14
THE STREET OF LIGHTS

After three days at Watermead, Alec and Seregil returned to the city under cover of night and made their way quietly back to the Cockerel. Runcer would keep up appearances at Wheel Street; Lord Seregil was in town, but not always available.

Thryis and the others had gone to bed when they arrived, but the aromas still lingering in the darkened kitchen—new bread, dried fruit, garlic, wine, and ashy coals banked on the hearth—were enough welcome for Alec.

Ruetha appeared from somewhere and followed them up to the second floor. Alec scooped her up and held her until Seregil had disarmed the succession of warding glyphs that protected the hidden stairway leading to their rooms. Alec grinned to himself as Seregil whispered the passwords that had once sounded so exotically magical.

The command for the glyph at the base of the stairs was Etuis miära koriatüan cyris. “Your grandmother insults the chickens.”

Halfway up: Clarin magril. “Raspberries, saddle.”

For the hidden door at the top of the stairs the word was Nodense: “Almost.”

The nonsense was intentional, making it virtually impossible for anyone to guess the secret words. Only the final command, the one for the door into the sitting room, had any meaning. Bôkthersa was the name of Seregil’s birthplace.

Seregil crossed the room with the aid of a lightstone and lit the fire. As the flames leapt up, he surveyed the room in surprise. “Illior’s Hands, don’t tell me you cleaned the place up before you left for Wheel Street?”

“Just enough so I could walk across the room safely,” Alec replied, going to his neat, narrow bed in the corner near the hearth. He didn’t particularly mind Seregil’s chaotic living habits, but he did dislike stepping on sharp objects barefoot, or having heavy things fall on him from shelves. Hanging his sword and bow case on their nails above the bed, he stretched out with a contented sigh.

Seregil collapsed on the sofa in front of the fire. “You know, it strikes me that this is all a bit of a comedown for you. After having your own chamber, I mean. Perhaps we should think about expanding our accommodations here. There are empty rooms on either side of us.”

“Don’t bother on my account.” Yawning, Alec crossed his arms behind his head. “I like things just as they are.”

Seregil smiled up at the shadow of a dusty cobweb wavering overhead. “So do I, now that you mention it.”

Their pleasure at returning to the inn was marred by a sudden scarcity of jobs. The few that had come in during their absence were petty matters, and over the next week new ones were slow to follow. For the first time in their acquaintance, Alec saw Seregil grow bored.

To make matters worse, late winter was the dreariest season in Rhíminee despite the lengthening days. The icy rains brought thicker fog in off the sea, and a grey dampness seemed to get into everything. Alec found himself sleeping well past dawn, and then nodding off over whatever he was doing in the evening with the sound of the rain lulling him like a heartbeat. Seregil, on the other hand, became increasingly restless.

Returning from a visit with Nysander one dank afternoon near the end of Dostin, Alec found Seregil working at the writing desk. The parchment in front of him was half-covered with musical notations, but he appeared to have lost interest in the project. Chin on hand, he was staring glumly out at the fog slinking by like a jilted lover.

“Did you check with Rhiri on your way up?” he asked without turning his head.

“Nothing new,” Alec replied, unwrapping the books the wizard had lent him.

“Damn. And I’ve already checked everywhere else. If people keep behaving themselves like this we’ll be out of a job.”

“How about a game of bakshi?” Alec offered. “I could use some practice on those cheats you showed me yesterday.”

“Maybe later. I don’t seem to be in the mood.” With an apologetic shrug, Seregil returned to his composition.

Suit yourself, thought Alec. Clearing a space on the room’s central table, he settled down to study the compendium of rare beasts Nysander had given him. The text was somewhat beyond his ability, but he stubbornly puzzled it out, relying on the illustrations for clues when the gist of a passage eluded him. With cold mists swirling against the windowpanes, a fire crackling on the hearth, and a cup of tea at his elbow, it was not an unpleasant way to occupy an afternoon.

It did require considerable concentration, however, which quickly proved difficult as Seregil abandoned the desk and began wandering around the room. First he toyed with an unusual lock he’d picked up somewhere, grinding noisily away at the wards with a succession of picks. A few moments later he tossed it onto a shelf with the others and disappeared into his chamber, where Alec could hear him rummaging through the chests and trunks piled there and muttering aloud, either to himself or the ever faithful Ruetha.

Presently he reappeared with an armload of scrolls. Kicking the scattered cushions into a pile in front of the fire, he settled himself to read. But this pursuit was equally short-lived. After a brief perusal involving considerable rustling of parchments and muttered asides, each document was relegated in rapid succession into the fire or onto a dusty pile beneath the couch. With this task completed, he lay back among the cushions and began to whistle softly between his teeth, keeping time to his tune by tapping the toe of one boot against the ash shovel.

Not even Nysander’s excellent bestiary could withstand such distraction. Realizing he’d just read the same sentence for the third time, Alec carefully closed the book.

“We could do some shooting in the back court,” he suggested, trying not to let his exasperation show.

Seregil looked up in surprise. “Oh, sorry. Am I disturbing you?”

“Well—”

He stood up again with a sigh. “I’m not fit to be around today, I’m afraid. I’ll get out of your way.” With this he returned to his room, emerging a few moments later wearing his best cloak. He’d changed his rumpled tunic for a proper surcoat and breeches, too, Alec saw.

“Where are you off to?”

“I think I’ll just walk awhile, get some air,” Seregil said, avoiding eye contact as he hurried to the door.

“Wait a minute, and I’ll go with you.”

“No, no, you go on with your reading,” Seregil insisted hurriedly. “And tell Thryis not to wait supper for me. I could be late.”

The door closed after him and Alec found himself in sole possession of their rooms.

“Well, at least he didn’t take his pack this time,” he grumbled to Ruetha, who’d stationed herself on a stack of books beside him. Tucking herself into a neat loaf, the cat merely blinked at him.

Alec opened his book again, but found he couldn’t concentrate at all now.

Giving up, he made another pot of tea and looked into Seregil’s bedroom while it steeped; no clue was immediately apparent in that chaotic jumble.

What’s he up to, dashing off like that?

Except for that one mysterious journey, Seregil had included him in every job since the Festival. But he hadn’t acted like he was going out on a job just now.

The parchment was still on the desk. Bending over it, Alec saw that it was the beginnings of a song. The words were badly smudged in places, and whole lines had been struck through or scribbled over. What remained read:

Below this half a dozen lines had been struck out with what appeared to be increasing frustration.

The margins of the sheet were filled with half-completed sketches and designs—Illior’s crescent, a perfectly drawn eye, circles, spirals, arrows, the profile of a handsome young man. In the lower left corner was a quick but unmistakable sketch of Alec scowling comically over his books, which Seregil must have drawn from his reflection in the windowpane.

As he set the sheet aside, a familiar binding caught his eye among the books stacked on the workbench next to the desk. It was the Aurënfaie journal case they’d discovered in the Orëska library. He’d assumed Seregil had returned it with the others; he certainly hadn’t said anything more about it, or about their discovery of the reference to the mysterious “Eater of Death.”

Opening it, Alec gently turned the fragile pages over. Though he couldn’t read them, they all looked just as he remembered them.

He replaced the case as he’d found it, and for the first time wondered if Seregil’s restlessness lately was due to something more than just bad weather and boredom. Come to think of it, he’d been restless at Watermead, as well. Those nights they’d shared the guest chamber bed, his friend had often tossed and muttered in his sleep. He hadn’t done that before. What secrets was he wrestling with?

“Or maybe he’s just pining for his green-eyed mistress?” Alec speculated aloud, scanning the parchment again with an amused chuckle. Ruetha appeared to have no opinion on the matter, however, and he found himself pacing as he rehearsed various nonchalant comments he could use to broach the subject when Seregil returned.

Whenever that turned out to be.

Lost in the quiet of the murky afternoon, he went back to his book and read until the light failed. When he got up for a fresh candle, he saw that the rain had stopped. Beyond the courtyard wall, the street lanterns glowed enticingly through the mist.

Suddenly the room seemed close and stale. There was really no reason he shouldn’t go out. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? Throwing on a surcoat and cloak, he headed downstairs.

The door between the kitchen and lading room was open. Through it he could see Cilla serenely nursing Luthas in the middle of the dinnertime bustle, sorting through a basket of apples with her free hand as she did so. The baby sucked greedily, tugging at the lacings of her open bodice. Her exposed breast throbbed gently with the rhythm of his demand.

Alec’s experience with Ylinestra had considerably altered his reaction to such sights. He colored guiltily when she looked up and caught him hovering in the doorway.

“I thought you’d gone out already,” she said.

“Ah—no. I was just, that is—It’s stopped raining, you see, and I’m just going out for a walk.” He gestured vaguely toward the door behind him.

“Could you hold the baby a minute before you go?” she asked, pulling Luthas off the nipple and holding him up. “My arm’ll break if I don’t shift over.”

Taking the child, Alec held him while Cilla moved her baskets and uncovered her other breast. It was swollen with milk; a thin stream jetted from the nipple as she moved. Alec was close enough to see the pearly drops that fell across the deep red skins of the apples. He looked away, feeling a little dizzy. Luthas let out a sleepy burp and nuzzled at the front of Alec’s cloak.

“The way he eats, you’d think I’d not have a drop to spare, but just look at me!” Cilla exclaimed merrily, taking the child back and putting him to breast on the other side. “Maker’s Mercy, I’ve got more milk than Grandmother’s goat.”

Unable to think of a suitable reply to this, Alec nodded a hasty farewell and turned to go.

“Hey, Alec. Take this for your troubles,” she said, tossing him an apple.

Feeling wetness beneath his fingers, he tucked it into a pocket and retreated to the back courtyard.

There, with the fog cool on his face, he allowed himself a moment’s guilty pleasure replaying the scene in his mind. Cilla had never treated him as anything but a friend and until just now it had never occurred to him to think otherwise of her. Of course, the fact that she was at least six years older than he made it unlikely that her opinion would change.

Settling his sword belt against his hip, he pulled his hood well up and set off through the back gate with no particular destination in mind. The fog carried the smell of smoke and the sea. He tossed a corner of his cloak over one shoulder, enjoying the feel of the cold night air.

Skirting the Harvest Market, he strolled through Knife Maker’s Lane to Golden Helm and followed it, watching the evening traffic bustle past. As he reached the Astellus Circle, he was suddenly struck by a new and unexpected inspiration.

Across the busy circle, beyond the pale, templelike fountain colonnade, stood the gracious arch that marked the entrance to the Street of Lights. He’d been down this street many times on the way to the theater and gambling houses there, and Seregil had often jested about stopping in at a brothel afterward, but somehow it had never happened. He’d never imagined it would.

Until now.

The colored lanterns—rose, amber, green, and white—glowed softly through the mist, each color signifying what sort of companionship was available within. Rose meant women for men, he knew, and white was women for women; amber meant a house for women, too, but the prostitutes there were male. Most enigmatic of all, however, was the green lantern, signifying male companions for male patrons. Worse yet, some houses showed several colors at once.

There’s no reason to be nervous, he thought as he crossed to the arch. After all, his clothes were presentable, his purse was heavy, and thanks to Ylinestra, he wasn’t completely inexperienced. As his friends never seemed to tire of pointing out, he was of age for such diversions. There was no harm in just having a look around, anyway. Nothing wrong with being curious.

As usual, the street was busy. Riders on glossy horses and carriages displaying the blazons of noble houses and wealthy merchants clattered past as he strolled along, looking with new eyes at the establishments showing the pink lantern. Groups of rich young revelers seemed to be everywhere, their boisterous laughter echoing in the darkness.

A woman wearing the uniform of the Queen’s Household Guard was bidding a lingering good-bye to a half-dressed man in a doorway beneath an amber lamp as he passed. Next door, a well-heeled sea captain and several of his men burst from one house showing the rose light and, after a moment’s consultation, stormed off across the street to one with a green. Lights glowed in nearly every window; muffled laughter and strains of music drifted everywhere, adding to the festive feel of the place.

It occurred to him as he walked along that the color of a lantern was not a lot to go on for such a decision. No doubt Seregil could have suggested a few likely places, but that wasn’t much good to him now. At last, he settled on a house near the middle of the street for no better reason than that he liked the carvings on the door. Just as he was about to go in, however, a door swung open across the street and a group of young men spilled out in a flood of light and music. A man was singing inside, and the voice stopped Alec in his tracks. The clear, lilting tenor was unmistakably Seregil’s.

Well, well! So here you are, thought Alec. And you figured out that last line, too.

Wondering what role his friend was playing tonight, he crossed the street and hurried up the stairs and into the spacious vestibule beyond. In his haste, he collided with a tall, handsomely dressed man just inside the door.

“Good evening,” he exclaimed, catching Alec lightly by the shoulders to steady himself. His hair was streaked with silver, but his long, handsome face was youthful as he smiled down on Alec.

“Excuse me, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Alec apologized.

“No harm done. I’m always glad to meet anyone so anxious to enter my house. You’ve not been my guest before, I think. I’m Azarin.”

The man’s blue eyes swept over him in what Alec sensed was well-practiced appraisal. He’d given no patronymics and Alec’s name was not asked for.

Evidently he’d passed muster, for Azarin slipped his arm through Alec’s and drew him with gentle insistence toward a curtained archway nearby.

“Come, my young friend,” he said warmly, drawing aside the curtain. “I believe you’ll find the company most congenial.”

“Actually, I was just—”

Taking the room in at a glance, Alec froze, all thought of Seregil momentarily forgotten.

Beyond the curtain, a broad staircase led down into an opulent salon. The air in the softly lit room was heavy with incense. The walls were painted in Skalan fashion with superb murals and, while erotic themes were not uncommon, these were unlike any Alec had encountered before.

Green, he thought numbly, heart tripping a beat as he gazed around.

The murals were divided into panels, and each presented handsome male nudes intertwined in passionately carnal acts. The sheer variety was astonishing. Many of the feats depicted appeared to require considerable athletic ability and several, thought Alec, must have been pure fantasy on the part of the artist.

Dragging his gaze from the paintings, he swiftly took in the occupants of the astonishing chamber. Men of all ages reclined on couches arranged around the room, some embracing casually as they gave their attention to a young lute player by the hearth, others laughing and talking over gaming tables scattered here and there. Couples and small groups came and went up a sweeping staircase at the back of the room. There was no unseemly behavior, but many of them wore little more than long dressing gowns.

The patrons seemed to be mostly noblemen of various degrees, but Alec also recognized uniforms of the Queen’s Archers, the City Watch, several naval tunics, and a red tabard of the Orëska Guard. He even recognized a few faces, including the poet Rhytien, who was currently holding forth to a rapt audience from the embrasure of a window.

The courtesans, if that was what one would call them, were not at all what he’d expected; some were slight and pretty, but most of them looked more like athletes or soldiers, and not all of them were young.

He hadn’t heard Seregil’s voice again since he’d entered, but he saw him now lounging on a couch near the hearth. He had one arm around a handsome, golden-haired young man and they were laughing together over something. As the courtesan turned his head, Alec recognized him—it was the same face Seregil had sketched on the margin of the song. Even from this distance, Alec could see the fellow had green eyes.

His heart did another slow, painful roll as he finally allowed himself to focus on Seregil.

His friend wore only breeches beneath his open robe and his dark hair hung disheveled over his shoulders. Slender, lithe, and completely at ease, he could easily have been mistaken for one of the men of the house. In fact, Alec silently admitted, he outshone them all.

He was beautiful.

Still rooted where he stood, Alec suddenly felt a strange division within himself. The old Alec, northern-bred and callow, wanted to bolt from this strange, exotic place and the sight of his friend stroking that golden head as absently as he’d petted the cat a few hours earlier.

But the new Alec, Alec of Rhíminee, stood fast, caught by the elegant decadence of the place as his ever-present curiosity slowly rekindled. Seregil hadn’t noticed him yet; to see him like this in such a place made Alec feel as if he were spying on a stranger.

Seregil’s strange, virile beauty, at first unappreciated, then taken for granted as their familiarity grew through months of close living, seemed to leap out at him now against the muted backdrop of the crowd: the large grey eyes beneath the expressive brows, the fine bones of his face, the mouth, so often tilted in a caustic grin, was relaxed now in sensuous repose. As Alec watched, Seregil leaned his head back and his robe fell open to expose the smooth column of his throat and the lean planes of his chest and belly. Fascinated and confused, Alec felt the first hesitant stirring of feelings he was not prepared to associate with his friend and teacher.

Still hovering at his elbow, Azarin somewhat misinterpreted his bedazzled expression. “If I may be so bold, perhaps you lack experience in such matters?” he asked. “Don’t let that trouble you. There are many hours in the night, take your time.” He swept a graceful hand at the murals. “Perhaps you’ll find inspiration there. Or have you a particular sort of companion in mind?”

“No!” Startled out of his daze, Alec took a step backward. “No, I didn’t really—I mean, I thought I saw a friend come in here. I was just looking for him.”

Azarin nodded and said, ever gracious, “I understand. But now that you are here, why not join us for a while? The musician is new, just in from Cirna. I’ll send for wine.”

At Azarin’s discreet summons, a young man detached himself from a knot of conversation nearby and came up to join them.

“Tirien will attend you in my absence,” said Azarin. Giving the two of them a final, approving look, he disappeared back into the vestibule.

“Well met, young sir,” Tirien greeted him. Thick black hair, glossy as a crow’s wing, framed his face and a soft growth of new beard edged the hollows of his cheeks. His smile seemed genuinely friendly. He was dressed in breeches, boots, and a loose shirt of fine linen; for a moment Alec mistook him for a noble. The illusion was shattered, however, when Tirien stepped closer and said, “There’s a couch free near the fire, if you like. Or would you prefer to go up at once?”

For one awful moment Alec was speechless; what in Illior’s name was he to do? Glancing past Tirien’s shoulder, his eyes happened to fall on one of the panels. The young prostitute turned to follow his gaze, then smiled.

“Oh, yes, I’m quite good at that. As you can see, though, we’ll need a third man.”

Seregil’s eyes widened in genuine amazement at he caught sight of Alec framed in the salon entrance, amazement followed at once by a bittersweet pang of something deeper than mere surprise.

The boy had obviously stumbled into Azarin’s house by mistake—the tense lines around his mouth and faint, betraying color in his cheeks attested as much.

I’d better go rescue him, he thought, yet he remained where he was, letting the scene play on a bit longer.

A quick glance around the room confirmed that Alec was attracting the notice of other patrons, as well. And no wonder, Seregil thought with a stab of something dangerously close to possessiveness. For a moment he allowed himself to see Alec through the eyes of the others: a slim, somberly dressed youth whose heavy, honey-dark hair framed a finely featured face and the bluest eyes this side of a summer evening sky. He stood like a half-wild thing, poised for flight, yet his manner toward the young prostitute was almost courtly.

Tirien leaned closer to Alec and the boy’s mask of composure slipped a bit, betraying—what? Alarm, certainly, but hadn’t there been just a hint of indecision?

This time Seregil couldn’t deny the hot flash of jealousy that shot through him. Thoroughly annoyed with himself, he began disentangling himself from Wythrin.

“Do you want to go back up now?” the young man asked hopefully, sliding a warm hand up his thigh.

This gave him pause. Seregil touched the back of one hand to Wythrin’s cheek, savoring the faint roughness of it. This one, a favorite for some time now, had charms of his own, and talents that spared Seregil’s heart even as they satisfied his need. Wythrin, and others like him, offered safe, guiltless passion, free of obligation.

“In a moment. There’s someone I need to talk to first.”

He’d get Alec out of whatever jam he’d stumbled into, whether that sent him upstairs with Tirien or not, Seregil told himself sternly, then lose himself once more in Wythrin’s deep bed. It was as simple as that.

Alec quickly realized that Tirien had no intention of being put off. His own increasingly embarrassed protestations that he had no experience in such matters only seemed to whet the courtesan’s interest. It wasn’t the first time Alec had run into this attitude; country virgins seemed to be a rare and much sought-after novelty in Rhíminee.

For a fleeting instant it occurred to him that Tirien was attractive, but he dismissed the treacherous thought at once; that sort of thinking was not going to get him out of this mess.

To his relief, he saw Seregil coming his way. Clearly amused, he gave Alec a discreet need help? sign. Alec answered with a quick nod.

At that, Seregil strode up to them and slipped an arm around Alec’s waist. “There you are at last! Forgive me for intruding, Tirien. My friend and I have some business. Will you excuse us for a moment?”

“Of course.” The young courtesan withdrew with a graceful bow, betraying only the faintest hint of disappointment.

Alec braced for the inevitable ragging as they withdrew to the vestibule, but Seregil simply said, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I heard you singing. I mean, I thought it sounded like you and—well, I just came in.” Aside from the fact that he was stammering like an idiot, Alec was suddenly all too aware of the fact that Seregil’s arm was still around him. Strange, enticing scents clung to his friend’s skin and hair, unlike his usual clean smell. The troublesome new feelings stirred again, closer to the surface this time, but just as confusing. “I didn’t think to check the lantern. I just came in.”

Seregil chuckled softly. “Curious as usual, eh? Well, now that you’re in, are you going to stay? Tirien’s an excellent choice. Azarin knows his business.”

“No.” Alec glanced at the young prostitute, still waiting hopefully nearby, then hastily back to Seregil. There was no hint of challenge in his friend’s face, just bemusement. Why then, held in the calm gaze of those grey eyes, did his own agitation increase? The situation was well past his ability to explain.

“No, I was just looking for you. I’d better go. This place makes me feel strange.”

“There’s more than incense burning in those bowls. But I assume if you were just passing by, then you’re here on business of your own? Let’s see now, how long has it been?”

“I was thinking of it,” Alec admitted. He could feel the warmth of Seregil’s skin through the thick silk of the robe now. “I don’t know—I might just go on home.”

“Don’t be silly,” Seregil said, releasing him at last. “I was planning to go back upstairs, but that can wait.” The grin flashed again, and Alec abandoned all hope of escape. “There’s a place just down the street that’s probably more to your liking. And long overdue, too. I’ll be right back.”

Returning to the main room, he said something to Tirien. The man gave Alec a last wistful look, then drifted away.

Leaning in the shadow of the arch, Alec watched Seregil take leave of his companion, who was clearly dismayed by his departure. After a brief, animated exchange, Seregil pressed him back on the couch with a deep, lingering kiss, then disappeared up the stairs.

He came down again a few moments later fully dressed, sword belt slung over one shoulder.

“Come along,” he said jauntily, leading the way to a villa down the block.

Well, at least there’s a pink lantern here, Alec thought, nervous again as Seregil urged him up the stairs.

Seregil appeared to be well known here. A number of women greeted him enthusiastically as he led Alec into the salon. This establishment was quite similar to Azarin’s. Erotic tapestries and statuary adorned this room and lovely women in various states of dishabille entertained their patrons, brilliant and lovely as rare birds.

As they handed their cloaks and swords to a page, a richly dressed woman left a knot of conversation and rushed to embrace Seregil. Her skin, generously exposed by the blue silk gown she wore, had a golden olive tone Alec had never seen before. Thick black ringlets hung in a shining cascade to her waist.

“Where have you been keeping yourself, you rogue,” she cried with obvious delight.

“A million places, Eirual, my love, but none so pleasant as here,” Seregil replied, kissing her throat lasciviously.

She laughed, then pushed him away, dark eyes widening in mock reproach. “I know that scent. You’ve been to Azarin’s already. How cruel you are, coming to me with your fires already spent.”

“Spent? My fires?” Seregil caught her close again. “And when, my lovely one, have you ever known that to be the case?”

“I’d like to put you to the test—upstairs.”

“I accept your challenge gladly, madame, but first we have to find companionship for my young friend.”

Alec had been gazing around the room during this exchange, his heart pounding in a manner even his old, Dalnan-bred self could find no argument with.

“I think he’s found someone already,” Eirual said with an amused smile.

Alec nodded shyly at a slender, blue-eyed brunette in burgundy silk. “She’s very pretty.”

“Myrhichia?” Eirual shot Seregil an arch look as she summoned the woman. “He has excellent taste, this friend of yours.”

“He hasn’t disappointed me yet,” Seregil replied, giving Alec a wink.

Myrhichia glided over, wrapped in perfume and mystery. She was older than Alec had supposed, older than he, but that didn’t matter—there was something familiar about her, something that made him wave aside the offer of wine and let her lead him up the stairs to her room.

It wasn’t until she turned to speak to him over her shoulder that he realized how much she resembled Seregil, or rather Seregil as he’d looked playing Lady Gwethelyn aboard the Darter. It was an unsettling revelation and he did his best to put it out of his mind as they entered her chamber. Looking around, Alec felt the last of his trepidation giving way to sensuous anticipation.

A fire cracked invitingly on the hearth, its flames softly illuminating the small, elegant room. The bed was high and draped with patterned hangings. Huge cushions were piled near the hearth, together with a few oddly shaped stools. An elaborate washstand was half-visible behind a painted screen in a shadowy corner.

Myrhichia stood demurely at the center of the room, offering him the choice of where to begin. “Does it please you?” she asked, cocking her head prettily.

“Yes,” he whispered. Closing the door, he went to her and loosened the jeweled pin holding her hair. It tumbled free over her shoulders in dark, sandalwood-scented waves.

Where his experience with Ylinestra had been out of his control from the first, this woman seemed content to let him direct things. He touched her face, her hair, then hesitantly brought his lips to hers. Her hands found his face, his shoulders, then slid slowly lower.

The fastenings of her gown were no challenge for Alec’s expertly trained fingers; her clothes and his were soon in a pile at their feet.

“Shall I light a lamp?” she whispered as he took her hungrily in his arms.

He shook his head, pressing his body against the yielding roundness of breasts, belly, and thighs, letting the feel of her envelop him. “The fire’s enough.”

Still holding her, he sank down onto the cushions by the hearth. The warring sensations of the long, confusing evening seemed to coalesce and clarify as he at last abandoned himself to the powerful simplicity of desire.

Eirual was half Zengati, Aurënen’s traditional enemy. It was that, together with the dark beauty of her race, that had first attracted Seregil. Though hardly more than a girl at the time of their first meeting, she’d been a fiery lover and he’d entertained notions of taking her away for himself. She’d been the one who’d dashed that plan; she liked her work, she’d told him firmly. What’s more, she planned to own a brothel of her own one day, just as her mother and grandmother had before her. Although his pride had been somewhat jarred, Seregil had respected her wishes and over the years they’d become friends.

She’d achieved her dreams. She was now the owner of one of the city’s finest and most nobly patronized pleasure houses. This often brought interesting bits of information her way and, though she was no gossiping whore, she was aware of Seregil’s supposed connections to Rhíminee’s mysterious “Cat” and had often found it lucrative to pass on certain facts and rumors.

Their reunion this night had been spirited in spite of Seregil’s earlier activities. Afterward, they lay tangled together in the damp, disheveled sheets and laughed together over little things.

Presently she sighed, then said, “You know, I saw something rather odd a few weeks ago.”

“And what was that?” he murmured, contentedly admiring the contrast of his skin against hers as he stroked her thigh.

“I entertained a new visitor last week, a stranger. He was well turned out and behaved himself, but I could tell from his way of speaking and the state of his hands he wasn’t upper class, just a common fellow who’d come into gold and meant to treat himself. You know the sort.”

“But he was handsome and broad-shouldered and smelled of honest labor,” Seregil teased. “Sounds delightful. Let’s have him in.”

“As if I’d share you! But I admit I was intrigued at first, though he turned out very ordinary in the end. No, I think you’d be more interested in what fell out of his coat than what fell out of his breeches.”

“Oh?” Seregil raised a questioning eyebrow, knowing better than to hurry her. She always enjoyed spinning out a tale.

“He’d thrown his clothes every which way, so when he was snoring afterward—which was all too soon, I might add—I decided to tidy up a bit. A letter fell from his coat when I picked it up. The ribbon had come loose and I took a quick peek. He stirred a moment later and I had to put it away, but I had time to recognize the handwriting, and the seal at the bottom.”

“Did you, you clever girl? Whose was it?”

“Lord General Zymanis’.”

“Really?” Zymanis had recently been appointed to oversee the defenses of the lower city. “How do you know it wasn’t a forgery?”

Eirual traced a playful finger around his navel. “Zymanis is a very dear friend of mine, as you well know. Two months ago he knocked his ring against that bedpost there behind you and chipped the stone seal. It was a tiny piece, really, but he made such a fuss over it! Quite spoiled the mood. This chip makes a tiny flaw in the impression, so tiny that most people wouldn’t even notice it. But I knew what to look for and it was his, all right. What do you think ofthat?”

Seregil cupped her full breast in his hand like a goblet and kissed it reverently. “I think, in your place, I’d have found some way of inquiring where this lover of yours could be found again.”

Eirual pressed closer with a luxuriant sigh. “Sailmaker Street in the lower city. A tenement with a red and white lintel. His name is Rythel, a big, blond fellow with a lovely soft beard, very handsome.”

“And you don’t think this visitor of yours ought to have such a letter?”

Eirual shook her head. “For starters, it was addressed to Lord Admiral Nyreidian. I’ve never met the admiral, but I’d bet a month’s gold he doesn’t have fresh calluses on his hands and stained fingernails.”

“Or a yellow beard,” mused Seregil, thinking of the man he’d met at the Mourning Night ceremony. Nyreidian had spoken of his own commission from the Queen, too, overseeing privateering ships.

“Zymanis wouldn’t let a fellow like this step on his shadow, much less write letters to him.” She gave him a sly sidelong glance. “I thought maybe your friend the Cat might be interested?”

“He just might.”

“I could tell him myself,” she wheedled, not for the first time. Over the years the unseen Rhíminee Cat had taken on a glow of romance for many, who envied Seregil his apparently favored status.

Seregil kissed his way slowly across her chest. “I’ve told you before, love, he’s not what you think. He’s a nasty, weedy little man who spends half his time wading through the sewers.”

“Last time you said he was a hunchback,” she corrected, stroking his head.

“That, too. That’s why he keeps out of sight, you see, because he’s so hideous. Why, his boils alone are enough—”

“No more!” Eirual laughed, admitting defeat. “Sometimes I think you’re the Cat, and you just make all the rest up to hide it.”

“Me? Wading through sewers and running errands for bored nobles?” He pinned her down, feigning outrage. “Fancy me mincing across the roof slates!”

“Oh, yes,” Eirual gasped, giggling helplessly at the thought. “You’re the terror of the town.”

“You’ve pegged me wrong, my girl. There’s only one thing I put that kind of effort into.”

“And what’s that, may I ask?”

Seregil leered down at her. “I’ll show you.”

The candle had burned to a stub when he slipped from her bed.

Eirual stirred drowsily. “Stay, love. I’ll be cold without you.”

He drew the comforter up under her chin and kissed her. “I can’t tonight. I’ll send a nice present tomorrow.”

“All right, then.” She smiled, already half asleep again. “Something with rubies and I might forgive you.”

“Rubies it is.”

He dressed quickly and blew out the candle. Closing her door quietly behind him, he headed for Myrhichia’s room down the corridor.

He had to knock several times to get a response. She opened the door a few inches at last, peering out with a resentful pout.

“He’s sleeping,” she informed him, pulling her dressing gown closed.

“How inconsiderate.” Pushing past her, Seregil strode into the bedchamber. Alec lay sprawled on his back in the bed, his sleeping face the picture of weary bliss.

Looks like he managed to enjoy himself after all, he thought with a mix of pride and wistfulness, glancing around at the disordered room.

Ignoring the courtesan’s simmering displeasure, Seregil leaned down and shook him by the shoulder. Alec stirred drowsily, murmuring something amorous as he reached to pull Seregil into bed. When his fingers encountered wool rather than whatever he’d been dreaming of, however, he snapped fully awake.

“What are you doing here?” he gasped, sitting up.

“Sorry.” Seregil crossed his arms, grinning. “Terrible timing, I know, but something’s come up and I may need your help.”

Alec glanced quickly from him to the girl. “A job? Now?”

“I’ll wait for you downstairs. Don’t be long.”

Alec let out an exasperated sigh. Before he could get up, however, Myrhichia dropped her robe and slipped back into bed beside him.

“Does he always barge in like that?”

“I hope not,” muttered Alec.

“Are you going to leave me now?” She nibbled teasingly down the side of his neck as her hand slipped up his thigh to more sensitive regions.

He could picture Seregil pacing impatiently downstairs, waiting for him, but Myrhichia was putting up a persuasive argument under the covers.

“Well,” he sighed, letting her push him back against the bolsters, “maybe not right this second.”

Seregil had the bones of a workable plan in mind by the time he got downstairs. Strolling into the cloak room, he found it conveniently unattended.

He soon had what he wanted; he returned to the salon with an officer’s mantle and a wineskin concealed beneath his own cloak, Alec’s sword belt and cloak over his arm.

To his surprise, Alec had still not come down. Rather annoyed, he settled in a chair near the door to wait.

It was late now. A few girls remained in the salon, playing bakshi to pass the time while they waited for whatever late-coming patrons might show up. Having seen Seregil come down, they paid little attention to him.

Minutes passed and still no Alec.

Seregil was just about to leave without him when the boy came down the staircase. His loose shirt flapped around his legs as he struggled with his coat, one sleeve of which appeared to be inside out. Getting himself more or less sorted out at last, he hurried to join Seregil.

“Delayed, were you?” Seregil inquired with a smirk, tossing him his cloak and sword.

“Myrhichia isn’t very happy with you,” Alec grumbled, flushed and out of breath. He wrapped his sword belt around his hips and fastened the buckle. “I’m not so sure I am, either. If this is just another silly lover’s token—”

Seregil tugged Alec’s collar straight, still grinning. “You think I’d ruin your fun for that? Come on, I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

Outside, he glanced around quickly, then whispered, “I think Eirual may have put us onto a spy.”

Alec brightened up at once. “That’s worth getting out of bed for.”

“Did you ride?”

“No.”

“Good, we’ll hire horses and abandon them if we have to. I’ll explain as we go.”

Leaving the warm glow of the lanterns behind, they hurried into the embracing darkness.