Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

  Seregil was uncharacteristically quiet as they rode along that morning. When they stopped to rest the horses at midday, however, Alec sensed something was up. Seregil had that same bemused look about him that Alec remembered seeing when he’d offered to rescue him from Asengai’s keep, as if he wasn’t certain what he was about to do was the wisest move.

  “The other night I joked about an apprenticeship for you,” he said over his shoulder as he adjusted his saddle girth. “What do you think of the idea?”

  Alec looked at him in surprise. “As a bard, you mean?”

  “Perhaps apprenticeship isn’t exactly the right term. I’m not a guildsman of any sort, much less a bard. But you’re quick and smart. There’s a lot I could teach you.”

  “Like what?” Alec asked, a little wary now but interested.

  Seregil hesitated a moment, as if sizing him up, then said, “I specialize in the acquisition of goods and information.”

  Alec’s heart sank. “You’re a thief.”

  “I’m nothing of the sort!” Seregil frowned. “At least not in the sense you mean.”

  “Then what?” Alec demanded. “A spy like that Juggler fellow you killed?”

  Seregil grinned. “I’d be insulted if I thought you knew what you were talking about. Let’s just say for the moment that I’m acting as an agent of sorts, engaged by an eminently respectable gentleman to collect information regarding certain unusual occurrences here in the north. Discretion prevents me from saying more, but I assure you the goal is noble—even if my methods don’t always seem so.”

  Hidden somewhere in his companion’s suddenly high-flown, convoluted discourse, Alec suspected he’d just admitted to being a spy after all. Worse, he had nothing but Seregil’s word that what he was telling, or half telling him, was the truth. Still, the fact remained that Seregil had rescued him when he could more easily have left him behind, and had since offered him nothing but friendship.

  “I imagine you’re already fairly skilled in tracking and that sort of thing,” Seregil went on casually. “You say you’re a fair shot with a bow, and you made good use of that ax, now that I think of it. Can you handle a sword?”

  “No, but—”

  “No matter, you’d learn quickly enough, with the right teacher. I know just the man. Then, of course, there’d be palming, etiquette, lock work; disguise, languages, heraldry, fighting—I don’t suppose you can read?”

  “I know the runes,” Alec retorted, though in truth he could only make out his own name and a few words.

  “No, no, I meant proper writing.”

  “Hold on, now,” cried Alec, overwhelmed. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful—you’ve saved my life and all, but—”

  Seregil waved this aside impatiently. “Given the circumstances of your capture, getting you out of there seemed the least I could do. But now I’m talking about what you want, Alec, beyond tomorrow, beyond next week. Honestly, do you really mean to spend the rest of your life mucking out stalls for some fat innkeeper in Wolde?”

  Alec hesitated. “I don’t know. I mean, hunting and trapping, it’s all the life I’ve known.”

  “All the more reason to give it up, then!” Seregil declared, his grey eyes alight with enthusiasm. “How old did you say you are?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “And you’ve never seen a dragon.”

  “You know I haven’t.”

  “Well, I have,” Seregil said, swinging up into the saddle again.

  “You said there weren’t any more dragons!”

  “I said there weren’t any more in Skala. I’ve seen them flying under a full moon in winter. I’ve danced at the great Festival of Sakor and tasted the wines of Zengat, and heard mermaids singing in the mists of dawn. I’ve walked the halls of a palace built in a time beyond memory and felt the touch of the first inhabitants against my skin. I’m not talking legend or imagination, Alec, I’ve done all of that, and more than I have breath to tell.”

  Alec rode along in silence, overwhelmed with half-realized images.

  “You said you couldn’t imagine yourself as anything more than what you’ve been,” Seregil went on, “but I say you’ve just never had the chance to try. I’m offering you that chance. Ride south with me after Wolde, and see how much world there is beyond your forests.”

  “But the stealing part—”

  Seregil’s crooked grin held no trace of remorse. “Oh, I admit I’ve cut a purse or two in my time, and some of what I do could be called stealing depending on who you ask, but try to imagine the challenge of overcoming incredible obstacles to accomplish a noble purpose. Think of traveling to lands where legends walk the streets in daylight and even the color of the sea is like nothing you’ve ever seen! I ask you again, would you be plain Alec of Kerry all your life, or would you see what lies beyond?”

  “But is it an honest living?” Alec persisted, clinging to his last shred of resolve.

  “Most of those who employ me are great lords or nobles.”

  “It sounds like a pretty dangerous line of work,” Alec remarked, aware that Seregil had once again side-stepped the question.

  “That’s the spice of it, though,” cried Seregil. “And you can end up rich!”

  “Or at the end of a rope?”

  Seregil chuckled. “Have it your way.”

  Alec gnawed absently at a thumbnail, his brow creased in thought. “All right, then,” he said at last. “I want to come with you, but first you’ve got to give me a few straight answers.”

  “It’s against my nature, but I’ll try.”

  “This war you spoke of, the one that’s coming. Which side are you on?”

  Seregil let out a long sigh. “Fair enough. My sympathies lie with Skala, but for your safety and mine, that’s as much as I’ll say on the matter for now.”

  Alec shook his head. “The Three Lands are so far away. It’s hard to believe their wars could reach us here.”

  “People will do quite a lot for gold and land, and there’s precious little of either left in the south, especially in Plenimar.”

  “And you’re going to stop them?”

  “Hardly,” scoffed Seregil. “But I may be of some help to those who can. Anything else?”

  “After Wolde, where would we go?”

  “Well, home to Rhíminee ultimately, though first—”

  “What?” Alec’s eyes widened. “You mean to say that you live there? In the city where the wizards are?”

  “What do you say?”

  Some small, final doubt held Alec back a moment longer. Looking Seregil in the eye, he asked, “Why?”

  Seregil raise one eyebrow, perplexed. “Why what?”

  “You hardly know me. Why do you want me to come with you?”

  “Who knows? Perhaps you remind me just a bit of—”

  “Someone you used to know?” Alec interjected skeptically.

  “Someone I used to be.” The crooked grin flashed again as Seregil pulled off his right glove and extended his hand across to Alec. “So it’s settled?”

  “I guess so.” Alec was surprised to catch a glimpse of what looked like relief in his companion’s eyes as they clasped hands. It was gone in an instant and Seregil quickly moved on to new plans.

  “There are a few details to take care of before we reach town. How well known are you in Wolde?”

  “My father and I always stayed in the trader’s quarter,” replied Alec. “We generally put up at the Green Bough. Except for the landlord, though, most of the people we knew wouldn’t be there this time of year.”

  “Just the same, there’s no use taking chances. We’ll need a reason for you to be traveling with Aren Windover. Here’s a lesson for you; give me three reasons why Alec the Hunter would be in the company of a bard.”

  “Well, I guess I could tell how you rescued me and—”

  “No, no, that won’t do at all!” Seregil interrupted. “First of all, I don’t want it known that I—or rather Aren—was anywhere near Asengai.
Besides, I make it a rule never, never, never to use the truth unless it’s the last possible option or so outlandish that nobody would believe you anyway. Keep that in mind.”

  “All right then,” said Alec. “I could say I was attacked by bandits and you—”

  Seregil shook his head, motioning for Alec to continue.

  Alec fidgeted with the reins, sorting through various inspirations. “Well, I know it’s sort of the truth, but people would believe that you hired me as a guide. Father and I hired out sometimes.”

  “Not bad. Go on.”

  “Or”—Alec turned to his companion with a triumphant grin—“perhaps Aren has taken me on as his apprentice!”

  “Not bad, for a first effort,” Seregil conceded. “The rescue story was very good, actually. Loyalty to one who saves your life is well understood and seldom questioned. Unfortunately Aren’s reputation is such that nobody would believe it. I’m afraid he’s a bit of a coward. The guide story, however, is seriously flawed. Aren Windover is a well-known figure in the Woldesoke; if bards make their living as wanderers, why would he need to engage a guide in the territory he’s familiar with?”

  “Oh.” Alec nodded, a bit crestfallen.

  “But the apprentice idea should do nicely. Luckily, you can sing. But can you think like a bard?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, suppose you’re in a tavern on the highroad. What sort of customers would you have?”

  “Traders, wagoneers, soldiers.”

  “Excellent! And suppose there’s a great deal of drinking going on and a song is called for. What would you choose?”

  “Well, probably something like the ‘The Lay of Araman.’ ”

  “A good choice. And why?”

  “Well, it’s about fighting and honor; the soldiers would like that. And it’s widely known, so everyone could join in. And it has a good refrain.”

  “Well done! Aren’s used that song many times, and for just those reasons. Now suppose yourself a minstrel in a lord’s hall, performing for fat barons and their ladies.”

  “Maybe ‘Lillia and the Rose’? There’s nothing coarse in it.”

  Laughing, Seregil leaned across to clap Alec on the shoulder. “Perhaps you should take Aren on as apprentice! I don’t suppose you play an instrument?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Oh well. Aren will just have to apologize for your green skills.”

  They spent the rest of the afternoon extending Alec’s repertoire as they rode along.

  By late afternoon the Downs gave way to the rough, sloping terrain of the Brythwin River valley. In the distance they could make out the squares of bare fields and distant farmsteads that marked the boundary of the Woldesoke district. The river itself, a black, tree-fringed line far below, flowed into Blackwater Lake several miles east of the waterfront town. Bordered along its northern shore by the great Lake Wood, the shimmering expanse of water stretched unbroken to the far horizon.

  “You say the Gathwayd Ocean is bigger than that?” asked Alec, shading his eyes. He’d hunted along the Lake’s shores all his life and couldn’t imagine anything larger.

  “By quite a margin,” replied Seregil cheerfully. “Let’s move on before we lose the light.”

  The late-afternoon sun cast a mellow glow across the valley. Picking their way down the stony slope, they struck the main road leading along the river toward Wolde. The Brythwin was low, its course laced with gravel spits. Stands of ash and willow grew thickly along the banks, often screening the river from view.

  A mile or so before reaching the lake shore, the road curved away from the river to skirt a dense copse of trees. Reining in, Seregil studied the wall of branches for a moment, then dismounted and motioned for Alec to follow.

  Bare willow branches stroked over them, catching at hoods and harness as they pushed their way through to a clearing beside the river. A tiny stone cottage surrounded by a wattle and daub fence stood on a rise close by the water’s edge.

  As Seregil approached the gate a brindle hound came rushing at them from around the corner of the cottage, growling and showing its teeth. Alec retreated hastily back in the direction of his horse, but Seregil stood his ground. Muttering a few low words, he made some sort of sign with his left hand. The dog skidded to a halt on the other side of the gate, then skulked back the way it had come.

  Alec gaped. “How did you do that?”

  “Just a little thief’s trick I picked up somewhere. Come on, it’s perfectly safe.”

  A very old, very bald little man answered Seregil’s knock.

  “Who’s that?” he demanded, peering blankly past them. A deep scar, faded white against the old fellow’s leathery skin, ran in a ragged line from the top of his skull to the bridge of his nose.

  “It’s me, old father,” Seregil replied, slipping something into his outstretched hand.

  The old man reached to touch Seregil’s face. “I thought as much when Crusher went quiet like that. And not alone this time, eh?”

  “A new friend.” Seregil guided the blind man’s hand to Alec’s cheek.

  The boy remained still as the dry fingertips ran swiftly over his features. At no point were names exchanged.

  The old fellow gave a rheumy chuckle. “Beardless, but no girl. Come in both of you, and welcome. Sit yourselves by the fire while I fetch something to eat. Everything’s as you left it, sir.”

  The little house consisted of a single room with a loft overhead. Everything was neat and spare, the old man’s simple belongings arranged with care on shelves along the walls.

  Seregil and Alec warmed themselves gratefully at the cheerful blaze on the hearth while their host shuffled about with practiced efficiency, setting out bread, soup, and boiled eggs for them at the scrubbed wooden table.

  Seregil wolfed his supper and disappeared into the loft. When he came down again he was dressed in a bard’s embroidered tunic and striped hose. A traveler’s harp of dark wood inlaid with silver was slung over his shoulder. He’d washed again, too, Alec noted in mild surprise. He’d never met anyone who set such store by washing.

  “Do you recognize me now, boy?” Seregil asked in a haughty, slightly nasal voice, giving Alec an elaborate bow.

  “By the Maker, you really are Aren Windover!”

  “You see? What you remembered about Aren wasn’t his face so much as his flamboyant manner, the gaudy clothes, and the affected way he spoke. Believe me, I do all that with good reason. When you get right down to it, aside from the fact that Aren and I are physically identical, we’re nothing alike at all.”

  Their host let out a dry cackle from his corner by the fire.

  “As for your appearance,” Seregil continued, “I’ve set out some things for you upstairs. Go clean yourself up, then we’ll see about your hair. Aren would never allow any apprentice of his to look so unkempt.”

  The loft was as sparsely furnished as the room below, containing only a bed, washstand, and clothes chest. A dusty candle burned in a dusty sconce and by its light Alec saw a broadsword hanging on the wall above the bed, its scarred scabbard blackened with age. On the bed lay a tunic of russet wool, a new cloak, a pair of soft doeskin breeches, and a belt with a sheathed dagger and a pouch. Opening the latter, Alec found ten silver pennies. A pair of high leather boots sagged against the bedpost. Both clothing and boots were clean but worn—more of Seregil’s castoffs, no doubt.

  Lucky for me I met up with someone my own size, Alec thought, inspecting the boots more closely. As he’d expected, there was a dagger pocket stitched inside the left one. Pulling on the boots, he slipped his Skalan coin and five of the pennies into the knife pocket as a precaution against cutpurses; his father had taught him never to carry all his money in one place when he went into a town.

  As he dressed, he could hear Seregil plucking away at the harp below. After a moment there came a light ripple of notes and scattered snatches of melodies.

  He plays as well as he sings, thought Alec, wondering
what other talents would reveal themselves as he got to know Seregil better. Below the music, however, he suddenly caught the sound of quiet conversation. After a moment’s hesitation, he crept to the edge of the loft and strained to hear more. Both men were keeping their voices low and he could make out only bits and pieces.

  “… days ago. They seem peaceful enough, but why so many?” the blind man was saying.

  “No doubt …” Seregil’s voice was harder to hear. “I suppose, with the mayor.”

  “Aye, calling himself Boraneus, claims to be a trade envoy for the Overlord.”

  Overlord? thought Alec. He’d heard that term before! And hadn’t Seregil as much as said he’d been sent north to see what the Plenimarans were up to? Holding his breath, Alec inched closer to the edge, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation.

  “Did she know him?” Seregil was asking.

  “… last evening … dark, well favored … a sword cut …”

  “Which eye?”

  “Left, she said.”

  “Illior’s Fingers! Mardus?” For an instant Seregil sounded genuinely startled. The old man muttered something, to which Seregil replied, “No, and I’ll do my best to see that he doesn’t … more demon than …”

  Both men were silent for a moment, then Seregil called out, “Alec! Have you fallen asleep up there?”

  Alec quickly rolled his old clothes into a bundle, then paused a moment longer for the guilty blush to pass.

  The look that Seregil gave him as he hurried down the ladder betrayed only impatience, but he was certain he could feel Seregil’s eyes on his back as he busied himself with packing away their traveling clothes.

  Seregil tucked his harp under one arm and went to take leave of their host.

  “Luck in the shadows,” the blind man said, clasping hands with them at the door.

  “And to you,” Seregil returned.

  4

  WOLDE

  Wolde—largest of the isolated trade centers scattered across the northlands—owed its prosperity to the Gold Road, a narrow span of the Gallistrom River, and a tiny yellow flower.