stared at him a moment, then exchanged chagrined glances.

"By the Light, how did we ever overlook such an obvious point?" cried Nysander. "The members of both households have been taken into custody. They are all being held in Red Tower Prison. Come along, all of you!"

"Bless the day I dragged you out of that dungeon," laughed Seregil, throwing an arm around Alec's neck as they dashed for the door.

 

Nysander had the Queen's authority to question the prisoners and, as Seregil was still in Thero's form, no one challenged his right to accompany his master. Leaving them to their task, Alec and Micum went off to see how the real Thero was faring.

As luck would have it, the warder was the same one whom Alec had met on his first visit to the Tower.

"Poor fellow!" The warder shook his head regretfully. "Prison's been damned hard on 'im, Sir Alec. First day he was gracious as you please, a real gentleman. But he's gone sort of sour since. We've hardly had a word out of him in a couple of days, and what he has said ain't been hardly civil."

Reaching the cell, he took up his post at the end of the corridor. "Visiting rules same as before, young sir. Keep your hands away."

Alec peered through the grille. "Seregil?"

"Alec?"

"Yes, and Micum."

A pale face appeared at the bars and Alec experienced a familiar sense of incongruity. The features and voice were Seregil's; the expressions and intonation were not. The overall effect was reminiscent of Seregil's Aren Windover persona.

"How are you holding up?" asked Micum, standing with his back to the guard.

"It's been a most unusual experience," Thero replied grimly. "They've left me alone for the most part, though, and Nysander sent some books."

"Have you heard about Barien?" whispered Alec.

"Yes. Frankly, I'm not certain—"

"Good news! Good news, Lord Seregil!" the warder interrupted, heading their way with a bailiff in tow.

Thero pressed his face to the bars. "Is that my release?"

"It is indeed, my lord." The warder rattled the lock open with a flourish.

Standing by the cell door, the bailiff unrolled a scroll and droned out, was "Lord Seregil i Korit Solun Meringil Bokthersa, now of Rhíminee, the charge of treason laid against you has been rescinded. Your name is cleared of calumny. By the Queen's grace, step forth and be free."

"I can't tell you how happy I am, sir," the warder said as Thero stepped blinking into the relative brightness of the corridor. "It would've been damned hard to give you over to the inquisitors, like they was talking at first. Damned hard, sir."

"Harder for me than you, I'm sure," Thero snapped, striding off without a backward glance.

Cocking an eye at Alec, the warder spread his hands. "You see what I mean, sir?"

Alec and Micum caught up with Thero on the stairs.

"You might have handled that a bit more smoothly," Micum whispered angrily. "You're supposed to be Lord Seregil, after all."

Thero shot him a sidelong glare. "After two solid days of rats and platitudes, I doubt he'd have been a great deal more gracious."

For appearance's sake they went directly to Wheel Street. Runcer met them at the door with his usual lack of surprise.

"We had word, my lord," he said gravely. "Your bath has been prepared, if you'd care to go up?"

"Thank you, Runcer, I will," Thero replied, attempting Seregil's easy manner. "Let me know the minute Nysander arrives."

Runcer's wrinkled face betrayed little as he watched Thero march off up the stairs, but Alec thought he caught the hint of a cryptic frown before the old servant doddered off toward the kitchen.

 

Upon their return from the Tower, Seregil and Nysander found the others just starting on a hot supper at Seregil's bedroom table.

Face-to-face for the first time since the exchange of bodies, Seregil and Thero inspected each other in silence.

Seregil slowly circled his counterpart, amazed by the sight of his own familiar face settled into Thero's guarded expression.

"Say something," he prompted at last. "I want to hear what I sound like with someone else doing the talking."

"This throat's been doing a great deal less talking since you've been gone," Thero retorted. "I suppose I'll be quite hoarse when I get my body back from you."

Seregil turned to Alec. "You were right. The timbre of the voice is the same, but the speech patterns make all the difference. What an interesting phenomenon!"

"But one which we have no time to explore," Nysander interjected. "You must both be restored to your proper forms."

Joining hands with the greatest eagerness either of them was ever likely to exhibit, Seregil and Thero stood motionless while Nysander performed the spell.

The magic was indiscernible, the effect instantaneous. Restored to his own body, Seregil went a clammy greenish-white.

Releasing Thero, he staggered to the fireside armchair and sank down, head between his knees. Alec grabbed up a bowl and hurried to his side.

Thero doubled over, too, grimacing as he grasped his leg.

"What have you been up to?" he demanded, pulling up his robe to examine the swollen knee.

"Up to?" Seregil managed a faint laugh between gasps. "It was more the down part we had trouble with."

Flexing his long fingers, he rubbed his hands over his smooth cheeks and hair. "By the Four, it's good to get back into my true form! And I've had a bath and clean clothes, too. I'm in your debt, Thero. I just hope you didn't enjoy the soaping up too much."

"You've little enough to be vain of," Thero shot back tartly, returning to his supper.

Still grinning, Seregil tugged at the lacings of his shirt. "I don't know why you have to wear everything so tight, though—"
Alec was the only one who noticed the momentary faltering of his friend's smile. Before the boy could ask what was wrong, however, Seregil locked eyes with him, discreetly motioning silence.

"What did the two servants have to say?" Micum was asking, impatient for details.

"They weren't there," Seregil replied, pulling the lacings shut again. Again his fingers brushed the rough tissue of the scar, which had somehow reappeared. The feel of it made his skin crawl.

"Now there's a surprise," Micum said glumly.

"Did you learn much from the others?"

"We had the same story from both households," said Nysander. "The footman Marsin and Barien's maid Callia had been lovers for some time. Their fellow servants assume they have run off together."

Micum raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Bit too coincidental for my taste. What about the wife?"

"Even less helpful," said Seregil. "Lady Althia's a silly, harmless girl, still content after a year's marriage to be her husband's poppet. All she knows of his business is that it keeps her in jewels, gowns, and horses."

"Then we're right back where we started!" groaned Alec. "Marsin, Teukros, and that girl were our only connection, and now we can't find any of them."

"We should check the charnel houses next," said Seregil. "If any of them were murdered in the city, the Scavengers may have found them by now. Alec, Micum, and I will have to handle that since we're the only ones who know what they look like. And speaking of corpses, what's going to happen to Barien?"

Nysander gave a troubled sigh. "According to the law, he will be flayed, disemboweled, and hung on Traitor's Hill, then cast into the city pit."

Micum shook his head. "To end up like that after all the good he's done over the years. It's him I have to thank for Watermead; he suggested it to the Queen."

"At least he's already dead," Seregil said with a shudder, all too aware that he'd faced a similar fate only a few days ago without such benefit.

At the moment, however, he had a more pressing concern. "Before we all go our separate ways, Nysander, I'd like a private word."

Leading the way to the library across the corridor, Seregil closed the door carefully, then tugged open his shirt to show Nysander his chest. The circular brand left by Mardus' wooden disk stood out a sinister reddish-pink against his fair skin.

"The transference magicks must have disrupted the obscuration," said Nysander. "Though I have never known such a thing to happen before."

"There's more to it than that and you know it," Seregil said going to a small mirror on the wall for a better look. The patterns in the scar tissue were more distinct than ever.

"Could Thero have something to do with this?" he demanded. "That dream I had—"

"Certainly not!" Nysander retorted, reaching to touch the tiny ridges of stiffened flesh. "He would certainly have noticed it when he bathed, and told me of it. It must have happened as I performed the restoration. I shall have to cover it again."

Seregil caught Nysander's wrist and held it.

"What is this mark?" he said, searching the old wizard's face. "What does it mean that you want so badly to keep it hidden?"

Nysander made no move to free himself. "Have you recalled anything else of that nightmare? The one with the headless horse?"

"Not really. Only being in Thero's body and seeing the eye in my chest. And flying. For the love of Illior, Nysander, are you going to tell me what this really is or not?"

Nysander looked away, saying nothing.

Releasing him, Seregil strode angrily toward the door. "So, I'm going to go the rest of my life with this burned into my skin and you're not going to tell me a damn thing!"

"Dear boy, you would do better to pray that you never find out."

"That's never been any prayer of mine and you know it!"

Seregil spat back. For an instant anger made him reckless. "As it happens, I know more about it than you might think. I'd have told you already if it wasn't for—"
The words died on his lips. Nysander had gone ashen, his face a mask of anger. At his swift incantation, the room went dim and Seregil knew from past experience that Nysander had sealed the room against intrusions of any kind.

"By your honor as a Watcher, you will tell me everything," Nysander ordered and the barely suppressed fury in his voice struck like a blow.

"It was the night Alec and I left the Orëska," Seregil told him, his mouth suddenly dry. "Later that night I went to the Temple of Illior."

"Alone?"

"Of course."

"What did you do there?"

Seregil's skin prickled coldly; he could almost see the black waves of anger radiating out from Nysander. The room went darker still, as if the lamps were dying. Steeling himself, he went on.

"I'd made a drawing of this." Seregil pointed to the scar. "Before you obscured it that first time I used a mirror and sketched as much detail of the design as I could make out. At the temple I showed it to Orphyria. Nysander, what's wrong?"

Nysander had gone greyer still. Staggering to a chair, he sank his head in his hands. "By the Light," he groaned, "I should have guessed. After all I said— "

"You told me nothing!" Seregil shot back, still angry in spite of his fear. "Even after I almost died, after Micum brought word of the massacre in the Fens village, you told us nothing! What else was I to do?"

"You headstrong fool!" Nysander glared up at him.

"I suppose you might have heeded my order. My warning! Tell me the rest. What did Orphyria say?"

"She couldn't make anything of it, so she sent me down to the Oracle. During the ritual, he handled the drawing I'd made. He spoke of an eater of death."

Nysander suddenly grasped Seregil's wrist, pulling the younger man to his knees in front of him and staring intently into his eyes. "He said that to you? What else? Do you remember his exact words?"

"He said "death," and repeated it. Then "Death, and life in death. The eater of death gives birth to monsters. Guard well the Guardian. Guard well the Vanguard and the Shaft."

"Those were his exact words?" cried Nysander, squeezing Seregil's arm painfully in his excitement. The anger was gone now, replaced by something that looked very much like hope.

"I'd stake my life on it."

"Did he explain what he meant by these words? The Guardian? The Shaft? The Vanguard?"

"No, but I remember thinking that he must be referring to specific people—especially the Guardian."

Releasing Seregil, Nysander sat back with a harsh laugh. "Indeed he was. Is there anything else, anything at all? Think carefully, Seregil. Omit nothing!"

Seregil rubbed his bruised wrist as he concentrated. "In the course of the divination he picked up a harp peg and sang a tune I'd composed as a child. He kept that. Then there was a bit of Alec's fletching—he spoke of Alec as being a child of earth and light and said that he was my child now, that I was to be father, brother, friend, and lover to him."

He paused, but the wizard simply motioned for him to continue.

"Then came the eater of death business, and finally he looked me right in the eye, handed me back the scroll, and said, "Obey Nysander. Burn this and make no more."

"Sound advice indeed. And did you heed it?"

"Yes."

"That is a wonder. Have you spoken of this to anyone else? Alec? Micum? You must tell me the truth, Seregil!"

"No one. I told no one. I'll swear an oath on it if you like."

"No, dear boy, I believe you." A little color had returned to the old wizard's cheeks. "Listen to me, I implore you. This is not a game. You have no idea the precipice you have danced along, and I am still bound not to tell you— No, no interruptions!

"I want no oaths from you now, but a promise made on your honor—on your love for me if nothing else—that you will be patient and allow me to proceed as I must. I swear the wizard's oath to you, by my Hands, Heart, and Voice, there is no doubt now that I shall reveal everything to you one day. You have my word. Can you abide by that for now?"

"I will." Still shaken, Seregil clasped Nysander's cold hands between his own. "By my love, I will. Cover the damned thing up!"

"Thank you, my impatient one." Nysander embraced him tightly for a moment, then placed his hand on Seregil's chest. The scar melted from sight beneath his fingers.

"You must tell me at once if it reappears," he cautioned. "And now you had best be about the business at hand."

"The others must be wondering what happened to us."

"Go on. I shall sit here quietly a moment longer. You gave me quite a turn!"

"I suppose I'll understand that, too, at some later date. Well, we're off to tour the charnel houses now. We'll be back before dawn, but I doubt any of us will be wanting breakfast."

"Probably not. And Seregil?"

"Yes?"

"Watch your back, my boy, and Alec's, too. Now, more than ever, I pray that you will live by your natural caution."

"I generally do, but thanks for the warning." Seregil paused, his hand on the latch. "You're the Guardian, aren't you? Whatever that means—and I'm not asking—but it was you the Oracle meant, wasn't it?"

To his great surprise, Nysander nodded. "Yes, I am the Guardian."

"Thank you." With a last thoughtful look, Seregil went out, unaware that his dearest friend had, for a fleeting instant, been his sworn executioner.

33

Among the Scavengers

By virtue of its function, the Scavenger Guild was the caretaker of Rhíminee's unwanted dead. Combing the streets and sewers for refuse, the Scavenger crews were often the first to find the murdered and destitute, the cast-off, cast-out, and abandoned ones.

There were three charnel houses in the city: two in the upper city, one in the lower. Seregil and Micum had often visited them as a final recourse. For Alec, however, they proved to be a harsh new experience.

They began with the closest, which stood near the north wall of the city. Alec had hardly set foot inside the place before he staggered out again, hand clamped over his mouth. Retching, he grasped the top of a street marker to steady himself. He'd gotten a good look at the interior of the plain building, seen the corpses lying face up on the stone floor in rows like bundles of used clothing in the marketplace. Even on such a cold winter night, the smell was appalling, and all the more so to a Dalnan nose.

After a moment, he was aware of Seregil beside him.

"They ought—they should have been burned before now!" he gagged.

"The Scavengers have to keep them for a few days after they find them, in case they're claimed," Seregil explained. "The ones dragged up out of the sewers are the worst. Perhaps you'd better stay with the horses."

Torn between shame and relief, Alec watched through the open doorway as Seregil returned to his unpleasant task. He and Micum paced up and down the rows, looking into bloated faces and examining clothing until they were satisfied that none of the three people they sought were there. Scrubbing their hands in a basin of vinegar provided by the keeper of the place, they rejoined Alec outside.

"Looks like we get to keep hunting," Micum told him grimly.

The second charnel house was situated a few streets away from the Sea Market. Alec kept silent during the ride, listening to the even rhythm of Patch's hooves as they galloped through the lamp shadows of the Street of the Sheaf. By the time they reached their destination, he'd made up his mind. He dismounted with the others.

"Wait just a second," Seregil said. Ducking in through the low doorway, he came back with a rag soaked with vinegar. "This helps," he told Alec, showing him how to drape it loosely over his nose and mouth.

Clasping the acrid rag to his face, Alec moved among the dozen or so bodies laid out for inspection. The air was uncomfortably damp, and a fetid stench rose from the glistening drainage channels cut into the floor.

"Here's a familiar face," Micum remarked from across the room. "Not one of ours, though."

Seregil came over for a look. "Gormus the Beggar. Poor old bastard—he must have been ninety. His daughter begs over by Tyburn Circle most days. I'll send word to her."

Again, they found no sign of Teukros or the others. Returning gratefully to the fresh night air, they rode down the echoing Harbor Way to the maze of wharves and tenements that clung to the eastern curve of the harbor.

Leading the way into the poorest section, Seregil reined in at a sagging warehouse. It was the largest of the city charnel houses and the stench of the place hit them before they opened the door.

"Sakor's Flame!" Micum croaked, clapping a vinegar rag over his nose.

Alec hastily did the same. None of the evening's activities had prepared him for this place; even Seregil looked a bit queasy.

More than fifty bodies were laid out on the stained wooden floor, some fresh, some with the flesh already slumping from the bones. The cresset lamps set around the room to consume the evil humours burned with a foul, bluish light.

A hunched little woman wearing the grey tabard of the Scavenger Guild limped up to them with a basket of wilted nosegays.

"Posies for you gentlemen? Makes the bitter search so much sweeter!"

Seregil tossed a few coins into her basket.

"Good evening, old mother. Perhaps you can make our search a shorter one. I'm looking for three people who'd have come to you within the past day. A young, dark-haired servant girl; a manservant of middling years, also dark; and a young nobleman with a blond mustache."

"You may be in luck, sir," the old woman cackled, hobbling off toward a corner of the room. "I've got the fresh ones over here. Is this your girl?"

Callia lay naked between a drowned fisherman and a young tough whose throat had been cut. Her eyes were open, and she looked vaguely worried.

"That's her, all right," said Seregil.

"Now that's a damned shame," Micum sighed, holding up the hem of his cloak as he squatted down beside the girl. "She can't be more than twenty. Do you see her wrists?"

Seregil fingered the brown bruises circling the pale wrists. "She was bound, and gagged, too. See here, how the corners of her mouth are raw?"

Shivering with nausea, Alec forced himself to watch the examination. The past few hours rolled over him like an oppressive nightmare, leaving him sickened to the core.

The front of the body was unmarked except for the bruises. When they rolled her over, however, they found a single small wound between her ribs just to the left of the spine.

"A professional job," Seregil muttered.

"Through the great vessel and straight up into the heart. At least it was quick. Where was she found, old mother?"

"Poor lamb! They pulled her from under the docks, end of Eel Street," the Scavenger woman replied. "I took her for a doxy. Is there family to collect her?"

Seregil laid the body gently back into place and stood up. "I'll look into it. See that she's kept a day or two longer, won't you?"

Outside again, all three sucked in lungfuls of the tar-scented air, but the stink of vinegar on their hands and faces seemed to keep the stench of death about them.

"I want to jump into the sea with all my clothes on!" said Alec, casting a longing look toward the glimmering of water visible at the end of the street.

"Me, too, if we wouldn't come out of that water dirtier than we are now," said Seregil. "A good hot tub will put us right."

"That's your answer to just about everything," Micum observed wryly. "In this case, however, I have to agree."

"At least we know for certain that we're on the right track," Alec said hopefully. "I wonder where Teukros and Marsin will turn up?"

"If they ever do," answered Seregil. "For all we know, it could have been them who did away with the girl, in which case they could be halfway to anywhere by now. Then again, they could both be floating dead in the sewers. Between this and Barien's sudden death, though, I think it's safe to assume that we've got more enemies out there somewhere and, whoever they are, they've got the wind up their tails now. Teukros spilled something to someone!"

34

Phoria's Confession

Two days had passed since the Vicegerent's suicide. At noon Barien's body was to be publicly dismembered, a symbolic execution of the self-confessed traitor.

Micum flatly refused to attend. While Seregil finished dressing, he wandered out onto the bedroom balcony to watch Alec at his morning shooting in the garden. Patiently gauging each shot, the boy sent shaft after shaft unerringly into his current target, a sack of straw wedged in the crotch of a tree.

The previous night Alec had halfheartedly offered to accompany Seregil, but they'd managed to dissuade him.

"There's nothing there you need to see," Seregil had told him, kindly leaving unsaid the fact that Alec had shouted himself awake every night since their charnel house tour.

The boy's relief had been obvious, but this morning he'd moped through breakfast in guilty, hangdog silence, then retreated to the garden with his bow.

As Micum watched now, a sudden gust of wind blew a lock of hair across Alec's eyes, spoiling his last shot. Without the slightest show of impatience, he merely brushed it back and went to collect his arrows for another round.

It's a pity you don't have as much patience with yourself as you do with your shooting, Micum thought, stepping back into the warmth of the bedroom.

Seregil was trying on a broad-brimmed black hat in front of the mirror. Tugging it to a more rakish angle over one eye, he stepped back to judge the effect. "What do you think?" he asked.

Micum ran a critical eye over the plain grey velvet coat Seregil wore under a cloak of darker grey. "No one's going to mistake you for a wedding guest."

Seregil tipped his hat with a humorless smile. "Well turned out but austere, eh? Good. Never let it be said that Lord Seregil doesn't know how to dress for any occasion. Is Alec still shooting?"

"Yes. You know, maybe you shouldn't have talked him out of going. I think he feels like he's let you down."

Seregil shrugged. "Probably, but it was his decision in the end. You saw him the other night; he forced himself into the charnels because he knew it mattered.

"Today it doesn't and he knows that, too. He's just kicking himself for being squeamish. Hell, I wouldn't be going if I didn't have to. The way word has spread around Rhíminee, they're writing ballads about me already; the poor exile unjustly imprisoned and all that sort of horse shit. So it matters and I'm going. At least the poor bastard did us all the favor of killing himself. When the condemned is alive, I have nightmares myself."

 

The execution site lay a few miles north of the city. Known as "Traitor's Hill," the barren rise was distinguished by a broad stone platform on the crest of the hill. Overlooking a lonely stretch of the Cirna highroad, its gibbet arch and deeply scarred block presented bleak but potent testimony to the Queen's implacable justice.

Riding out under a lowering sky, Seregil clapped his hat on more tightly and silently cursed the duty that forced him out on such a morning. The northern territories had been winter-locked for a month now, but the cold weather was only now settling in solidly here on the coast. A light dusting of snow had streaked the fields just after dawn; in the distance to his right, he could see mountain peaks glistening whitely.

A sizable crowd had already gathered at the execution site. The nobles sat their horses in a tight knot, slightly but definitively separate from the surrounding mob of idlers, ne'erdo-wells, and seekers of morbid thrills.

The latter formed a loose ring around the platform, laughing and jesting as if it were a Fair Day, they took their humble midday meal within the shadow of the gibbet and dared one another to stand close enough to get spattered by the blood.

Ignoring the sudden ripple of excited shouts and pointing his arrival elicited, Seregil rode to join Nysander and Thero on the fringe of the noble ranks.

Thero raised an eyebrow. "Alec's not with you?"

Seregil tensed immediate, forever on guard against some thinly veiled barb from the younger wizard.

"Perhaps it is just as well," Nysander observed quietly. "This is not an aspect of Skalan society of which I am particularly proud. The great pity is that it is so effective a deterrent."

Nysander was looking more careworn than ever this morning.

In spite of the irrefutable evidence, the wizard was still finding it difficult to accept Barien's disloyalty. Seregil knew him well enough to understand that it went deeper than mere disillusionment; as an intimate of both the Queen and the Vicegerent, Nysander was reproaching himself for having been blind to a plot of such magnitude. Unfortunately, this was not the time or place to discuss the matter.

Maintaining a somber demeanor, Seregil politely rebuffed efforts by several curious nobles to draw him into conversation. Instead, he listened with a certain sardonic pleasure to the speculations being bantered about nearby.

Lords and ladies who'd feasted at the Vicegerent's own table within the last fortnight now spoke darkly of suspicious circumstances suddenly recalled, or turns of conversation now construed as suspicious or telling.

The crowd grew increasingly restless as the dull sky gradually brightened toward noon. In response, blue-uniformed riders of the City Watch began to make their presence more visible.

Chilled and disgruntled, Seregil shifted in the saddle. "The procession should be in sight by now."

"He's right. Shall I cry for them, Nysander?" offered Thero.

"Perhaps we —" The older wizard paused, shading his eyes as he gazed back up the road toward the city. "No, I doubt it will be necessary."

A lone rider had come into view, galloping hard in their direction. As he came closer, they could see that he wore the colors of a Queen's Herald.

"Bloody hell, here comes someone to spoil the fun for sure!" someone shouted.

The assessment seemed a likely one and the crowd parted with a collective grumble to let the rider through.

Dismounting, the herald climbed onto the gibbet platform, unrolled a scroll, and in a loud, clear voice proclaimed, "By order of Queen Idrilain the Second, the ritual execution of Barien i Zhal is postponed. There will be no dismemberment today. All hail the Queen's mercy!"

Jeers and catcalls went up from the thrill seekers, but most of the nobles turned their mounts for town with expressions of relief.

"What's this?" muttered Seregil.

"I cannot imagine," replied Nysander. "I suspect, however, that a summons from the Queen may await me upon my return."

 

Nysander was correct. Hastening to the Palace, he found Idrilain and Phoria waiting for him in the private audience chamber. Idrilain was seated, with Phoria at stiff attention at her left side.

Both women looked very grim.

"Sit down, Nysander. There is something I wish you to hear," Idrilain said curtly, motioning him to the only other chair in the small chamber. "Phoria, repeat to Nysander what you have told me."

"Lord Barien was not a Leran," Phoria began, her voice flat as a sergeant's at daily report. "He died believing that he had unwittingly aided them, however, through commerce he and Lord Teukros had with the forger Alben."

"Then he recognized Alben, that night at the inquisition?" Nysander asked, recalling Barien's strange expression.

Phoria shook her head. "No, he'd never met the man or heard his name. The connection was all through Teukros, who'd handled all the dealings with him."

"It all started three years ago. Lord Teukros was involved in that massive land speculation in the western territories which failed so miserably."

"I recall the scandal," said Nysander. "I had no idea Teukros had any part in it."

"He was ruined," Phoria told him. "In the end he owed several millions to the man who'd backed the whole scheme, a Lord Herleus."

"Herleus?" Nysander searched his memory for a face to go with the name.

"Killed during a boar hunt later that same year," Idrilain informed him. "After his death, some evidence was found suggesting he'd been a Leran sympathizer, though nothing could be proven at the time."

"Ah, I begin to see."

"Teukros was ruined," Phoria continued. "Even Barien hadn't the ready funds to save him, and Herleus would not be reasoned with. Barien told me he'd advised Teukros to accept his shame and flee the country, and at first Teukros agreed. A day later, however, he came back to his uncle with a plan to save the family name."

"And this plan involved the forging of certain documents which, after the Queen herself, only Barien had access to?"

Phoria nodded. "Apparently Teukros had gone to plead with Herleus one last time. It was then that Herleus suggested that Barien's position would allow him to divert treasury gold from the Gold Road shipments. Herleus introduced Teukros to Alben, who could forge the necessary papers. The long and the short of it is, poor Barien couldn't bear to see his spineless scoundrel of a nephew disgraced and agreed to it all. They needed my help in rerouting the gold and, for Barien's sake, I agreed. We both regretted it after, but we thought the whole affair was over and done until Alben turned up in this business with Lord Seregil."

Nysander stroked his short beard thoughtfully. "I must hear the details of the plan, of course, but I am still uncertain as to how Barien, whom you say knew nothing of Alben, made the connection between this creature and his nephew during the confession."

Phoria sighed heavily. "Alben spoke of the White Hart. That was the name of the vessel the stolen gold was put onto at Cirna."

"Ah, and as high commander of the cavalry detachments assigned to guard such shipments, your approval was needed to reroute the gold. As was Barien's to alter the treasury manifest. Both of you needed to know the name of the vessel, if little else."

Phoria met his eye stonily. "I should have refused. I should have stopped him. I offer no excuse for my actions."

Idrilain took a rolled document from the side table and passed it to Nysander. "This is Barien's will, dated three years ago. You'll find he left his entire fortune and holdings to the Skalan treasury. It's more than adequate repayment."

Slapping a hand down on the table, she rose to pace the room. "As if I wouldn't have forgiven him or tried to help! That wonderful, damnable old-fashioned honor of his destroyed him and cost me the most valuable councilor I had, not to mention the trust of my heir apparent. And all on account of a young idiot not worth the price of the rocks to crush him!"

Phoria flinched visibly. "I shall relinquish all claim to the throne, of course."

"You will do nothing of the sort!" shouted Idrilain, rounding on her. "With a war brewing and Lerans in the back pantry, the last thing this country needs is the uproar of an abdication. You made a mistake—a stupid, prideful mistake—and now you've seen the consequences. As the future queen of this land, you will accept responsibility for your actions and put the needs of Skala before your own. As the high commander of my cavalry forces, you will remain at your post and carry out your duties. Is that clear?"

White-faced, Phoria dropped to one knee and raised a fist to her chest in salute. "I will, my Queen!"

"Oh, get up and finish your report." Turning away in disgust, Idrilain dropped back into her chair.

Rising, Phoria resumed her rigid stance. "As far as I know, the gold was delivered to the Hart as planned. Barien never mentioned the matter to me again until the night of his death."

For an instant a small tremor disturbed the masklike composure of her face. It was the first time in years Nysander had seen her show the hint of any strong emotion other than anger. It passed as quickly as it had come, however.

"Barien went to Teukros and confronted him, wanting to know why he'd continued an association with the forger," she went on. "Apparently Teukros denied everything having to do with the Leran plot and Seregil, but did admit to using Alben's talents to facilitate some shady shipping deals."

"The secret of his fortune, I suspect," said Nysander. "I should hardly have given him credit for such ability, yet it seems we may have underestimated the wretch after all. General Phoria, do you think Barien arranged to have Teukros killed the night of his own death?"

"He said nothing of the kind to me."

"Did you arrange to have Teukros killed?"

"No." For the first time in some minutes Phoria locked eyes with him and Nysander found no reason to doubt her words.

"Is there anything else you can tell me of this business with the Hart?"

"Nothing beyond the fact that Barien could never ascertain exactly what happened to the gold. Herleus ceased his demands for money, and a few months later he was dead. Nothing was mentioned of it during the disposition of his estate, but that's hardly surprising. I suppose his heirs have lived rather well off their secret reserve."

"Perhaps," said Nysander, unconvinced that the answer would be that simple.

 

Armed with Nysander's report from the Palace, Seregil and Alec disappeared for the rest of the day.

They returned to the tower before dark, however, still dressed in the hooded robes of professional scholars and smudged with fine bookish dust.

Micum, who'd spent the afternoon with Nysander, exchanged a grin with the old wizard; Seregil and the boy both had the happy look of hounds on a warm scent. It was the most cheerful either of them had looked in days.

"Herleus had no heirs!" Seregil cackled happily, warming his hands at the workroom fire.

"None at all?" Nysander raised a shaggy eyebrow in surprise.

"Not only that," the boy added excitedly, "but his entire estate was impounded for debt right after he died. There was no sign of any gold."

"You have been to the city archives, then?"

"And down to the lower city again," said Seregil.

"Oh, we've had a busy afternoon, Alec and I. We're off to Cirna tomorrow."

"Hold on now, you've lost me," Micum broke in. "What were you looking for in the lower city?"

"Shipping records," Seregil replied. "The White Hart is listed as belonging to a shipping line owned by the Tyremian family of Rhíminee, but it turns out she was based out of Cirna, so that's where all her manifests would be kept, if they've been kept."

Micum nodded slowly. "Then you believe there's some connection between that stolen gold and the plot against you?"

"It appears that the same people were involved in both plots, and that they're probably Lerans. If I'm wrong, then we've damn—all to go on."

Micum narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "This is another one of your 'instinct' things, isn't it?"

"Even so, I believe he may be correct," Nysander said. "Teukros' falling into debt with a suspected Leran smacks of a conspiracy. What greater coup for them than to ensnare Barien's compliance through his beloved nephew? We must, at all costs, try to determine the ultimate destination of that gold. Assuming, as Seregil has noted, that the evidence still exists."

"There's always a chance," said Seregil. "You coming north with us, Micum?"

He shook his head. "Doesn't sound like you need me, and I imagine Kari's eager to get me back. I'll ride as far as Watermead with you, though. You can break your journey with us, if you like."

"I'd rather push on, thanks all the same. Depending on what we learn, I may stop by for you on the way back, though."

"I'd better not mention that to Kari." Micum gave a comic grimace. "If you just come calling for me out of the blue, I can lay the blame off on you. How long do you think you'll be gone?"

"Depends on what we find. The Hart was a coastal trader working both sides of the isthmus. If we have to go off to some distant port, it could be weeks."

Pausing, he turned to Nysander. "There was one other thing- How many Queen's Warrants would it have taken to reroute that gold?"

"Only one, I suppose. Is there some significance in that?"

"Perhaps," mused Seregil. "As I recall, you said that Alben confessed to forging two Queen's Warrants, but nothing of the sort was recovered from Teukros' house. That leaves one very powerful document, probably complete with seals, unaccounted for."

Nysander frowned as he considered the myriad implications of this revelation. "Oh dear!"

35

Cirna

Alec fought his way out of yet another nightmare, the stench of the charnel house strong in his nostrils.

Throwing back the bed curtains, he found the first light of dawn brightening his window. What he'd smelled was nothing more than the scent of sausages flying downstairs.

"Thank the Maker!" he whispered, running a hand over his sweaty face.

He'd slept badly again that night, tossing fitfully through frantic dreams in which a threatening black figure stalked him through the charnel houses.

The oppressive feel of the dream dogged him as he dressed and headed downstairs.

Seregil and Runcer were in the main salon discussing the disposal of a collection of traveling cases.

"Lord Seregil" was leaving the city on a journey to recover from the shock of his ordeal, taking Sir Alec with him. Luggage sufficient for a lengthy undertaking had to be seen leaving with them.

"We'll leave all this off at Watermead," Seregil was saying as Alec joined them.

"And how shall I respond to those inquiring after you and Sir Alec, my lord?" asked Runcer.

"Tell them that I was too shaken to predict my return. Oh, good morning, Alec. We'll leave as soon as you get some breakfast. Eat fast."

"And Sir Micum is returning home?" asked Runcer.

"Yes, I am." Micum appeared at the dining-room doorway in his shirtsleeves. "You can tell any callers that I've gone home to the loveliest woman in Skala, and that I'll set the dogs on anyone who disturbs us for the next week!"

Runcer bowed gravely. "I shall convey the sentiment, sir."

Seregil paced restlessly around the dining room as Alec wolfed down his sausage and tea. "We'll set up back at the Cockerel when we come back."

"Suits me," Alec said happily. He'd had quite enough of fussy manners and overly attentive servants. Finishing hastily, he followed Seregil and Micum out to the street where their mounts and small baggage train stood ready under Runcer's watchful eye.

They'd dressed as gentlemen to be seen leaving the city, and the groom had saddled Cynril and Windrunner, but Patch and Scrub were ready among the pack horses.

 

It was a brisk, fine day for riding, and they arrived at the byway leading up to Watermead just after midday.

Crossing the bridge, Alec and Seregil dismounted and ducked into a thicket to change clothes. From here they would travel as merchants.

"You're heading for the Pony tonight?" asked Micum as they emerged again.

Seregil glanced up at the sun. "We should be able to make it if we push on."

"Say hello to Kari and the girls for me," said Alec. Looking up the valley, he saw a pale ribbon of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney at Watermead and imagined the warm scents of hot bread, roasting meats, and drying herbs there.

Changing mounts, Seregil roped the Aurënen horses in with the pack animals.

"Expect us when you see us," he told Micum, handing him the lead rein.

"Good hunting to you," said Micum, clasping hands with them both. "And take care on those damned goat paths they call streets up there in Cirna. One wrong step and it's ass over tippet into the bay before you know what happened!"

Riding back across the little bridge, they turned their horses north and set off along the highroad again at a gallop.

The rolling hills soon gave way to steeper country. Jagged cliffs fell away to the sea on their left, and they could see the dark expanse of the Osiat stretching out past the coastal islands to the horizon.

They reined in at last to rest the horses. Pushing back the hood of his cloak, Seregil let out a happy whoop. "By the Four, it's good to be free of Wheel Street again!"

"You, too?" Alec turned to him in surprise.

"I can scarcely breathe there anymore!" exclaimed Seregil, shaking his head. "I hate to admit it, but I've felt pretty trapped there these past few years. It's a disguise that's taken on a life of its own. Once you've seen how far it all goes, you'll understand."

"Is that why you never told me about it?" Alec asked. The residual mood left by the nightmare, together with some lingering irritation over his first introduction to the place, lent an unexpectedly sharp edge to the words.

Seregil glanced over at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean all those weeks we were in the city and you never once mentioned it. Not until you could spring it on me as another of your little tests."

"Don't tell me you're still mad about that?"

"I guess I am," muttered Alec. "You do it all the time, you know—not telling me things."

"Illior's Fingers, Alec, all I've done for the last two months is tell you things. I don't think I've ever talked so much in my life! What haven't I been telling you?"

"About Wheel Street, to begin with," Alec shot back. "Having me break in like a thief and then throwing me into the middle of that party—"

"But I explained all that! You're not going to tell me now you weren't proud of yourself once the shock wore off?"

"It's not that." Alec struggled to put his warring emotions into words. At last he blurted out, "I'd just like to have had some say in the matter. Now that I think of it, I haven't had much of a say in anything since we met. After all we've been through? Bilairy's Guts, Seregil, I saved your life!"

Seregil opened his mouth as if to answer, then silently nudged Scrub into a walk.

Alec followed, still angry but aghast at his outburst. Why was it that strong emotions always seemed to take him by surprise?

"I suppose you're justified in thinking that," Seregil said at last.

"Seregil, I—"

"No, it's all right. Don't apologize for speaking the truth." Staring down at Scrub's neck, Seregil let out an exasperated sigh.

"It was different when we first met. You were just someone who needed help and might prove momentarily useful. It wasn't until after Wolde that I was sure about bringing you south with me."

"After Wolde!" Alec turned to face him, anger rising again. "You lied to me? All that talk out there on the Downs of Skala, and me being a bard?"

Seregil shrugged, still not looking up. "I don't know, I guess so. I mean, it sounded good to me at the time, too. But I didn't really know how suitable you were until that burglary in Wolde."

"What would you have done if I wasn't "suitable"?"

"Left you somewhere safe with money in your pocket, and then disappeared. I've done that often enough, with people I've helped. But you were different, and so I didn't do that."

Alec was surprised by an eerie sense of connection as their eyes met; heat like a gulp of brandy sprang up in his belly and spread out from there.

"So yes, I lied to you a little at first," Seregil was saying. "Think of how many strangers you've lied to since you hooked up with me. It's the nature of our work. Since Wolde, though, I swear I've been as honest with you as I could be. I wanted to tell you more, prepare you, but then the sickness came on." He paused.

"In your place, I doubt I'd have been as faithful. Anyway, after Wolde and the ambush in the Folcwine Forest I began to think of you as a friend, the first I'd made in a long time. I'd assumed you understood that, and for that assumption I beg your kind forgiveness."

"There's no need," muttered Alec, embarrassed.

"Oh, I think there is. Damn it, Alec, you're as much of a mystery to me as I probably am to you. I keep forgetting how young you are, how different we are. Micum and I were almost of an age when we met. We saw the world with the same eyes. And Lysander! He always seemed to know my thoughts before I did myself. It's so—so different with you! Blundering around the way I do, I seem to end up hurting you without even realizing it."

"Not so much," Alec mumbled, overcome by this unexpected openness. "It's just that sometimes it seems as if—as if you don't trust me."

Seregil gave a rueful laugh. "Ah, Alec! Rei phöril tös tókun meh brithir, vri sh'ruit'ya."

"What's that?"

Seregil held out his poniard hilt first to Alec. "';Though you thrust a knife at my eyes, I will not flinch," was he translated. "It's a solemn pledge of trust and I give it to you with all my heart. You can take a stab at me if you want."

"Do you just make those things up?"

"No, it's genuine, and I'll swear ten others just as dire if it will convince you I'm sorry."

"Maker's Mercy, Seregil, just tell me about Wheel Street!"

"All right, Wheel Street." Seregil slipped the knife back into his boot. "It all started after I'd failed with Nysander. I ran off and lived rough for a few years. That's when I learned thieving and all that. When I came back, I saw at once how I could keep myself nicely employed with the intrigues of the Skalan nobility. I had to establish myself somehow, but that didn't prove too difficult. My checkered past, together with my status as Queen's Kin, the novelty of being Aurënfaie, and my new skills as a thief and general busybody—"
He spread his hands comically. "That all pretty much guaranteed success in Rhíminee society. Posing as the reformed exile, Lord Seregil soon established a reputation as a sympathetic listener, a reliable buyer of drinks, a willing roisterer, and a holder of no strong opinions on any subject. Altogether, a person of little consequence and therefore the man everyone talks to."

"I got to be quite a favorite among the younger nobles, and through them I managed to pick up valuable information. After that it wasn't hard to spread the rumor that Lord Seregil, charming as he was, didn't always keep the best company. Word soon trickled out into the right circles that I could sometimes aid in the hiring of a certain discreet but shady character who would carry out any sort of silly undertaking for the right price."

"The Rhíminee Cat?"

"Exactly. Nysander was the only one who knew my secret. I've been more use to him as a spy than I ever was as an apprentice. Even back then, though, I liked my freedom too much to play the noble role all the time. So I bought the Cockerel and fixed up some rooms there. Nysander found Thryis for me. Cilia couldn't have been much older than Illia—"

"Yes, but Wheel Street?" insisted Alec, wanting to hear the end of the tale before dark. Once Seregil made up his mind to explain something, he tended not to leave out any details.

"Sidetracked again, am I? Well, as time went on the young nobles I'd rooked around with settled down and had young nobles of their own. Aurënfaie or not, I was expected to do the same. To maintain the confidence of those I depended on, I had to give some outward sign that I was of their ilk. I began by investing in shipping concerns and managed to do fairly well. Small wonder, really, considering the sort of information I was privy to. Aside from the money, my supposed business concerns give me ample excuse to be away for the better part of the year.

"Unfortunately, the charade has grown rather cumbersome. If I didn't love Rhíminee so much, I might just kill off Lord Seregil and start over again somewhere else. What it all boils down to for you, though, is that Sir Alec of Ivywell has a lot of educating ahead of him."

"I'll be an old man with a beard to my knees before I've learned half what you expect me to know!"

Seregil gazed out over the sea a quizzed look on his face. "Oh, I doubt that. I doubt that very much indeed."

 

They spent that night at the Pony, a respectable wayfarers' inn, then set out again at dawn under a clear sky. By late morning they reached the southern end of the isthmus that linked the Skalan peninsula to the mainland to the north.

Jutting up from the sea like a blanched backbone, the land bridge was scarcely five miles wide at any point. The road ran along the crest of it and Alec could see water on either side: the Osiat steely dark, the shallow Inner Sea a paler blue.

Just after midday they came to the small outpost guarding a fork in the highway. From here the roads diverged to the two bridges, east and west, which led down to the opposing Canal ports of Cirna and Talos.

Taking the right fork, they soon came within sight of the east bridge, arching smoothly across the black chasm of the Canal. It was a broad, sturdy structure, wide enough for the heaviest drays to pass without crowding.

"It's an amazing sight from up here, don't you think?" said Seregil, reining in. At the moment several wagons were coming across from the far side, followed by a turma of cavalry.

Alec felt cold sweat break out down his spine as he looked at the precipice beneath it. He'd been at the bottom of that chasm, seen its depth. To him, the great bridge looked as tenuous as a spider's web by comparison.

"Illior's Fingers, you've gone white!"

Seregil observed, looking over at him. "Maybe you'd better walk your horse. Lots of people are a bit nervous their first time across."

Alec gave a quick, tense shake of his head. "No. No, I'm fine, I-I've just never crossed anything that deep."

Embarrassed by his sudden weakness, he gripped the reins resolutely and nudged Patch into a walk.

Keeping to the center of the road as much as traffic allowed, he fixed his attention on a string of donkeys plodding along ahead of him and did his best not to think about what lay below.

"See, it's perfectly safe," Seregil assured him, riding close beside him. "Solid as the highroad itself."

Alec managed another tight nod. From far below came the faint creak of oars and ropes; sailor's voices rose like the whispering of ghosts.

"There's a good view of the west bridge from here,"

Seregil said, directing Alec's attention out over the left side of the bridge.

Alec looked and felt his belly lurch. From here, the western bridge looked like a child's construction of dry branches across a ditch, a fragile toy poised over the dizzying gorge. Closing his eyes, he fought off a sudden mental image of the stonework beneath him giving way.

"How did they build these?" he gasped.

"Those ancient wizards and engineers understood the value of forethought. They built the bridges first, then dug the Canal out beneath them."

At the far end of the bridge, Alec unclenched his aching fingers and drew a breath of relief.

A switchback road led down the cliffs to the harbor town below. Cirna was a confusing city of square, closely packed buildings lining a maze of narrow streets so sharply inclined in places that it was difficult for riders going down not to pitch forward over their horses' necks. The local inhabitants apparently favored foot traffic, for many parts of the town were accessible only by narrow stairways.

Clinging to the back of his saddle, Alec looked across the bay and located the shining columns of Astellus and Sakor, his first landmarks in Skala. There were far fewer vessels anchored in the harbor now.

Seasonal storms were already whipping all but the most hardy coasters into port for the winter.

By the time they'd wended their way down to the customs house by the harbor, both of them were grateful to set foot on level ground again. Entering the whitewashed building, they found a ruddy woman in salt-stained boots at work over a table cluttered with documents.

"Good day to you," she greeted them, as she finished with a wax seal. "I'm Katya, the harbor mistress. You gentlemen need some assistance?"

"Good day to you," Seregil replied. "I'm Myrus, merchant of Rhíminee and this is my brother Alsander. We've come to track down a shipment that went astray some three years back."

The woman shook her head with a dubious frown.

"You've got a job ahead of you, then. Do you know how many ships go through here in a season?"

"We have the name of the ship, and the month she came through, if that's any help," Alec offered. "It was the White Hart, a square-rigged trader of the Tyremian Line, Cirna registry. She'd have docked here sometime in early Erasin."

"Ah, well that's a start, anyway." Opening a side door, she led them into a room filled from floor to ceiling with ranks of scroll racks.

"If we've still got the manifest it'll be in the back there somewhere. They'd generally have been chucked out by now, but the old harbor master died in the middle of the job and I've never gotten around to finishing it."

At the back of the room she scanned the racks, then extracted a document at random. The movement disturbed a thick layer of dust that set both her and Seregil sneezing.

"Push open that window just beside you, young sir, before we all suffocate," gasped Katya, brushing at her nose.

Alec threw back the shutters. Shaking the scroll out again, she held it up to the light.

"You see how it's laid out, sirs. Here's the ship's name and the captain's at the top, followed by the date she put in and a detailed listing of cargoes delivered and taken on. These seals at the bottom belong to the captain of the vessel and the various merchants involved. This big one here in the lower right corner is the harbor master's. I'll leave you to it. Mind you close the shutters when you leave and tuck things back where you found them."

There was no system to the storage of documents except a rough chronological layering.

Pulling scrolls and checking dates, they narrowed their search down to a few likely shelves. Powdery clouds of dust roiled about them as they sorted and sneezed their way through pile after pile of musty, yellow parchments.

The writing, done aboard ships rolling at anchor, was a challenge to decipher—especially for Alec, whose skill at reading was still far from accomplished.

Gnawing absently at his lip, he puzzled his way through a confusing succession of scrawled names: The Dog, Wyvern's Wing, Two Brothers, Lady Rygel, Silver Plume, Coriola, Sea Mist, The Wren—

Engrossed as he was in mastering the differing hands, he nearly lay aside one with the smudged entry:

White Hart.

"Here, I found it!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

Seregil sneezed again and wiped his nose inelegantly on his sleeve. "I've got one, too. The Hart was a short hauler, working the northern coasts on either side of the Canal. That means there are likely to be a number of manifests around that date. Keep looking until we're well past the time she was lost. We don't want to miss any."

They found eight in all, and spread them out side by side according to date.

"That's what I was afraid of," muttered Seregil, reading them over. "For the most part the Hart had a series of regular runs. Let's see—miscellaneous provisions to these three little towns to the west, with trade cargo back-leather goods, horn, some silver work. The eastern runs seem to have been mostly to mines on the north coast of the Inner Sea: tools and supplies, oil, cloth, medicines. Same here, and here."

"What about odd runs?" asked Alec, hunkered down beside him.

"Good point. There are a few. Poultry to Myl, wine to Nakros, silk, and a load of scented wax. Three large tapestries to a Lady Vera at Areus, one hundred bales of woolen yarn—"

"It would be hard to mistake any of that for a couple hundred weight of gold baps."

"Quite right, and I suspect our Leran friends were wise enough to stick their gold in where something heavy wouldn't attract any attention. Here are iron goods, tools, lumber—"

"That's not much help," said Alec. "After three years, how can we guess which one it was? It's impossible!"

"Probably." Walking to the window, Seregil gazed out over the darkening harbor, then sneezed again.

"Bilairy's Balls! No wonder we can't think straight! Pocket those papers, Alec. It's fresh air we need. We'll take a walk to clear our heads, then rinse our dusty gullets with a good deep mug of Cirna ale!"

 

Night fell quickly in the shadow of the cliffs, but a three-quarter moon lit their way as they meandered through the streets behind the docks. Lost in thought, Seregil was for once disinclined to talk, so they wandered on for nearly an hour in silence. At last they found themselves in an open square with a fine view of the harbor below.

The great signal fires atop the Canal pillars were blazing, and their reflections mixed glints of ruddy light with the pure sparkle of the moonlight like a giant's handful of silver and red gold cast across the dark face of the sea.

"That's the place we want," Seregil announced, steering Alec into a nearby alehouse.

The place was comfortably dim and crowded. Working their way across the smoky room, they settled in a corner with their mugs. Seregil read through the manifests again, then sat back with a frustrated sigh.

"This one has me flummoxed, Alec." Taking a long sip from his mug, he rolled it pensively between his palms. "Of course, we didn't really expect to turn up anything. But to have the damn things right in our hands and not be able to wring the truth out of them—It's worse than finding nothing at all!"

Alec leaned over the sheets. "You really think there's a clue in here, don't you?"

"I hate the thought of missing something if it is there."

Seregil took another disgruntled gulp, then sat staring into the mug's depleted depths as if waiting for some oracular answer to float to the surface. "Let's have one more look. No, better yet—you read them out to me."

"That'll take forever," Alec protested. "You know I'm terrible at it."

"That's all right, I think differently when I listen and it's better if you go slowly. Just read the "Outgoing" columns."

Tilting the parchments to catch the scant light of the nearby hearth, Alec bent dubiously to his task.

Seregil leaned back against the wall, eyes half closed. Aside from helping with a few troublesome words, he showed little sign of interest until Alec was in the midst of the fourth manifest.

Three cases parchment, ten crates tallow candles," was he read, ticking off each entry with a finger. was "Sixty-five sacks barley, forty casks cider, thirty coils two-inch rope, fifty iron chisels, two hundred wedges, three score mallets, two crates statuary marble, twenty rolls of leather—"
Seregil's eyes flickered open. "That can't be right. You've wandered into the 'Goods Received" column."

"No I haven't." Alec pushed the manifest across to him. "Says right here, "Goods Out of Port" and below it "parchment, candles, barley—"

Seregil sat forward, squinting where he pointed. "Two-inch rope, chisels—" You're right, it does say marble. But this shipment is docketed for a mine on the Osiat coast." His voice sank to a low whisper. "No, a quarry! It's listed here as bound for the Ilendri pits."

"So?"

Laying a hand heavily on the boy's shoulder, Seregil raised a meaningful eyebrow. "So why would anyone pay to ship two heavy blocks of fine carving stone to a stone quarry?"

"Bilairy's Codpiece! That's it!"

"Perhaps, unless it really was marble in those crates, shipped back for some reason we have no way of determining. Still, it is suspicious."

"So where does that leave us?"

"At the moment?" Grinning, Seregil gathered up the manifests and rose to leave. "It leaves us in a cheap alehouse with six-to-a-bed accommodations upstairs. I believe we've earned a tidier hostel and a good supper. Tomorrow we'll see what we can turn up at the docks."

"What about the quarry, that Ilendri pit? Shouldn't we go there?"

"As a last recourse, maybe, but it's a week's journey there and back, and it's certain they won't have the gold there now. I doubt they ever knew they had it. No, I suspect we can find our answers a good deal closer to home."

36

Trouble on the Highroad

They spent the next few days on the windswept quays, tracking down ships running the White Hart's old routes. Though they located several vessels, none of their inquiries resulted in much useful information. On their fourth day there, however, a stout little coaster with the unlikely name of Dragonfly wallowed into port with a load of stone.

Alec and Seregil lounged against a stack of crates as they watched the deckhands hoisting blocks of various sorts onto the quayside. Rough slabs of building stone were encased in heavy rope nets to prevent them from grinding against one another during the voyage. Finer, more fragile blocks were protected by wood and canvas framing.

"She must have stopped at several quarries on her run," murmured Seregil.

"Let's hope Ilendri was one of them," Alec whispered back.

Strolling up to the quay, they began looking over the various pieces as if considering a purchase. They were still dressed as gentlemen merchants and their respectable coats soon drew the interest of the Dragonfly's captain.

"Are you in the market for stone, sirs? I've got some lovely blocks today," he called from the rail.

"So I see," Seregil replied, smoothing his palm over a slab of glittering black granite.

"I'm looking for marble, statuary grade."

"You're in luck there, sir!" The man clumped down the gangway and led them over to a group of crates. "I've got a good selection today: pink, black, grey, and a lovely white pure as a dove's breast. Let's see now, where was that Corvinar piece? That's an especially good one."

Consulting various emblems branded into the sides of the crates, he pried up lids here and there. "Here's a fine black, sir, and some of the white. Did you have something special in mind?"

"Well," Seregil drawled, peering down into a crate, "I don't know a lot about it, to tell you the truth, but I've heard that Ilendri marble is particularly fine."

"That may have been true in your father's day, sir, but precious little comes out of there now," the captain told him with a hint of condescension. "The Ilendri's mostly played out, though they do still cut some smaller blocks. I've a few pieces back here, as it happens, but I think you'd be better pleased with this other."

"Perhaps," said Seregil, cupping his chin in one hand, "but I'd like to see the Ilendri-if it's not too much trouble."

"Suit yourself." The captain hunted through the crates until he found a small box half hidden behind several others. Opening it, he showed them a small block of greyish marble shot through with rusty streaks.

"As you can see, the grade's inferior."

"The quarry's owned by Lord Tomas, isn't it?" Seregil asked ingenuously, inspecting the stone with apparent interest.

"No, sir, an old fellow by the name of Emmer. He and his nephews make a small living out of it, cutting blocks like this. It goes mostly for road markers and such like."

It was a small crate and Alec had to step around the captain to get a look inside. Doing so, he saw for the first time the emblems burned into the side of it; one of them was very familiar—a small, curled lizard.

"What do these stand for?" he asked, trying to mask his sudden excitement.

"Those are shipping marks, sir. We use them to keep track of the cargo. The dragonfly mark is mine, put on when I took the box aboard. The next is from the quarry foreman—"

"And that little lizard?"

Seregil stole a quick glance at Alec, sensing more than casual curiosity.

"That's the quarry's mark, sir. The Ilendri newt, we call it."

"It's an interesting design-stone, I mean." He had to get Seregil away from the captain without attracting undue attention. "I think it would do nicely, don't you, brother?"

"In the garden, perhaps," Seregil said, playing along. Chin in hand, he narrowed his eyes appraisingly. "Though I know Mother had something larger in mind for the niche in the great hall. And you know how she favors the white these days. Suppose we take this piece and the white one the captain recommends?"

Alec hovered impatiently as Seregil paid for the stone and arranged for delivery, then drew him off down the quay.

"What was that all about?" Seregil whispered.

"Ilendri or not, that rock isn't worth—"

"I didn't mean for you to buy it!" Alec said, cutting him short. "It was the mark—that Ilendri newt—I've seen it before!"

Seregil slowed to a halt. "Where?"

"At Kassarie's keep. It was on some of the old tapestries in the main hall, like a maker's mark. I don't know why it caught my eye particularly, except that I liked the look of it."

"And you're certain the tapestries were old? Perhaps several generations back?"

"The tapestries?" Alec asked in disbelief, this was no time for one of Seregil's artistic tangents.

"Well, I think so. They were like the old ones you showed me at the Orëska, with the fancy patterns around the edges. I remembered you saying you liked that style better than the new ones."

Seregil threw an arm around Alec's shoulders with a delighted chuckle. "Illior's Fingers, you've got the same rat's nest of a memory I do! You're certain this lizard thing was just the same?"

"Yes, but why do the tapestries have to be old?"

Alec asked, still puzzled.

"Because new tapestries might have been purchased and the mark would be pure coincidence. Very old ones are more likely to have been made by someone in Kassarie's family, someone who lived in the keep and wove them there and used the newt as her signature. Care to place a wager on who owned this Ilendri quarry before it was clapped out?"

"I'll bet you a block of ugly marble it was Lady Kassarie a Moirian!"
 

* * *
 

A quick word with the Dragonfly's captain proved Alec right. According to him, Lady Kassarie had awarded the failing enterprise to an aging retainer five years ago in appreciation of his long service. The old fellow still used the "newt" out of respect for his former mistress.

"Looks like we're headed south again," Seregil said, rubbing his gloved hands together with a satisfied air as they went back to the inn to collect their horses.

"We don't need to go to the quarry?"

"No. Thanks to your everlasting curiosity, I think we've found the key to our little problem. We can make Watermead before midnight, then it's Rhíminee tomorrow, and on to Kassarie's. Looks like that warmhearted little kitchen maid of yours is going to prove useful after all."

"You're looking forward to this, aren't you?" Alec asked with a grin.

Seregil tilted him a dark smile. "Clearing my name was a relief; giving the Lerans a good kick in the slats is going to be a pleasure!"

In their haste and elation, neither noticed the pair of laborers who detached themselves from a work gang to trail after them through the midday crowd.

 

Crossing the isthmus again, they retraced their route along the coast. There was little trade on the highroad that afternoon, and in several hours riding they met nothing but a few wagons and a garrison patrol.

Shortly before sunset they came around a sharp bend in the road to find their way blocked by fallen rocks. It was passable, but it meant riding precariously close to the edge of the cliffs.

The way was especially narrow here, with sheer rock face to the landward side and a nasty drop to the sea on the other.

"This slide must have just happened." Frowning, Seregil reined in to inspect the rubble. "That patrol we met would have cleared it, or warned us."

Alec eyed the few yards of open ground between the tumbled rocks and the cliff edge. "We'd better walk the horses."

"Good idea. Throw your cloak over Patch's eyes so she doesn't shy. You take the lead."

Wrapping the reins more securely around his fist, Alec coaxed the nervous mare along with soothing words as her hooves struck loose stones. From behind he could hear Seregil doing the same in Aurënfaie.

He was within ten feet of safety when he heard the first telltale rattle of stone against stone overhead.

"Look out!" he shouted, but it was already too late.

Rocks came crashing down all around them. Patch let out a frantic whinny, pulling back against the reins.

"Come on!" he cried, wincing as a shard of rock cut his cheek. He could hear Scrub, rearing behind him, and Seregil shouting some unintelligible warning.

With a sudden toss of her head, Patch threw off the cloak and bolted. Unable to free his hand from the reins, Alec was jerked off balance and swung out over the cliff edge.

For a sickening instant he hung in space, looking down at the waves crashing against the cliffs a thousand feet below; at the same moment he glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye as something-man, beast, or boulder-plunged down into the abyss.

Before he had time to do more than register the movement, Patch reared again, snapping him against her neck like a hooked fish against the side of a boat. He grabbed wildly for purchase, found her mane with his free hand, and clung on in numbed terror as she plunged away down the road, miraculously dragging him to safety. He managed to get astride her at last and reined her in.

They'd ridden out of sight of the slide. Heart hammering in his throat, Alec turned Patch and galloped back to find Seregil.

The road was completely blocked now; this last slide had left a great heap of broken rock that slanted down to the very edge of the cliff. Neither Seregil nor his horse were anywhere in sight.

"Seregil! Seregil, are you there?" yelled Alec, praying for some answer from beyond the crest of the heap. He couldn't yet bring himself to look in the more probable direction.

As he cast around in rising desperation, a bit of color caught his eye in the slide where the jumbled rock pile met the cliff face. It appeared to be a scrap of cloth, red cloth, the same as the coat Seregil had been wearing.

Scrambling up, he found Seregil curled on his side, half buried in skree and dust. Blood seeped slowly down over his forehead from a scalp cut; another trickle oozed at the corner of his mouth.

"Maker's Mercy!" Alec gasped, pushing at the rocks on Seregil's chest. "Don't be dead! Don't you be dead!"

Seregil's right hand twitched and one grey eye flickered open.

"Thank the Four!" cried Alec, nearly weeping with relief. "How bad are you hurt?"

"Don't know yet," Seregil rasped, closing his eyes again. "I thought you went over—"

"I thought you did!"

Seregil let out a shaky breath. "Scrub, poor Scrub—"
With a queasy shudder Alec recalled the falling object he'd glimpsed as he swung out over the edge of the cliff.

"Had that horse eight years," Seregil groaned softly, a hint of moisture darkening the dust beneath his eyes. "Bastards! Ambushers killed my best horse."

"Ambushers?" Alec asked, wondering if Seregil was fully conscious after all.

But the grey eyes were open now, and alert. "When the rocks started falling, I looked up and saw a man silhouetted against the sky."

Alec risked an uneasy glance of his own but saw nothing. "When I rode back just now, I noticed a little switchback trail leading up the rocks. It's just around that next bend. He could have gotten up that way, I bet."

"That would explain a lot."

"But if they're still up there they'll have seen me come back! We've got to get out of here."

"No, wait." Seregil lay quiet a moment, thinking. "Whoever they are, they seem to know their business. If we run they'll just track us and finish the job."

"What about the highroad garrisons? We must be within five miles of one by now."

"More than that, I think. With only one horse and night coming on, I doubt we'd make it."

"Then we're trapped!"

"Quiet, Alec, quiet. With a little luck, we can lay a trap of our own right here. It's going to take a bit of acting on your part, though." He shifted slightly, feeling under his left thigh, then gave a soft, anguished groan. "Oh, hell. I've lost my sword. It must've torn loose as I scrambled up here."

"I've still got mine," Alec assured him, fearful that Seregil was in serious pain after all. "I had it strapped behind my saddle."

"Fetch it, but cover your actions. Make it look like I'm dying and you're starting to panic."

"Lure him down to finish us off, you mean?"

"Exactly, though there'll be more than one of them, I suspect. Let them believe they're up against a distraught boy and a dying man. Reach in my boot. Is my poniard still there?"

"It's there."

"Then I'm not completely fangless, anyway. Go on now, we may not have much time."

Alec slid back down to the road, expecting every moment to feel an arrow strike him between the shoulder blades. Doing his best to act panicked, he kept his sword concealed beneath his blanket roll as he carried it and a water skin back to Seregil.

Badly battered as Seregil was, he seemed to have escaped with no broken bones. With the sun sinking into the sea in front of them, they settled down to wait.

Alec hunkered down with his back to the cliff, his sword unsheathed and hidden against his outstretched leg.

Seregil lay propped up slightly, dagger in hand beneath the blanket.

They hadn't long to wait. As the last ospreys winged off to their nests, they heard the sound of hooves against stone. Riders were approaching from the expected direction, beyond the curve of the road to their left.

A moment later two men rode into sight, coming on at a steady walk. Studying them in the red sunset light, Alec could see that they were hard-faced characters in rough traveling garb. One was lean, with ragged, greying hair and a long, somber face. His companion was round and red-faced, his shiny bald pate fringed with curly brown hair.

"This will be them," Seregil murmured beside him. "Play your role well, my friend. I doubt we'll have more than one chance."

The riders made no pretense as to their intentions.

Reaching the edge of the slide, they dismounted and drew swords.

"How's your friend, boy?" The bald one asked, leering up at him.

"He's dying, you rotten son of bitch! Can't you leave him in peace?" Alec spat back, letting some genuine fear show in his voice.

"Wouldn't be kind to let him linger, now would it, lad?" the other replied placidly. He had the same air of dispassionate assurance Alec had seen in Micum Cavish; this was a killer who knew his business. "And then there's the matter of you, isn't there?"

"What do you want with us?" Alec quavered, tightening his grip on his sword hilt.

"I've nothing against you or your friend," the greying man replied, taking a step up the pile. "But there are those who don't like having their business nosed into. Now be a good lad and I'll make a quick job of it. You'll be dead before you know it."

"I don't want to be dead!" Alec rose and threw a rock at the men with his left hand. They ducked it easily and Alec backed away as if to bolt.

"Get the other one, Trake," the grey man ordered, pointing to Seregil who still lay as if dying.

"I'll take the whelp here."

Alec moved back a few steps, then froze like a frightened hare. Waiting until his assailant was within sword's reach, he grabbed up the blade and struck at him.

At the critical instant, the loose skree underfoot spoiled his lunge for a killing thrust, but he still managed to hit the fellow hard enough across the ribs to knock him off balance. Scrambling awkwardly, he tried to strike at Alec, but instead fell and tumbled heavily almost to the cliff's edge.

Just then a strangled cry rang out behind Alec, but he didn't dare look back. His opponent had already regained his footing and was starting back up after him.

"Full of tricks, are you?" he glowered. "I'll tie you with your own guts, boy, and ram that—"
Alec was overmatched and he knew it. Hardly pausing to think, he snatched up another fist-sized stone and threw it. It struck the assassin in the forehead. Stunned, the man pitched backward and slid down to the cliff's edge again. He might have stopped there if his fall hadn't dislodged more rocks.

With a grinding rumble, an entire section of the pile gave way just below where Alec stood, sweeping the swordsman over the edge.

Flailing desperately, Alec came down hard on his back and slid feet first toward death. Too terrified to cry out, he stared helplessly up at the fiery sky, knowing it was the last thing he'd ever see.

Suddenly a strong hand grasped his left shoulder.

Clutching at it, Alec slid a few yards farther before coming to a stop with his feet jutting out into empty air. Scarcely daring to breathe, he looked up and saw Seregil stretched spread-eagle on his belly above him, face white with dust or fear.

Don't move!

Seregil mouthed. Then, in the faintest whisper, "Roll sideways, toward the horses.

We're only a few feet from level ground.

Mind your sword. Try not to lose it if you can help it."

Loose stone shifted treacherously beneath them as they clung together and slowly rolled toward the narrow strip of bare roadway cleared by the last slide'. They reached it just as another layer of the pile let go.

Hauling each other to their feet, they scrambled forward to safety as another great jumble of stone careened off over the cliff, carrying with it the body of the other assassin, whom Seregil had taken by surprise at the beginning of the attack.

Still clutching each other by the arm, they turned to watch the last stones plummet over the edge.

"I don't know how many times a day I can stand to watch you almost die," Seregil gasped.

"Twice is my limit," croaked Alec, sinking to his knees. As he glanced back at what had nearly been the scene of his death, however, he caught the glint of metal near the top of the remaining rubble.

"Seregil, look there. Do you see it?"

"Well, I'll be damned." Seregil limped back to the rocks and gently worked his battered sword free. The hilt was scarred and missing a quillon, but the scabbard had protected the blade from serious damage.

"Aura elthë!" he cried, not bothering to conceal his relief. "My grandfather gave me this sword when I was younger than you. That last slide must have uncovered it. Two fresh horses and now this! It seems our two recently departed visitors did us almost as much good as harm."

37

Backtracking

Seregil led the way as they rode into the yard at Watermead early the next morning. Micum was there among his hounds. "Back already?" the big man said, looking up. His grin faded, however, as he got a closer look at them. "What the hell happened to you two?"

"We attracted some attention up in Cirna," answered Seregil, dismounting stiffly and limping inside.

"We got ambushed on the way back," Alec explained. "I think they were assassins."

"You think?"

Seregil raised a wry eyebrow. "We didn't have much time for conversation, but I suspect he's right. Chances are I've been watched ever since Thero came out of the Tower with my body."

"I thought I heard familiar voices!" called Kari, looking noticeably wan as she came out of her chamber into the main hall. "Seregil, you're hurt! Let me get my herbs."

"I'm fine," he assured her, easing down on a bench by the fire. "We slept at a garrison station last night. Their surgeon patched me up. I could do with a hot soak, though."

"I'll have Arna put some birch catkins and arnica leaves in the water to draw out the hurt. Some willow bark tea wouldn't do you any harm, either."

"She looks peaked," observed Seregil. "Been sick, has she?"

"Not sick, exactly," Micum replied, avoiding his friend's eye. "More like—unwell."

Seregil studied Micum's expression for an instant, then broke into a knowing grin. "I know that look. She's pregnant again, isn't she?"

"Well—"

"Oh, go on and tell them," she said, returning with a pair of mugs. "It's no use you trying to keep anything from him!"

"You are, then?" exclaimed Seregil.

"Bilairy's Balls, Micum, how long have you known?"

"She told me when I came home the other day. Baby's due at late summer, Maker willing."

"Maker willing," Kari repeated, pressing her palms to her apron front. "It doesn't always go well with me at the best of times, and I'm old now for bearing. I hadn't thought to be with child again, but Dalna must have seen we'd have room for one more." She smiled pensively. "Perhaps this time we've made a son. They say a boy makes you sicker in the first months."

"Poor thing's been vomiting morning and night," Micum explained, rising to slip a supportive arm around her waist.

"And I'm not feeling too pert just now," Kari sighed. "I'd better lie down again. The girls won't be troubling you. They're away for the day."

Micum helped Kari into her chamber and closed the door. When he returned, Seregil made a show of figuring back.

"My, my. Late summer, is it? That must have been quite a homecoming, back in Erasin."

"Better than you got, I'll warrant. If only she can hang on to this one, I wouldn't mind having another little one underfoot."

"Hang on to?" asked Alec.

"Oh, yes." Micum nodded sadly. "She's miscarried as many babies as she's brought to birth. The last time was a year or so after Illia was born. It always happens in the first few months, and leaves her sick for weeks afterward. We're not out of the danger season yet, you see, and it's a great worry to her. But let's get back to you two. What did they use on you, fuller's bats?"

"Rock slide," Seregil replied, serious again.

"Two men caught us at a narrow place on the cliffs. We got out, but I lost Scrub."

"That's a damned shame! He was a good old thing. But who were they?"

"We never had a chance to find out. We killed them both defending ourselves and lost the bodies over the cliff. But before that, one of them told Alec that they'd been sent by someone who didn't like us poking around in their business. This was after we'd finished in Cirna and found a link to Lady Kassarie."

Showing Micum the manifest, they quickly outlined what they'd discovered.

"That does seem to bring us right back to Kassarie,"

Micum agreed. "Do you think she tumbled to Alec that day?"

"I doubt it. At that point, I was still officially in prison and everything appeared to be going according to her plan. I hate to admit it, but they must have kept track of me after my "release" from the Tower."

"What's your next step?"

"We've got to go back to the keep," said Alec. "We can't give her time to realize her hired killers have disappeared."

"That's a fact," said Micum. "What do you think, Seregil? Will the Queen give you a raiding party, or will she just order Kassarie's arrest?"

"I've been thinking about that. The greatest danger lies in forewarning her. You've seen how that keep is placed; it's a fortress! She'd see an armed force coming miles away and have plenty of time to escape or do away with any incriminating evidence."

"That's true," Micum concurred, looking down at the fire.

It suddenly occurred to Seregil that Micum hadn't once offered to come.

He's needed here, he thought with a pang of the old resentment. Still, he knew Micum too well not to read the conflict in his friend's face, and it hurt to see it.

"Quick and quiet's the best way," he went on, giving no hint of his own feelings. "With any luck, Alec and I can get in and out again before anyone's the wiser. That servant girl is the key, if Alec can romance her."

"Just the two of you?"

"You and Nysander will know where we are," said Seregil. "I don't want it to go any further than that. We've had enough trouble with spies as it is."
 

* * *
 

Stopping just long enough for a bath and a hasty meal, Seregil and Alec were ready to move on by noon.

Micum disappeared while they were harrassing the horses they'd left there on the way to Cirna.

He returned with a longsword.

"It's not so fine as yours, of course," he said, handing it to Seregil, "but it will do until yours is mended. I'll be easier in my mind, knowing you're armed."

Seregil ran his hand down the flat of the blade and smiled. "I remember this one. We brought it back for Beka from the Oronto raid."

"The very one." Micum looked down at the sword, his discomfort more evident than ever. "You know, I suppose I could—"
Seregil cut him short with a farewell embrace.

"Stay put, my friend," he admonished, speaking softly against Micum's shoulder. "It's just a bit of fancy burglary. You know you're no use at that."

"Take care of yourselves then," Micum said gruffly.

"And have Nysander send me word, you hear?"

"I hear!" Laughing, Seregil swung up in the saddle. "Come on, Alec, before old Grandfather here worries himself grey!"

 

As they rode into the Orëska gardens, a familiar deep voice hailed them from the direction of the oak grove. Reining in, Seregil saw Hwerlu cantering out to meet them.

"Greetings, friends!" the centaur boomed. "It's been many days since you've visited me. I trust all is well with you?"

"Tolerably," replied Seregil, anxious to be off again. "We're just here long enough to see Nysander, actually."

"But you've missed him by a day."

"Missed him?" Alec asked. "You mean he's not here?"

"No, he and young Thero accompanied Lady Magyana to another city. Some place on the southern coast, I think."

"Damn!" muttered Seregil. "Come on, Wethis will know."

 

"They've gone to Port Ayrie with Lady Magyana," the young servant told them. "They shouldn't be gone more than a few days, though. You can put up here until he returns, if you like."

"Thanks, but we can't wait." Seregil pulled out the worn manifest and handed it to Wethis with a hastily scrawled note. "See that he gets this and tell him to contact Micum. Tell him I don't expect to be gone more than a few days myself."

Leaving their Aurënfaie horses at the Orëska, they set off for the Cockerel.

"Shouldn't we wait for Nysander?" asked Alec dubiously. "You told Micum we'd speak to him first."

"The longer we wait, the more chance there is that Kassarie will get suspicious and put up extra defenses."

"I guess so, but it still leaves just you and me—"

"Illior's Fingers, Alec, it's just a simple matter of housebreaking, even if it is a keep. We'll probably get back before Nysander does."

Slipping quietly up the back stairs at the inn, they spent the night in their old rooms and set off the next morning in disguise.

Alec wore the same apprentice garb he'd used on their first visit to Kassarie's; Seregil was well muffled in the guise of a one-eyed traveling minstrel. Both carried daggers at their belts, but their I swords and Alec's dismantled bow were wrapped out of sight among the gear.

"This all hinges on you, you know," Seregil reminded Alec as caret they rode along. "It could take a couple of days of wooing before she agrees to let you in."

"If she does at all," Alec replied uneasily. "What do I say?"

Seregil gave him a knowing wink. "With a face like yours, I doubt conversation will be the central issue. From what you saw of her last time, I'd say our Stamie is a restless little bird ready to spread her wings. The offer of freedom may be all the charm we need. It's her fear I'm worried about. That's a suspicious, tight-run household, and she may not dare risk her own skin on your behalf. If that's the case, then you'll have to play the lover for all you're worth."

"Which may not be much," Alec muttered.

"Illior's Fingers, you're not so bloodless as all that, are you?" Seregil teased. "Use a little imagination and let things run their course. These matters have a way of directing themselves, you know."

Reaching the road that led up the gorge, they kept to the trees and climbed into the hills overlooking the keep. They left their horses tethered well out of earshot of the tower sentries and made their final approach on foot. Climbing up the tall fir tree they'd used on their first reconnaissance, they surveyed the keep.

There appeared to be the usual sort of bustle in the courtyard. A groom was currying a fine horse by the stables, and from somewhere below the walls came the sound of a workman's chisel against stone. Presently the kitchen door swung open and Stamie came out with a bucket yoke across her narrow shoulders. Eyes to the ground, she disappeared around the corner of the main building.

"Look there!" whispered Seregil, spying a small postern gate near the kitchen. From it, a well-trodden path wound off into the forest; it would be as simple as lying by a deer track, waiting for their prey to come by.

"Look at what?" asked Alec.

"There, that small door in the wall, near the cliffs. Lean this way and fix your eye on the ruined tower, then bring your gaze down past—"
Seregil broke off, startled by a sudden realization.

Gripping Alec by the arm, he whispered excitedly, "The tower! What's wrong with that tower?"

"Lightning, probably," Alec whispered back.

"Looks like it happened years ago and—"
He stopped, slowly mirroring his companion's sharp, hungry grin.

"And what?" prompted Seregil.

"And they never repaired it."

"Which is pretty damned strange because—"

"Because they employ some of the best masons in Skala," finished Alec. "I knew we'd missed something before, but I just couldn't see it!"

Seregil gazed at the tower with a wry grin. "There it is, right in front of us. Whatever we're here to find, I bet my best horse it's around there somewhere. All we have to do is get inside."

"Which we can't do until Stamie comes out. Maybe we should've waited for Nysander after all."

"Patience, Alec. A good hunter like you knows how to lie in wait for his quarry!"

"You're feeling guilty over not going with them, aren't you?" Kari demanded, lying close to Micum in the darkness of their bedchamber. She knew the signs; in the two days since Seregil's departure, Micum had grown increasingly restless and absent minded. Today he'd wandered from one small task to another without accomplishing anything.

"Perhaps you should have gone."

"Oh, they'll be all right." Micum shifted to hold her closer. "It's just strange that Nysander hasn't sent word."

"Then send a message down to him. One of the lads could have it there before noon."

"I suppose."

"I don't know why you're so worried. It's not as if Seregil hasn't done this sort of thing before. And two days is no time at all."

Micum frowned up at the candle shadows overhead.

"All the same, Alec's so new at these things—"

"Then send word to Nysander. I don't need you moping around like an old dog again tomorrow." Kari kissed him roughly on the chin. "Better yet, go yourself. You'll fidget me to distraction waiting about for it. You can visit Beka while you're there."

"That's a thought. She must be missing home a bit by now. But will you be all right without me?"

"Of course I will!" scoffed Kari. "You'll only be a few hours away, and I've all my women to look after me. Go to sleep, love. I expect you'll want to get an early start."

 

Feeling a bit guilty, Micum bypassed the Horse Guard barracks and went straight to the Orëska House. Crossing the atrium, he heard a familiar voice hailing him and turned to find Nysander and Thero striding toward him. Both were clad in stained riding clothes and boots.

"Why, good morning to you!" Nysander called. "What brings you into the city so early in the day?"

Micum's heart sank. "Didn't Seregil and Alec tell you?"

"We've been away," Thero told him. "We're just getting back now."

"Indeed," said Nysander, frowning. "I have not heard from either of them since they left for Cirna."

"That little bastard!" growled Micum. "He promised me he'd talk to you before they went. I'd never have let them go off like that if I'd known."

"What has happened?"

"He and Alec came back a couple of days ago with evidence linking Kassatie to the stolen gold. They'd been attacked on their way back from Cirna and they're convinced that was her doing, too. Seregil was all in a lather to go after her but he said he'd talk to you first."

"Perhaps he left word. Thero, go find Wethis, please. He would be the one Seregil would trust with a message. Come up to my tower, Micum.

"I am not certain I understand your concern," the wizard continued as they climbed the stairs. "Two days is not long for such work and I am certain I should have sensed if either of them had come to any great harm."

"Maybe so," Micum grudgingly agreed. "I guess I'm mostly feeling guilty about not going along with them, but Kari's pregnant again and I hated to leave her."

Thero hurried in with a rolled parchment. "They were here, and they left this for you."

Nysander unrolled the manifest and a terse scrawl from Seregil, explaining its significance.

"Well, he was obviously in a hurry to follow this lead," he said. "I will scry for them."

Seating himself at his desk, Nysander covered his eyes with both hands, murmuring the complex spell. After a moment he sat back. "It is difficult to get an exact sighting on them, but all appears to be well. Would you like to stay here for a few days, see if they turn up?"

"I think maybe I will. You'd better send a message out to Kari for me, though. And keep a weather eye on her, too, while you're at it. I'm off to see Beka now. Her mother's worried she might be homesick."

38

The Key to a Poor Girl's Heart

 

For three days Alec and Seregil kept their cold vigil and at last their patience was rewarded. On watch in the fir tree early the third afternoon, Alec saw Stamie emerge though the postern with a large basket on her back and set off into the woods.

Seregil was napping at the base of the tree.

Climbing down, Alec woke him and together they hurried off through the trees to strike the path ahead of the girl.

Seregil remained out of sight among the trees while Alec took up his position on a log near a bend in the trail. In the distance they could hear the girl singing to herself as she approached.

She caught sight of Alec ahead of her and halted abruptly. "Who's that there, and what do you want?" she called sharply.

"It's Elrid. Remember me?" Alec stood up slowly, praying he didn't sound as awkward as he suddenly felt. "I came looking for Lord Teukros a few days back?"

"Oh, the messenger boy from the city." Curious but still, on her guard, she stood where she was. "What are you doing back here again? And why are you lurking out here in the forest?"

"You said you wanted a position in the city," Alec replied. "I heard of one—a good one—and come out to tell you. Your aunt didn't strike me as the welcoming sort, though, so I've been waiting out here for a chance alone with you."

Seeing that she softened considerably at this, he added, "It was cold last night. I couldn't get a fire started."

"You poor, simple thing!" Dropping her basket, Stamie hurried forward to chaff his hands between her own.

"You're all ice! Don't they teach you nothin" in that city of yours? Imagine being outside on such a night and the stars as sharp as daggers! You'll catch the frostbite."

A patchy flush colored her angular cheeks as she looked up, still holding his hands firmly between her own. "And you came all the way out here for me?"

"I got to thinking about what you said and how lonesome it must be for you out here, and well—"
Alec shrugged, feigning shyness to avoid her worshipful gaze.

Lying to innkeepers and fat nobles was one thing; deceiving this plain, kind, desperate girl was quite another.

Side-stepping his conscience as best he could, he pressed on, carefully doling out the tale he and Seregil had concocted.

"There's a seamstress in the next street from ours wanting a girl to apprentice. It's clean work, and it would get you out of the kitchen." He paused meaningfully. "And it's just in the next street over from mine."

"Is it?" Stamie smiled knowingly. "I've no complaint with that. Do you have a horse? Let's go before I'm missed."

"We can't go now!"

So much for charming her away, thought Alec. The trick was going to be holding her back long enough to get into the keep.

"Why not?"

"Well—"
Alec scrambled for a plausible impediment. "You'll need to gather your things up and give your notice."

"Notice? As if they'd let me go! I've been a slave to them since I was old enough to carry a pan. Just let me nip back and fill a kerchief, then we can slip away tonight!"

Outflanked, Alec had to rethink his strategy again.

"Two servants traveling in the night?" he scoffed. "The patrols would take us for thieves or runaways before we ever reached the city. And that's if the real outlaws and night riders didn't get to us first. You don't want to end up dead in the ditch, do you? Or worse?"

Stamie's eyes widened in alarm. "No, but how do we get away, then? They'll never let me go, not Aunt or Illester or any of them."

"They won't know." Alec slipped an arm around her waist and walked her deeper into the forest. "It's simple enough to manage. You wait until everyone's asleep, then gather your things up and wait until just before dawn. That's the time to travel. Anyone we meet on the road at first light will think we're off to market. Do you see?"

"Oh, yes! I'll do it just as you say. And I'm ever so grateful!"

Turning, she pulled him close with surprising decisiveness and delivered a rough, tooth-knocking kiss. Lips still locked against his, she drew his hand up against her flat bosom with one hand and began rucking up her homespun skirt with the other.

"Here now, there's no time for that," Alec gasped, trying to pull away. She'd been chewing raw garlic to keep away the winter ague.

"It don't take long." Stamie giggled, reaching for the hem of his tunic.

Freeing himself with an effort, Alec held her at arm's length. "Hold off, can't you?"

"What's the matter with you?" the girl demanded indignantly. "One minute you're all sweetness, and the next you act like you don't want me."

"Of course I do," Alec assured her. "But not if it means you getting in trouble. If you don't get back with the kindling or whatever it is you were sent out for, they'll come looking for you, won't they? Or maybe lock you up when you get back?"

"They would, too," Stamie said resentfully. "They done it before."

"Course they would," Alec said, loosening his grip to a caress. "And then where would we be, eh? But if we're careful, we can be in Rhíminee tomorrow night. Together."

"Together!" Stamie whispered, won over anew.

"That's right. Now come on and I'll help you."

Keeping out of sight of the tower sentries, they gathered sticks to fill Stamie's basket. The excited girl chattered readily, and Alec soon turned the conversation to the broken tower.

The tower over the gorge had been in ruins for years, it seemed, though she didn't know how long. No one was allowed there ever, and old Illester said there was even a ghost, some lord who'd been in the tower when it was struck.

"They say he'll push you off to your death if you go up there at night," she confided with a delicious shiver. "And it's true, too. Lots of servants have heard strange sounds from there, and seen lights moving. Aunt says a servant she knew went in once, just a little ways, and felt the touch of a dead hand against his face. He didn't die of it then, but within the week he fell into the gorge and was smashed to bits! Aunt saw him after they carried him up. Ghosts are unlucky things, you know, even just to see one."

"I've heard that," Alec replied uneasily, recalling the strange breeze he'd felt in the main hall.

The basket was soon full. Giving Alec a farewell kiss, she ran her hands down over his hips and whispered, "I won't sleep a wink tonight, I promise!"

"Nor will I." Ready to spring the final ruse, Alec cast a yearning look toward the keep and sighed deeply. "It'll be cold out here again tonight."

"Oh, you poor dear! And it looking like to snow, too."

Alec held his breath, watching her waver.

Let her think of it first, Seregil had warned.

"It'd be worth both our skins if we was caught."

She hesitated, frowning. "But I could creep down and let you in after they're all asleep. If you stayed in the back pantry and didn't make a sound, it might be safe."

"What about the watchmen?"

"They mostly keep an eye on the road. And this side of the yard is good and dark. Oh, but we'll have to be quiet, though!""

"Quiet as ghosts." Alec smiled as he took her hand in his. "Just a warm corner out of the wind, that's all I need."

"I wish I could warm you tonight," she murmured.

"Soon," he promised. "In Rhíminee."

"In Rhíminee!" she sighed. Breathing garlic against his cheek, she kissed him a last time and hurried off.

Alec waited until she was well out of sight, then turned to retrace his steps into the woods. Coming around a fallen tree, he nearly stepped on Seregil.

"Lucky for us she's a lonesome country girl,"

Seregil said shaking his head. "A Helm Street maid would've given you the air. "Here now, there's no time for that!" and "Hold off, can't you?"' A fine, hot suitor you sounded!"

"I told you I'm no good at it," Alec retorted, stung by the criticism. "Besides, it felt rotten lying to her like that."

"This is no time for an attack of conscience. Illior's Hands, haven't we lied to someone on any job we've ever done?"

"I know," Alec grumbled. "But this was different. She's not some footpad or randy ship's captain, just a poor nobody like me. Here I am offering her the one thing in the whole world she wants, and tomorrow all her hopes will be dashed."

"Who says we have to dash her hopes? She wants a position in town; I'll see she gets one."

"You'd do that?"

"Of course I'd do that. I forge a lovely reference. She can have her pick of situations. Think you can live with that?"

Alec nodded, abashed. "I guess I just didn't—"

"Come to think of it, perhaps we could take her on at Wheel Street," Seregil added ruthlessly. "What with you taking such an interest in her welfare and all."

"That's not exactly what I had in mind."

"No?" Grinning, Seregil threw an arm over the boy's shoulders as they headed back up the slope. "Now there's a surprise!"
 

39

The Tower

 

Alec crouched in the shadows near the postern gate, watching the sky. The stars had wheeled to midnight.

It hadn't snowed after all. Instead, the skies had cleared at sunset and the temperature had dropped bitterly. Without a fire, or Seregil to share warmth with, as they'd had to the past few days, he was chilled to the bone. And worried.

The lights in the keep had gone out ages ago and he was beginning to worry that she'd either been caught, or was too scared to come for him. Or had gone to sleep in a warm bed and forgotten her promise to come for him.

But he held his position and finally heard the soft patter of footsteps somewhere beyond the wall. A moment later Stamie inched the postern door open and waved him in. Moving with exaggerated caution, she led him in through the kitchen to a dark pantry.

"I'll come down again before the others wake," she whispered ecstatically, pressing his hand to the bosom of her shift. "Oh, I can't wait to be free of this place!"

Alec felt ribs jutting beneath the coarse fabric, and the rapid tripping of her heart. Determined to play his role better, he took her in his arms.

Kissing her just below the left ear, he whispered an endearment Seregil had suggested. The girl gave a shiver and pressed closer.

"Where's your room?" he whispered.

She giggled softly. "In the servant's attic, you naughty pup! I sleep at the foot of Aunt's bed."

"Have you a window to watch the sky?"

"There's a dormer just over me. I'll prop the shutter open."

"Come to me when the stars begin to fade."

"When the stars fade," the girl breathed. Giving him a last squeeze, she hurried off.

Alec stayed put for a time, fearing she'd find some pretense to come back. The wait was hardly an onerous one; after two days without a fire, even the warmth of a banked hearth was something to be grateful for.

The pantry also smelled wonderfully of smoked meats. It was too dark to see, but his groping hand soon found a rope of hard sausage.

Creeping out at last, he spied a long shawl hanging on a peg by the kitchen door. Throwing it on for a bit of extra camouflage, he tiptoed out to the postern and unbolted it. Seregil slipped in with their swords and Alec bolted the door after him.

Safely in the kitchen, Seregil eyed Alec's makeshift disguise and wrinkled his nose.

"You been eating garlic, gramma?"

"There's a nice bit of sausage, if you want some." Alec said returning the shawl to its peg.

"Take off your boots," whispered Seregil.

"Bare feet are quieter still for this sort of work. Don't forget your dagger, though. We need it."

Leaving their boots out of sight behind a row of cider casks, they padded off in the direction of the main hall.

The stairways of the keep were contained in the towers, so as to be easily defensible in case of attack. It was the southeast they wanted, and they soon found a narrow passageway in that direction.

An archway at the far end let into a small antechamber. Using the lightstone, they found a heavy oak door at the back. Seregil lifted the latch ring and eased it open.

Inside, they found a small, windowless landing. The back of the tiny chamber and what must have been the stairwell was completely blocked by broken stone and dusty, shattered. Alec took a step in, then froze in terror as a light, eerie caress stroked along his cheek. The touch came again, accompanied this time by a low moan and a chill draft of air.

"The ghost!" Alec's voice came out a strangled whisper.

"Ghost, eh?" Seregil waved his hand in the air above his head, then held it to the lightstone for Alec to see. Long black filaments, fine as spider web, hung tangled from his fingers.

"There's your ghost-black silk combed fine and hung in a draft. As soon as I heard Stamie's tale of ghostly touches I suspected as much."

"But the cold draft?"

"We're in the stronghold of master masons, Alec. There are tiny air channels somewhere in the walls here. They let in drafts from outside and those mysterious moans are the sound of it. We'll need to be very careful here."

"What about magic?"

"That's one thing we probably don't have to worry about. If Kassarie's really a Leran, then she'd never stoop to using the unnatural methods of the hated Aurënfaie. But there will be traps, killing traps, and we'd damn well better not get cocky."

A careful search found no sign of any secret openings or traps.

"Looks like we'll have to look elsewhere for our entrance," muttered Seregil.

"But where?"

"Upstairs, I think."

Alec looked over at the pile of rubble. "How could there be anything above us? Look at this! The whole inside of the tower must have been destroyed."

"Yet from the outside it appears that just one side of the top of the tower was broken; it shouldn't have done this kind of damage."

"You mean this mess is just a trick, a fake?"

"Either that or I'm completely wrong." Seregil grinned crookedly. "But why leave the tower broken unless there was some reason?"

"So we go up?"

"We go up."

"Micum! Come here!"

Snapping awake, Micum groped for the lightstone under his pillow. The room—Seregil's old apprentice chamber—"
empty, but Nysander's anxious voice seemed to hang on the air.

Pulling on his breeches, Micum hurried down the corridor to the wizard's bedchamber. Nysander was dressed already in his old traveling coat and breeches; his face was dark with concern.

Micum felt a sudden coldness in his innards.

"What's happened?"

"We must go at once!" Nysander replied, throwing on his cloak. "They are in some terrible danger, or were—I pray Illior it was a premonition and not a seeing vision."

"Of what?" demanded Micum. "What did you see, Nysander?"

Nysander's hands shook as he yanked his cloak strings closed."Falling. I felt them falling. And I heard them scream."

Seregil and Alec crept up the northeast tower stairs to the second floor of the keep and found the door unbarred, though there were brackets set on both sides of the jamb. Covering their lights, they took a cautious peek at what lay beyond.

It was dark here, but there was the feel of open space around them. From somewhere nearby came the buzz and rumble of assorted snores, though it was difficult to judge exactly where the sleepers might be. As their eyes adjusted, they could make out a dim light faintly illuminating a broad archway in a far wall. The acrid smell of a forge, mingled with the tang of metal and oil, suggested that the room was an armory or smithy.

Seregil found Alec's wrist and squeezed it, silently directing him to follow the wall to their left.

This direction proved fruitless, however. There was a door into the ruined tower, but a heavy forge had been set up in front of it. Returning to the other tower, they made their way up to the top floor.

At the top of the stairs they inched the door open and saw a long corridor. Some distance away, a night lamp hung at what appeared to be a juncture with another corridor. By its light they could see that the walls were richly frescoed in the latest style, and that the floors were inset with polished mosaics. Somewhere behind one of the many carved doors that lined the corridor lay their enemy.

Stealing up to the night lamp, they found that this upper story was laid out in four quarters, divided by two diagonal corridors that ran between opposing towers.

The corridors looked very much alike, including the doors, frescoes, and patterned floor. Three, including the one they'd come up, ended at tower doors. At the end of the southeast, however, the wall was covered from floor to ceiling with a large tapestry.

As hoped, the hanging concealed another door to the ruined tower and this one had been fitted with a heavy lock. Signing for Alec to hold back the tapestry and keep watch, Seregil began a careful inspection. The ornate mechanism was tarnished, but it smelled of oil, as did the heavy door hinges. Running a finger over the lower hinge, Seregil sniffed at it, then held it under Alec's nose. The boy grinned, understanding at once; why maintain the door to a ruined tower so carefully?

The lock was swiftly dealt with, and cold night air struck their faces as the door swung out onto a moonlit rampart. The square, flat surface they stood had been repaired, but the southern and eastern parapets had been left in ruins. The paving flags sent an aching chill up through their bare feet and ankles.

The wind moaned through the broken stonework, whipping their hair across their faces as they edged over to the remains of the southern parapet. The keep backed directly onto the cliffs; from where they stood, there was a sheer drop into the shadowed river gorge below.

"Caught in a high place again," Alec whispered nervously, hanging back.

"Not caught yet. Here's what we want," said Seregil, poking around in the shadows under the north wall, where the glow of his lightstone revealed another door. Scarred and weathered as it was, it, too, had a stout lock and hinges in excellent repair. Beyond it, a curving staircase spiraled down into darkness.

Seregil felt a familiar tightness in his belly as he peered down. "This place is dangerous—I can feel it. Draw your dagger and watch your footing. Keep count of the steps, too, in case we lose our lights."

The steps here were smooth but narrow underfoot, reminding Seregil of those leading down to the Oracle's chamber beneath the Temple of Illior. The curve of the smoothly dressed walls sliced away the view fifteen feet below at any point. Rusty iron sconces set into the stone at regular intervals held thick tallow candles, but these were dusty. The whole place had an abandoned, disused smell.

Counting softly to himself, Seregil moved down the steps with a wary eye out for trouble. Fifty-three steps down, something caught his eye and he held up a warning hand. A length of blackened bowstring had been fixed tautly across the next step a little above ankle height.

"That could give you a nasty fall," Alec muttered, peering over his shoulder.

"Worse than that, maybe," replied Seregil, squinting into the shadows below. Taking off his cloak, he shook it wide and cast it out in front of him.

It floated down a few feet, then caught on what appeared to be another string stretched at an angle across the stairwell. Examining it, they found it to be instead a thin, rigid blade.

Seregil tested the edge of it with a thumbnail.

"Fall just right and this could take your head off, or an arm."

They found three more pitfalls of similar design as they continued down. Then, rounding a final turn, they came to the top of the rubble pile blocking the first entrance.

"This doesn't make any sense!" Alec exclaimed in frustration. "We must have missed something."

"We found exactly what we were meant to find," Seregil muttered, heading back up the stairs.

"It's another diversion, too obvious and too dangerous. It does prove one thing, though; this tower is in perfect repair. They're hiding something here for certain."

Toiling back up the stairs, they came out again on the rampart.

"We have to work fast now," Seregil warned, glancing up at the stars, which had wheeled noticeably to the west already.

"What if the real way in isn't here?"

"That's a distinct possibility." Seregil ran a hand back through his hair. "Still, everything we've found so far tells me that this is the place. Look around, check every stone. You start there, at that corner. I'll begin here. Look for uneven stones, listen for hollow spots, anything. We're running out of time."

Shielding his light, Alec crossed back to the ruined wall while Seregil remained in the shadows near the door.
 

* * *
 

Despite Seregil's confidence, Alec renewed his search with little expectation of success. The mortar was sound, the stones solidly set together. Crossing back and forth, he checked and double-checked his section without finding anything new, and all the while the moon sank lower.

He was crossing to the northern parapet when his bare foot struck a slight declivity he hadn't noticed before. If he'd had his boots on he'd have missed it entirely, but the loose grittiness beneath his chilled toes felt distinctly different from the surrounding flagstones. Dropping to his knees, he found what appeared to be a patch of sand slightly larger than the palm of his hand.

"Seregil, come here, quick!"

With Seregil hunkered down beside him, Alec scooped out the sand and uncovered a square niche sunk into the stone. At the bottom lay a large bronze ring fastened loosely to a staple. It was large enough for him to get a good grip and he pulled up hard, expecting the resistance of a heavy slab. Instead, an irregular section of thin flags lifted easily, revealing the square wooden trap door fastened to their underside. Holding their lights down, they found a square shaft, with a wooden ladder leading down to yet another door.

"Well done!" Seregil whispered. Descending the ladder, they pulled the door closed over them.

The door at the base of the ladder had no lock, just a curved latch, green with age. In his excitement, Alec reached for it but Seregil caught his hand before he could touch it.

"Wait!" Seregil hissed. Pulling a bit of twine from his pouch, he tied a noose in the end of it and looped it over the handle, then stood back and pulled. As the handle lifted, there was an audible click.

Four long needles sprang out, spaced so that at least one would be certain to pierce the hand of an unwary trespasser. Their tips were darkened with a resinous substance. As the door swung open Seregil released the handle, and the needles retracted like the claws of a cat.

"Never trust anything that looks easy," Seregil warned, giving Alec a reproving look.

From here, a steep wooden staircase followed the square shape of the tower walls down in a series of landings and right- angle turns.

"Of course! A double staircase," muttered Seregil, taking the lead again with dagger drawn. "One would have been for the servants, this one a secret escape route for the nobles in case of attack."

"Then we can get out this way, without having to go back through the keep again?"

"We'll see," Seregil replied doubtfully.

"It may have been blocked off to keep anyone from wandering in from outside."

Unlike the other stairways, this one was wooden, constructed of thick oak that probably dated from the original construction of the keep. Seregil tested each step as he put his weight on it, yet they seemed sound enough.

There were no trip wires here, no blades. Knowing better than to let their guard down, however, they grew increasingly vigilant, anticipating something more devious in the offing.

This stairway had been used recently and often. The dust that had settled over everything was much thinner at the center of each step and showed footprints on the landings. The tallow candles in the wall sconces smelled of recent burning. There were also spots of finer wax on the stairs, which spoke of someone carrying a taper with them as they descended. Some of the spots were dull with dust, others still shiny and fragrant of beeswax.

"How far down do you think we are?" asked Alec, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. They'd been going up and down stairs for hours, and his legs were feeling the strain.

"We must be past the second floor by now, maybe near the first," replied Seregil, coming to yet another landing. "This is all taking a lot longer than I'd—"
Suddenly the landing floor seemed to fly up in Alec's face. Frozen on the stairs, he watched in helpless amazement as the wooden platform pivoted on diagonally opposing corners, its underside now standing vertically in front of him to reveal a sheer- sided pit of some kind below. A loose board fell free, tumbling into the blackness without a sound.

O Illior, Seregil!

The words hammered in Alec's throat as he stared, horrorstruck, into the gaping shaft at his feet. But no sound came out. It had all happened too quickly. His whole body went numb and cold.

First the avalanche and now—

"Alec!"  The hoarse, panicky cry came from somewhere beyond the uptilted floor.

"Seregil! You didn't fall!"

"But I'm about to. Do something, anything!

Hurry!"

A sickening sense of futility engulfed Alec.

The upper corner of the platform was several feet beyond his reach. If he jumped at it, it would tilt back and crush him against the side of the shaft, probably shaking Seregil loose from whatever precarious hold he had managed on his side. If only he had a rope- something long enough to snag the upper corner and pull it down—

"Alec!"

Ripping off his cloak, Alec gathered the hem of it in one hand and tossed the other end at the upthrust corner, hoping to catch it with the hood. It fell mere inches short of the mark.

"Damn it to hell!" Alec could hear Seregil's labored breathing a few short, impossible yards away. Looking wildly around, his eye fell on the rusty sconce set into the wall above the lowermost step.

Without a second thought he grasped it with his right hand and leaned as far out over the pit as his reach allowed, cloak ready in his left for another cast.

He was already overbalanced beyond recovery when the sconce gave beneath his hand. He heard the evil grate of metal against stone as he lurched forward a few inches more over the edge.

He hung a moment, breath dead in his throat, waiting for the final pin or screw or brace to pull free.

It didn't.

It might, if he moved.

Or it might not. He wouldn't know until he tried.

His choices were pretty limited; make a move now or wait to fall when his grip gave out.

"Alec—?"

With sweat pouring down his face and sides, he willed himself to make one last, crucial try with the cloak. Tossing it up with his left hand, he caught the upper corner of the platform with the edge of the hood and felt it hold. Miraculously, the iron sconce held, too, at least for the moment.

Pulling down on the cloak, he dragged the corner of the platform down with every ounce of strength he could muster. Its weight, together with Seregil's-still clinging somehow to its other side—"
almost more than he could manage, but slowly, slowly, it tilted back toward level. As it came down he managed to move his left hand up, gripping the fabric in his teeth as he transferred his hold. This process gave him enough leverage to gradually pull himself backward and out of the way of the descending edge. At last he was able to grasp the platform and push.

As the upper side of it came into view, he found Seregil huddled there, grasping the handle of his dagger with both hands. Somehow, even as he'd felt the floor go out from under him, he'd managed to drive the tip of the blade in far enough between two of the floorboards to hold his slight weight as he hung from it.

"Throw me the end of your cloak," he croaked, white and shaken. "It's bound to tip down when I come your way. Can you hang on to me if I drop again?"

"Wait a second." Holding the edge of the platform with one hand, Alec undid his belt with the other and worked the end of it back through the buckle.

Securing the loop around his wrist, he flapped the loose end out to Seregil. "Get a good hold on this. I can manage this better than the cloak."

Wedging the dagger more firmly, Seregil gripped the end of the belt and began inching his way toward Alec.

The platform tilted down ominously as he shifted his weight, but Alec hauled him quickly to safety on the stairs.

"Bilairy's Balls!" Seregil gasped, collapsing at his feet.

"And Guts!" Alec leaned shakily against the wall. "This candle thing I had hold of nearly came loose! I can't believe it didn't."

Upon closer inspection, however, he found that it hadn't come loose at all. It was still fixed solidly to a rod that ran back into the wall. When he pushed up, it slid smoothly back into place.

"Look at this," he exclaimed, perplexed.

Getting to his feet, Seregil examined the mechanism. Pushing the sconce upright, he drew his sword and pushed on the edge of the platform. It tilted with precipitous ease. When the sconce was pulled down, however, it remained solidly level. They soon discovered two heavy pins that slid in and out of the wall below the platform to hold it steady when the sconce was down.

"Ingenious," Seregil said with genuine admiration.

"When Kassarie comes down she pulls this and leaves it fixed. On the way back up she resets the trap. That loose board that fell out must have been some sort of brace that held it in place until I got halfway across. It's more dangerous that way, since there was no chance to jump back."

"How did you ever manage to get your knife set in time?" Alec asked wonderingly.

Seregil shook his head. "I don't even remember doing it."

Moving with redoubled care, they continued down. After a few more turns, the walls of the stairwell changed from masonry to solid stone and they knew they were below ground level. Reaching the bottom at last, they found a short, level corridor leading to a door.

Seregil bent to inspect the lock. "It looks safe enough. You better do it, though. My hands are still shaking!"

Alec knelt and took out his tools. Selecting a hook, he grinned up at Seregil. "After all this trouble, let's hope this isn't just the wine cellar!"

 

40

Flight

 

The door swung open whine of hinges. Thrusting in his lightstone, Alec tensed with a hiss of surprise.

"What is it?" whispered Seregil, grasping his sword hilt as he moved to look in.

The light was not bright enough to fully illuminate the room, but they could make out the figure of a person seated in an ornate chair against the far wall. There was no movement or outcry, and stepping closer, they saw that it was the withered corpse of a man.

He was nobly dressed in clothing of antique design. A heavy golden torque hung at his shrunken throat, and several rings glinted on the bony fingers resting on the arms of the chair. His thick, dark hair had retained its living gloss and hung in disconcerting contrast against the sunken cheeks.

"Uven ari nobis!"

Seregil exclaimed softly, bending close with his light.

Alec did not understand the words but recognized the reverent tone with which they were spoken. Fighting down his instinctive revulsion, he looked more closely at the corpse's face, noting the fine bones of the skull beneath their thin covering of desiccated skin, the high, prominent cheekbones, the large, sunken sockets where eyes had been.

"Illior's Light! Seregil, this can't be—"

"It is," Seregil replied grimly. "Or was. Lord Corruth, the lost consort of Idrilain the First. These rings prove it. See this?" He indicated the one on the corpse's right hand; it was set with a lozenge of banded carnelian deeply incised with the Dragon of Skala. "It's a Consort's Seal. And this other, the silver with the red stone? Finest Aurënfaie work. This was Corruth i Glamien Yanari Meringil Bokthersa."

"Your kinsman."

"I never knew him, though I'd often hoped—"
Seregil touched one of the hands. "The skin's hard and hollow as the shell of a dried gourd. Someone took great care to preserve him."

"But why?" shuddered Alec.

Seregil shook his head angrily. "I suppose the bastards get some perverse pleasure out of having their enemy looking on as they plot to overthrow his descendants. Perhaps they swear oaths on him, I don't know. Factions like the Lerans don't persist for generations without a good leaven of fanaticism."

The chamber was about the size of Nysander's workroom, and the hand of a master mason was evident in every line; dry, sound, and square, its walls showed no moisture or moss. The ceiling overhead, though not high, was vaulted and ribbed to give the room a less oppressive feel. It was furnished with a round table, several chests, and a few cabinets against the walls. A low dais with a second thronelike chair stood against the left-hand wall. A broad shield hung on the wall behind it.

"Another sacred artifact," Seregil noted grimly, examining the crowned dragon design painted on the shield. "Queen Lera's, no doubt. I wonder who they're grooming to carry it?"

"I thought she didn't have any heirs?"

"She had no daughters, but there are always plenty of nieces and cousins in these Skalan families."

Riffling through the chests and cabinets, they found a carefully organized collection of maps, correspondence, and documents.

"I'll be damned!" Seregil spread a huge, yellowed parchment on the table. "Plans of the Rhíminee sewers. And see here, next to the draftsman's mark?"

Alec recognized the tiny image of a coiled lizard. "Kassarie's family must have built the sewers."

"Parts of them, anyway. It was a huge undertaking. Imagine what this would be worth to enemy sappers!"

Resuming their search, they soon turned up enough damning correspondence to bring nobles of a dozen houses to Traitor's Hill.

Opening a chest, Alec reached to push aside a rumpled swath of wool. Beneath it his fingers encountered cold, rounded metal.

"Seregil, look what I found!" At the bottom of the chest gleamed eight gold baps still bearing the Queen's Treasury mark.

"The White Hart gold! Our lady's been busy, though. These are shipped in lots of twenty-four. I tell you, Alec, if Kassarie isn't the head of the Lerans herself, then she's in it up to her ears!"

The gold was too heavy to carry away, so Seregil selected a few of the more incriminating letters and divided them with Alec. Turning to the corpse again, he gently removed the rings from the withered fingers, murmuring something in Aurënfaie as he did so.

He handed Alec the silver ring, and strung the seal around his own neck on a bit of string.

"We're Watchers on this job, and this is Watcher business," he said with uncommon earnestness. "If anything happens to one of us, the other goes on, no matter what. We've got to get at least one of these to Nysander. Do you understand?"

Alec slipped the ring onto his thumb with a grudging nod.

"Good. If we get separated, meet me at the tree we camped under."

"The last time you carried something that way it got us into an awful mess!" Alec noted wryly, touching the seal ring where it hung against his friend's breast.

Seregil dropped the ring down the front of his tunic with a grim smile. "I'm not the one this will harm."

 

Putting the room back in order, they hurried back up to the open top of the tower. Seregil studied the sky with relief; the job had taken far longer than he'd anticipated, but it looked like they still had a little time to spare. As they came out from behind the tapestry into the corridor, however, some instinctive alarm went off in the back of his mind.

Something was different.

He grasped the hilt of his sword, belly tightening coldly again.

The light. Someone had turned up the wick on the night lamp.

Alec had spotted it, too, and was reaching for his own weapon.

They crept up to the intersection of the two corridors, bare feet silent on the smooth floors. The hallways appeared deserted. Bearing right, they headed back toward the northeast tower. They'd nearly reached it when the door swung open and two men with swords stepped out.

There was no time to take cover. Not knowing how many more men might be behind the others, Seregil and Alec turned and bolted back the way they'd come.

"There he is!" a man yelled behind them. "And he's got another with him! Here! He's up here!"

At the juncture of the corridors they cut to the right and made a dash for the northwest tower. More shouts rang out behind them as they flung open the door and plunged inside.

"Go on, I'll follow!" Seregil ordered, and was relieved when Alec didn't stop to argue.

A sizable pack of armed men was coming on at a run.

Grabbing the wooden bar from the corner by the door, he slammed the door and rammed the bar into its brackets. A heavy body hit the door from the other side, then another. Muffled curses followed him as he fled down after Alec.

He caught up with him just below the second-floor entrance to the tower. Rounding a corner, however, they saw torchlight coming from below.

"Second floor!" hissed Seregil, scrambling back up the stairs.

Footsteps pounded toward them from above and below as they reached the door. There was no time for caution.

Swords at the ready, they threw it open and dashed out into the large chamber beyond. Its sole occupant was an old woman with a lamp.

At the sight of them, she dropped her light and ran off through the workshop beyond, shrieking for help at the top of her creaky voice. Ignoring the flames spreading out from the broken lamp, Seregil barred the door.

"This must be where all that snoring was coming from," said Alec, looking around unhappily.

It was a barracks and there were more empty beds than Seregil wanted to count.

"Everybody's awake now," he noted grimly, heading for the southwest tower. "Come on, let's try this one."

"Up or down?" Alec demanded as they ducked in and barred the door.

But rounding the third turn, they ran headlong into another gang of Kassarie's men.

Having the higher ground saved them. Alec and Seregil struck out with their swords before their attackers could get their weapons up. Two men fell, their bodies blocking the stairs long enough for them to retreat. Another man came at them from above, swinging a short club. In the lead, Alec ducked the blow and thrust his sword between the man's ankles.

Seregil got in a good jab as the unfortunate man tumbled forward, then heaved the body on down the stairs.

Someone was trying to batter down the second-floor door as they passed. Dashing on, they found themselves back on the third floor.

Alec set the bar across the door, then doubled over panting. "Where now?"

"Let me think!" Seregil wiped his brow with one tattered sleeve. They'd been up and down how many towers? And how many doors had he blocked? No matter, really; by now all of them would be guarded.

Just ahead of them a corridor door flew open and they found themselves faced with four more men.

Falling on the newcomers, Seregil managed to strike down one before the man could draw his sword.

The rest put up a savage fight but were no match for their attackers. Seregil ran a second man through, then turned in time to see another stab Alec in the left arm. The boy recovered in an instant and seized the advantage, cutting his attacker across the thigh. The man fell back with a cry and Seregil dispatched him. In the melee, the fourth man took to his heels and escaped down the corridor.

"Let him go," Seregil ordered as Alec started off in pursuit. "You're wounded. How bad is it?"

Alec flexed his bloodied arm. "Just a nick."

Angry shouts interrupted them as a gang of men dashed into view beneath the night lamp. "Here. They're back here!"

"This way!" Seregil bolted through the open doorway the four men had appeared from.

Beyond lay a small storage chamber, and on the far side of it another door stood open. Charging on, they raced up a narrow stairway, threw open the trap door at the top, and came out on the flat roof of the keep.

"We're cornered!" cried Alec, looking around.

A quick circuit of the ramparts proved him right. There was no other way down; looking over the low parapets, they found impossible drops on every side. Behind them, Kassarie's men were already clambering up through the trap door with torches, swords, and clubs.

"We make our stand here," Seregil growled, retreating to the southern rampart.

Back to back, swords at the ready, they stood fast as the grinning mob advanced to form a menacing half circle around them.

"We have them, my lady. The boy and a beggar man," someone called out.

More torches bobbed into view, and the men parted for Lady Kassarie. Wrapped in a dark cloak, hair in a loose braid over one shoulder, she advanced to inspect the interlopers. Alec recognized the old manservant, Illester, at her side.

"Beggar man? Oh, hardly that." She frowned.

"Lord Seregil i Korit. And-Sir Alec something, isn't it? Had I known of your interest in my affairs, gentlemen, I would have extended you a proper invitation."

Seregil threw back his tattered cloak and made her a small, mocking bow. "My Lady Kassarie a Moirian. Your recent interest in my affairs was invitation enough, I assure you."

Kassarie gave him an appraising look. "Your reputation fails to do you justice. Your little jaunt up to Cirna exhibited far more initiative than you're given credit for, and now this! Who would have suspected such enterprise? But then, that was foolish of me. The dandified wastrel you're made out to be could never have inveigled himself so skillfully into the chambers of power."

"You flatter me, lady."

"You're too modest, my lord. After all, you've captured the ear of wizards and princesses."

Kassarie's mouth twisted with a bitter sneer. "But then, you're one of them, aren't you? Some kin to our mongrel royalty? I trust you enjoyed your reunion with Lord Corruth."

Seregil's jaw tightened. "For that abomination, my lady, you have my family's curse."

"I shall do my best to be worthy of it. Now tell me, on whose behalf have you invaded my home?"

"We're agents of Idrilain the Second, the true and rightful queen of Skala," Seregil replied.

"Bravely spoken!" laughed Kassarie. "And how unfortunate for me if that were so. Yet I have my own agents, you see, very skillful and reliable ones. If you were working for the Queen I would know. No, I think your Aurënfaie ties go a bit deeper than is generally supposed. Your people would be only too happy, I'm certain, to discredit Skalans loyal to the true line!"

A strange, hectic light came into her eyes as she spoke these last words. Gripping his sword more tightly, Seregil thought with disquieting certainty, She's going to kill us.

"It's of small importance, I suppose," she went on darkly. "Your disappearance may cause a certain stir, but few, I think, will mourn you."

"Others will come," Seregil retorted. "Others like us, when you least expect them."

"And find me flown. That fool Teukros did more harm than you could. But you know about Teukros, don't you? This boy came asking for him." Her gaze shifted to Alec. "And repaid my hospitality by seducing my scullery maid."

"She didn't know anything," Alec told her, suddenly fearful for the girl. "I tricked her into letting me in."

"Ah, the gallant suitor speaks." Kassarie gave him a mocking smile. "A position in the great city, promises of passion to come-How pathetically common, but so effective. But she proved a poor choice for your dupe. Her aunt caught her sneaking out with a traveling bundle a short while ago."

"We soon beat the truth out of her," Illester cackled. "The girl never was very reliable."

"Please, don't hurt her," Alec said weakly.

"Of course, I can't help feeling a bit sorry for the poor, homely thing," Kassarie continued. "She was heartbroken to learn of your perfidy. But you'll have a little time to reflect on that. Gentlemen, throw down your swords!"

Seregil felt Alec tense behind him, awaiting his lead. Studying Kassarie's imperious face in the torchlight, he weighed the chances of coming down off this roof alive. It seemed doubtful.

"I've little faith in your hospitality," he replied, stalling for time.

Think, man, think! Find a thin spot in the mob!

How far to the stairs, the tower door?

"You've given me quite enough trouble for one night,"

Kassarie snapped, losing patience. "Look around! You can't fight your way out. Look behind you. A thousand feet down. Teukros screamed all the way to the bottom when they threw him off. Will you?"

Beside him, Seregil heard Alec's tiny, choked groan. If surrender offered even the sliver of a chance—

Leap, dear boys!

NySander's shout jolted them both like a war cry, though it was obvious that no one else had heard.

"My lady commands your surrender," Illester barked.

"Did you hear?" hissed Seregil.

"I can't!" Alec whispered back. He was white with fear, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Enough of this," snarled Kassarie, eyeing them with growing suspicion.

"You must!" Seregil pleaded, his own belly lurching at the idea.

"No—"

Seregil, Alec, leap! It must be now!

"Seize them!" cried Kassarie. "Take them alive!"

"Alec, go!"

"I can't—"
Now, Seregil, for the love of Illior!

"Now!" yelled Seregil. Flinging his sword aside, he seized Alec around the waist and heaved him over the parapet. Trying not to hear the scream that fell away into the blackness, he vaulted after him and launched himself into the abyss. Kassarie's sardonic laugh lashed out after him.

For a horrifying instant Seregil simply fell, eyes squeezed shut, the insubstantial wind beating up into his face.

Then the magic struck.

A swift, wrenching sensation shot through him, as if his soul were being pulled from his body. This was followed a splendid lightness, though he was still falling, dragged down by some entangling thing. Opening his eyes to, a wondrous blaze of stars, he struggled free of his tunic and flung out his…

Wings.

Lovely, powerful, striped wings that sliced into the air and found purchase there. Leveling out into a glide, he looked down with his new eyes and saw another bird floundering awkwardly up toward him, hooting wildly all the way. He wouldn't have thought it possible for an owl to look flabbergasted, but Alec did. Their empty clothes tumbled into the darkness as they winged up and over the keep.

Kassarie had moved to the parapet overlooking the road and was gesturing at a body of riders thundering up the road toward her gates. Torches streaked and veered in the courtyard below as her people scattered to meet the attack.

The wind sang deliciously through their feathers as Seregil and Alec spiraled down to meet the riders. Alec let out another excited hoot as his sharp eyes made out the insignia of the Queen's Horse Guard. Klia rode at the head of the party, flanked by Myrhini and Micum.

Diving in low, Seregil flew in front of Micum.

"Seregil, is that you?"

Seregil swooped down again and landed on Micum's outstretched arm, feeling the roughness of chainmail grating under his talons.

"Is it him?" Klia asked as the large horned owl flapped for balance.

Seregil bobbed his head and winked one great yellow eye.

"It's him!" cried Micum. "Is Alec with you?"

Seregil bobbed again as Alec winged by.

"Go to Nysander," said Micum. "He's back down the road with Thero and Beka. Wait, what's this you've got?"

Micum lifted the ring that hung against the owl's buff breast. The loop of string had held, though Seregil had not noticed the slight weight of it as he flew.

 

Micum pocketed it for him and Seregil spread his broad wings and flapped off to join Alec.

Following the road, Alec soon spotted a small fire below. Nysander and Thero sat cross-legged beside it, watched over by several uniformed riders.

Landing was a far trickier business than flight, it turned out. After several unsuccessful attempts to copy Seregil's smooth descent, he finally ended up in an ungainly heap at a soldier's feet.

"Alec?" asked a familiar voice.

Beka knelt and set him upright, then smoothed his feathers gently. Spreading his toes out for balance, Alec blinked up at her and gave a soft hoot.

Something moved under his foot; it was the silver Aurënfaie ring, still around one feathered toe. Raising his foot, he hooted at Beka until she took it.

Seregil, meanwhile, had settled gracefully on Nysander's upraised arm.

"Thanks to the Lightbearer! We were not certain the spells found you in time," Nysander told him, looking utterly exhausted.

"We were lucky to locate you at all," added Thero. "We nearly didn't, you know, with all your dashing around. Shall I change them back now, Nysander?"

"If you would. I—am quite depleted."

This transformation occurred as swiftly as the first, and with the same momentary disorientation.

After an instant's dizziness, Alec found himself standing naked in front of Beka.

"You might want this." Beka handed him her cloak, doing her best not to laugh at the expression of shocked realization spreading hotly over his face.

Mortified, Alec hastily flung it on. In the excitement of the moment he had not anticipated such complications. Taking the ring back from her, he turned to Seregil, who was kneeling beside the older wizard.

"I lost the papers with my clothes, but I still have this."

"And another," Seregil gasped, cradling his head in his hands as the usual wave of post-magic nausea swept over him. "The Consort's seal.

Micum has it—Nysander, we found it There's a room below the ruined tower. We have to—We—Tell him, Alec!"

Retching, he staggered off into the shadows.

"Kassarie's a Leran for certain," Alec continued excitedly. "She's still got some of the stolen gold and the body of Lord Corruth!"

"Poor fellow. I always feared something of the sort had happened to him," sighed Nysander. "But what is this about rings and papers?"

"We took Corruth's rings and some papers to prove what we found," Alec explained, handing the wizard the heavy Aurënfaie ring. "Micum has the Consort's seal, but we lost everything else when—"
Alec paused with a stricken gasp. "My sword! Oh hell, that went, too, and my black dagger."

These, along with his bow, were chief among the very few material possessions he felt any attachment to; they had been the first things Seregil had outfitted him with at Wolde.

"We shall do our best to recover them, dear boy, and all the rest," Nysander assured him.

"We have to get back in there, and quickly," said Seregil, returning to the fire looking haggard but determined. One of the riders held out a cloak and he wrapped himself in it. "She'll destroy everything, Nysander; she may have already. Even with the ring, our word won't be enough against her!"

"He's right," Thero agreed.

"She's the head of the serpent, I'm certain of it,"

Seregil continued emphatically. "Get her and you get them all! But Klia and the others will never find that room on their own. I've got to go back in!"

"Not without me, you're not!" declared Alec.

Nysander assented with a weary nod. "Sergeant Talmir, please get these men clothing, horses, and weapons."

Beka stepped forward. "Let me go with them."

The wizard shook his head firmly. "It is not for me to countermand Commander Klia's orders. She stationed you here."

"But—"

"You stay put," Seregil warned. "It's worth your commission to leave your post. You haven't even been invested yet!"

Alec stepped away with his usual modesty to dress, while Seregil threw his cloak off with no thought but haste. As he did so, Alec was dismayed to see that the obscuration spell covering the scar had failed again; the strange scar was clearly visible. Nysander saw it, too, and shook his head slightly at Alec. Fortunately, Seregil pulled on his borrowed tabard before anyone else noticed.

Beka, who'd kindly looked away until Alec had gotten his breeches on, offered him her sword.

"Take it," she urged. "I'll feel better, knowing you have a blade I trust."

Alec accepted the sword gratefully, hearing the echo of her father's words to Seregil when they'd left Watermead.

Clasping hands hastily with her, he said, "It's one I trust, too." He hesitated, suddenly awkward; he felt as if he ought to say something more, but he couldn't think what.

"Take good care of Nysander and Thero," he said at last, "in case they have to turn us into something else to get us out again."

She gave him a playful cuff on the arm. "Good thing he didn't make you into stags and otters that time, eh?"

 

Outfitted again, Seregil and Alec leapt onto fresh horses and galloped back to the keep.

The main gate stood open now. Looking around, Seregil guessed that their earlier capture had disrupted the usual discipline of the place, and the garrison had been caught off guard by Klia's attack.

In the courtyard a handful of Guards were standing watch over a knot of captured servants. Stamie huddled miserably among the prisoners and refused to meet Alec's eye when he attempted to speak to her.

The rest of the raiders had stormed inside.

Overhead, flames licked out of a second-floor window.

"Looks like we can go in the front way this time,"

Seregil said with a dark grin, pointing to the shattered doors.

Scattered sounds of fighting rang through the halls as they ran for the northeast stairway. Bodies littered the stairs, but the main battle had been pressed back to the third floor.

Coming out in the upper passageway, they could hear Kassarie's remaining men making a stand at the door to the ruined tower. The halls were impossibly narrow for a pitched battle, and the fighting had spread into side rooms. Passing the open doorways, they caught sight of bodies sagging across costly, overturned furniture. The clash of swords seemed to come from every direction at once. Fresh blood spattered the elegant frescoes and the floor was treacherous with it in places.

They found Micum in the thick of the fight in the southeast corridor.

"Has Kassarie been taken yet?"

Seregil shouted, trying to make himself heard over the din.

"Last I heard they were still looking for her," Micum yelled back.

"There's a door behind that hanging." Seregil pointed down the hall at the tapestry. "Pass the word forward; we have to take it!"

A few moments later, Klia's war cry echoed off the walls as the last of Kassarie's fighters threw down their weapons and fell to their knees.

Thrusting his way through the confusion, Seregil reached the princess. "Through here," he called, tearing down the tapestry to expose the door. Trying the handle, he found it locked.

"Braknil, Tomas, get this open!" barked Klia.

Two sturdy Guards threw their shoulders against the door, wrenching it off its hinges, and Seregil and Alec led the way to the trap door. Klia followed with Micum, Myrhini, and several soldiers.

The trap door had been pulled shut again, and the sand smoothed back into place. Seregil found the ring and heaved the door open, then led the way down to the wooden stairs. Careful to avoid the tilting landing, they reached the subterranean corridor to find the final door standing open. The chamber beyond was brightly lit.

Kassarie was waiting for them. She stood by the table at the center of the room, blocking the corpse of Corruth from sight. She held a small lamp in one hand, as if to light their way, and its glow threw her harsh features into imperious relief. The room smelled hotly of wax and oil. Beside him, Alec sniffed the air, frowning.

A prickle of apprehension ran up Seregil's spine; Kassarie looked like a great serpent poised to strike. How long had she stood waiting there?

"So, you're back again, are you?" she observed with a bitter smile as he and Alec stepped into view.

Klia moved up between them. Reckless and pretty as she might be under other circumstances, at this moment she was a commander and moved with her mother's austere assurance.

"Kassarie a Moirian, I arrest you in the name of Idrilain the Second," she announced with no trace of emotion. "The charge against you is high treason."

Kassarie bowed gravely. "Clearly you have the advantage. I yield, Your Highness, with the understanding that it is to your greater strength and not to your misbegotten right."

"As you will," replied Klia, stepping toward her.

"You will find all that you seek here." Kassarie gestured around her. "Perhaps, like Lord Seregil, you would also be interested in meeting your mutual forebear."

She stepped aside and lifted her lamp with a dramatic flourish. "Allow me to present Lord Corruth i Glamien Yanari Meringil Bokthersa. Your curs there have already pilfered the body, but I think they will bear out that I speak the truth."

Too late Seregil realized that he had failed to tell Klia what they'd found. She gave a soft, startled exclamation and stepped closer.

Micum and the others were equally taken aback; all eyes fixed on the grisly sight as Klia bent to study the ravaged face.

 

All, that is, except Alec's.

He'd seen more than enough of corpses over the past few weeks. Avoiding the dried husk in the chair, he looked instead at Kassarie, and so was the only one to notice the gloating smile that spread across her face as she lifted the lamp still higher.

That smell. It was too strong to be just lamps.

There was no time to warn Klia. Knocking Seregil aside, he lunged forward into the room as Kassarie dashed the lamp to the floor at Klia's feet. The room was doused with oil and something else, something far more flammbale.

Searing heat sucked the air from his lungs and scorched his skin. Reaching wildly, he found Klia's arm and hauled her backward with all his strength. Behind him other hands reached out, yanking him roughly into the blessed coolness of the corridor.

"Get them down!" shouted Micum.

Alec was shoved to the floor and half smothered with cloaks and bodies. Hands pounded down across his back. Somewhere above him, Seregil was cursing frantically.

When they finally uncovered him, Alec saw that they'd dragged him back to the base of the stairs. Heat rolled down the little passage from the open door of the chamber beyond. Inside, solid sheets of flame obscured everything from view. There was no sign of Kassarie.

Klia was lying next to him, her beautiful, heart-shaped face streaked red and black and half her braid singed away.

"You saved my life!" she croaked, reaching for his hand; the back of her own was a welter of angry blisters where oil had splashed.

"While the rest of us had our heads up our arses," Myrhini glowered, wiping a sleeve across her eyes as she knelt by Klia.

Alec shook his head, half dazed. "That smell—It was familiar but I couldn't remember what it was."

"Sulfur oil, I think" said Myhini.

The skin on Alec's back and neck suddenly began to hurt and he grimaced.

"Give me this!" Seregil tugged Alec's borrowed tabard off over his head. The back of the garment was burned through in places. "You were on fire, you know! And some of your hair is gone in the back."

Alec raised a hand to the back of his head; it felt rough and his palm came away black.

"Just when we'd gotten you looking presentable, too," Seregil complained, his voice not quite steady. "Bilairy's Cods, you smell like a scorched dog!"

41

Scars

The sun was just climbing above the eastern treetops as Seregil, Alec, and Micum set off for the city with Nysander. Thero had stayed behind to assist in the search for the lost documents and weapons.

"I thought we'd finally run through our luck that time," Seregil admitted, riding along between Nysander and Alec.

"You damn near did!" sputtered Micum.

"Nysander didn't even know you'd gone down here until I showed up."

"And when I realized that you were in danger, I could do nothing at such a distance," added Nysander. "I was not certain if you were dead or alive until after we arrived, and even then I could not fix my attention on you with any accuracy until they had you cornered on the roof. By that point it was too late for any but the most desperate measures."

"It was a lovely bit of work, though," Seregil maintained, unabashed. "You haven't turned me into a bird in years. And never an owl!"

Alec was equally excited. "It was wonderful, at least once I got used to it. But I don't understand why my mind stayed so clear. That time you turned me into a stag I got all confused."

"This was a different sort of metamorphosis," explained Nysander. "The intrinsic nature spell summons an innate magic from the person it is cast upon, and often affects the subject's mind, as in your case. Changing you to an owl was a metastatic spell. Though it demanded far more of my powers, especially at such a distance, it altered only your outward form, leaving your mind unaffected. My greatest concern was whether you would master your wings in time."

"He's a fast learner," said Seregil, resisting the impulse to clap Alec on the shoulder. He could tell from the way the boy sat his horse that his burns were giving him more pain than he was admitting.

"What you didn't learn is who the Lerans were planning to replace Idrilain with," Micum pointed out. "With everything destroyed back there, we'll never track down the others."

"That's not entirely true," said Seregil, tapping his temple. "I got a look at some of those papers before she burned everything. There're a few nobles we can go to for answers. It'll be a start."

Nysander nodded. "I will set some Watchers to it as soon as we get back. I think you three have had enough excitement for now."

"I suppose so," Seregil agreed, stealing another concerned look at Alec riding stiffly beside him.

The day grew brighter as they rode on. They reached a crossroads in sight of the city walls and, bidding them all farewell, Micum turned his horse for home.

"You know where to find me if you need me," he called, kicking his stallion into a gallop.

"I assume you will be at the Cockerel now?" Nysander asked, reining in while Seregil and Alec pulled up their hoods.

Seregil nodded. "Lord Seregil and Sir Alec will be back in town in time for the Sakor Festival. You'll keep our names out of the inquest over this business, won't you?"

"I believe I can. The Queen values the Watchers enough to respect our methods. I must ask you to stop at my tower before you return home, however. There is one last matter to be seen to."

Catching a questioning glance from Alec, Seregil raised a gloved hand to his chest.

Alec flexed his left hand thoughtfully, looking down at the smooth circle of healed flesh on his own palm.
 

* * *
 

At the Orëska House, Nysander insisted on breakfast before anything else. Having fortified himself, he led them into the small casting room and closed the door. Instructing Seregil to remove his shirt, the wizard inspected the troublesome scar closely.

"This ought to have stayed covered," muttered Nysander.

"This isn't the first time it's reappeared," Seregil reminded him, staring nervously up at the ceiling while the wizard gently pressed and prodded. A sudden thought occured to him and he reached for Nysander's wrist. "But it didn't when you changed me into old Dakus."

Nysander shook his head. "That was a lesser transformation. I simply altered your existing appearance."

"You mean I could end up looking like that someday?"

"Do be quiet, Seregil! I must concentrate."

Pressing his hand over the scar, Nysander closed his eyes and waited for any impressions to form. Little came: the streak of a falling star; a flash of the mysterious blue; the faint roar of ocean; the hint of an unfamiliar profile. Then nothing.

"Well?" demanded Seregil.

"Just bits and pieces." Nysander massaged the bridge of his nose wearily. "Fragments of memories, perhaps, but nothing to suggest any residual power in these marks. It is most curious. How is your hand, Alec?"

"Nothing's changed," Alec replied, holding it up for him to see.

"Most curious indeed," mused Nysander, unruly eyebrows beetling. "The problem must lie in the markings of Seregil's scar."

Seregil studied them in a hand mirror. "The side of the wooden disk that burned Alec was smooth, no carving at all. But these of mine are getting clearer instead of fainter. Don't you sense any magic at all around it?"

"None," Nysander answered. "So it must somehow be the configuration of the characters themselves, whatever they are."

Seregil looked up. "And you truly don't know what they are?"

"I recognize the sigla, as I have said. What lies beneath it is as much a mystery to me as to you. You have my word on that."

"Then we're right back where we began," Alec exclaimed in exasperation.

"Perhaps not," Nysander said softly, touching Seregil's scar a last time, then casting another obscuration over it. "It reappeared after Seregil changed bodies with Thero, and again when he changed back from the owl form. There must be some significance to that, though I do not yet know what it means."

"It means I'm going to spend the rest of my life trotting back to you to get it covered up again," grumbled Seregil, pulling on his shirt. "I bet Valerius could get it off."

"You must not do that. Not yet, at least. To destroy it before we understand it could prove most unwise. Bear with it awhile longer, dear boy. Perhaps we may yet solve its riddle. In the meantime, it appears to be doing you no harm."

"It's done enough of that already!" Seregil scowled. "Take care, Nysander. We'll be close by if you want us."

 

Nysander retired to his sitting room after they'd gone. Sinking wearily into an armchair, he rested his head against its back and summoned up the impressions he'd gotten from the scar—the star, the sea sounds, the flash of blue, the hint of a face—

His head ached. He'd had no rest since the raid and he was exhausted—too exhausted to delve further into the matter. A quick nap here in his chair was called for, he decided. Later, after making the proper preparations, he would meditate further on the matter.

The quiet of the room enfolded him like a thick, comfortable blanket. The warmth of the fire was like summer sunshine on the side of his face—so pleasant, so soft, like the touch of a woman's lips. As he sank deeper into the welcome languor, he seemed to feel Seregil's chest beneath his hand again, the tiny ridges of the scar brushing his palm. But now Seregil's skin was cold, cold as a marble statue—

Nysander stirred uneasily in his chair. A vision is coming, he thought in vague dismay. I am too weary for visions.

But it came anyway.

He was standing in the Orëska's central atrium. Bright sunshine streamed down through the great dome overhead, warming him deliriously. Other wizards passed by without looking at him. Apprentices and servants hurried past at their daily tasks.

But then the Voice spoke and all the people around him turned into marble statues.

The Voice came from somewhere beneath him, a faint, sinister chuckle vibrating up from the depths below the stone floor. He could feel it in the soles of his feet. Looking down, he noticed for the first time that the mortar of the mosaic had crumbled. Large sections of the design, the proud Dragon of lllior, had been loosened and dislodged, the brilliant tiles trampled to powder.

The Voice came again and he turned, striding through the motionless throng to the museum. Across the shadowed room, beyond the ranks of display cases, the door of the antechamber leading to the vaults stood slightly ajar.

As he approached it, he heard something scuttle away into the darkness ahead. It was a scrabbling, clicking noise utterly unlike rats. Something crackled beneath his foot, a fragment of wood. The case that had held the hands of Tikárie Megraesh was empty; a splintered, fist-sized hole had been clawed through the bottom.

Summoning a gleaming sphere of light in his left palm, he continued on. As he neared the door it flew open with such force that it split from top to bottom and hung shattered on its hinges.

"Come, old man," a sibilant whisper beckoned. "Old man. Old man. Old, old man."

Skin prickling with revulsion, he obeyed.

The antechamber was as it should be, but the plain stone stairway beyond was gone. Instead, a terrible black chasm yawned before him, devoid of bridge or pathway. Summoning a second light in his right hand, he spread his arms and launched himself into the fathomless darkness, plummeting like an osprey.

He could not tell how long he fell; it seemed like a very long time. There was no wind, no feeling of passage, only the knowledge that he was descending until at last, in the way of dreams, he came to a gentle landing on uneven stone. In front of him, an archway led into the familiar brick-paved corridor of the Orëska's deepest vault.

The low passage branched out into a warren of corridors and storage chambers. He'd made his solitary way here countless times, passing this corner, turning at the next to make certain that the Place, the unmarked, unremarkable span of mortared wall and all that lay behind it, was as it should be.

But this sojourn, he knew, was not to be a solitary one. The Voice was ahead of him and louder now, shouting to him from the Place.

"Come, old man! Come, Guardian!" The bellowed challenge echoed coldly through the damp stone corridors. "Come and view the first fruits of your sacred vigil!"

Rounding the final corner, he found himself face-to-face with the dyrmagnos, Tikárie Megraesh. Bright eyes, moist and alive, looked out from the desiccated black face. The hands that he himself—then a young wizard new to his robes—had cut off had found their way back to their owner's arms, visible below the sleeves of the hideous creature's festival robe.

"Pass, O most noble Guardian!" Tikdrie bade him, stepping aside with a slight bow. "The Beautiful One awaits. Pass and join the feast." The voice of the dyrmagnos, like his eyes, had retained a terrible humanity.

Passing his ancient enemy, he found the passage blocked by a huge pile of naked corpses.

Creatures in colorful rags crawled and scuttled over the dead and he could hear the greedy sounds of their feeding.

Some were human, and among these he recognized many long-vanquished foes, returned now to haunt his dreams.

Others were twisted, monstrous creatures of revolting form beneath their robes.

And all were feasting on the dead. Swarming across the limp bodies, they hunched like jackals over their victims, tearing chunks of flesh out with teeth and talons, crunching through bone.

A tall figure emerged from the shadows, its dark cloak revealing nothing of its form.

"Join the feast," it commanded in a voice like wind groaning down the chimney of an abandoned house. Stretching an impossibly long arm into the heap, it tugged a body loose and cast it at his feet.

It was Seregil.

Half of his face had been cruelly gnawed. Both hands were gone and the skin had been flayed from his chest.

A moan rose in Nysander's throat as grief paralyzed him.

"Devour him," the specter invited, reaching again into the pile.

Micum was next, chest torn open, both strong arms gone at the shoulder.

Then Alec, robbed of hands and eyes. Blood streaked his face like tears, and matted his soft yellow hair.

Others followed, faster and faster. Friends, lords, servants, strangers, thrown about like cord wood until he was ringed in with an ever heightening wall of bodies. Another moment and he would be immured in a tower of dead flesh.

Battling grief and horror, he summoned the twin lights he still carried to increased brilliance and hurled them before him, charging over the maimed bodies of his companions. The obscene specter swelled in his vision and was gone, taking the awful pile of corpses with it.

Before him stood the possessor of the Voice, and Nysander's grief crystallized into stony terror. The huge figure was shrouded in shadow except where light fell across one perfect, golden- skinned shoulder.

He stared at it, trying to see his foe in spite of his mounting dread. He could feel the cold power of its eyes upon him; it burned his flesh numb like the water of a winter stream.

Then it raised its hand in greeting and the shining skin of shoulder and arm and hand split like rotten cloth, hanging in dulled shreds from the putrid flesh swelling beneath it.

"Welcome, O Guardian," it said. "You have been most faithful."

Lurching out of the shadows, the thing smashed a fist through the smooth stone wall as if it were a paper screen, reaching into the cavity beyond—

Nysander leapt up from his chair, panting and drenched with sweat. The fire was nearly dead and the room was full of shadows.

"O Illior!" he groaned, pressing a hand over his eyes. "Must I be the one who sees the end of it?"

To Be Continued.