“Good. Now stay close and pay attention. If anything goes wrong, you’re on your own, understand? If it comes to that, I’ll do my best to come back for you, but your best guarantee is to not get into trouble in the first place. All right?”
Looking rather less than reassured by this advice, Alec nodded gamely and followed him up the stairs to the second level of the house.
The door was locked, but Seregil produced a long pick. Beyond they found a dimly lit service passage. Seregil signed Quickly and moved to a door at the far end. Beyond it, they could hear sounds of the revelry below. Opening it the merest crack, Seregil found that they were near the upper landing of the great staircase.
Just as they were about to make a dash for the guest rooms, a black-clad marine came upstairs from the hall and disappeared into one of the rooms overlooking the street. Emerging a moment later with a small chest, he went back downstairs. Seregil counted slowly to ten, then drew Alec behind him into the hall. Moving quickly to the room the soldier had entered, they found the door unlocked.
“This is Trygonis’ room,” whispered Seregil. “Keep watch, and if you touch something, anything, be sure to leave it exactly as you found it.”
Against the right wall stood a carved bedstead with a clothes chest at the foot. A tall wardrobe and a writing table stood by the window.
“This first, I think,” Seregil murmured, kneeling in front of the chest. After a moment’s examination he drew a small leather roll from his tunic and spread it out in a workmanlike fashion on the floor beside him; it contained an impressive collection of various lock picks and other implements, each in a narrow pocket of the roll. The chest’s heavy padlock came open on the first attempt.
Except for a brass map tube, the chest contained little more than the usual mundane articles of clothing and equipment, all seeming to confirm that the man was a diplomat rather than a soldier. Quickly shaking out the rolled parchment from the tube, Seregil moved to the thin sliver of light at the door and unrolled it to find a map of the northlands. Alec peered over his shoulder for a moment, then went back to his watch-keeping while Seregil studied it more closely, committing the details to memory.
Small red points had been inked in next to the Gold Road towns of Wolde, Kerry, and Sark. Several other points marked remote freeholdings along the Ironheart foothills, Asengai’s among them.
Nothing so surprising there. Seregil rolled up the map and replaced the contents of the chest as he’d found them. The desk yielded nothing of value, but in the wardrobe he found a small silk pouch containing a golden disk hung on a golden chain.
One side of the pendant was smooth; on the other a peculiar, abstract device of intricate lines and swirls stood out in raised relief. Try as he might, Seregil couldn’t make sense enough of it to reproduce it later. Mildly annoyed, he replaced it and joined Alec at the door. No more than five minutes had elapsed.
The next room was very much like the first, except for a dispatch box sitting on the table. It was banded with nailed strips of brass and secured with an internal lock rather than a hasp. Moving to the light again, he examined the lock plate, noting tiny imperfections in the metal around the keyhole. A less experienced thief might have dismissed them as pits in the metal; Seregil recognized the needle holes lightly plugged with wax and brass dust. Anyone attempting to force the lock while the device was engaged would end up with at least one tiny but no doubt heavily poisoned needle embedded in his hand. Running sensitive fingertips over the brass nail heads, he found one on the back left corner that depressed with a barely audible click. Double-checking to be sure he hadn’t missed any others, he picked the lock and raised the lid.
On top was a sheaf of documents written in cipher. Setting these aside, he found a map much like the larger one, but with only two red points marked on it: one deep in the heart of the Blackwater Fens at the southern end of the lake, the other apparently somewhere in the Far Forest. The point in the Fens was circled.
Beneath the map was a leather pouch containing another of the golden pendants.
What in the name of Bilairy are these? he wondered, frustrated again at not being able to make sense of the design.
At the clothes chest he felt carefully down through the layers of tunics and robes until his fingers encountered studded wood near the bottom. Lifting the clothing out, he found a rectangular casket a foot long and perhaps half that deep, its lid secured only by a hook. His mouth twisted into a humorless smile as he cautiously opened it; inside lay a collection of small but effective torture instruments and several earthenware vials. More certain than ever that his man really was Mardus, Seregil took extra care to replace the box as he’d found it. As he was replacing the clothing, however, another leather pouch dropped from the folds of a robe. Probing inside, he found a few Plenimaran coins, two rings, a case knife, and some small wooden disks.
There were eight in all, fashioned from some dark wood and pierced through the center with a square hole. They had a slightly oily feel, and each was carved on one side with the same frustrating design he’d seen on the gold pendants.
Now here’s a piece of luck at last, he thought. These crude things didn’t look like something anyone would miss in a hurry. He pocketed one for later study.
He’d just locked the chest when Alec made a frantic gesture at the door. Someone was coming.
With Alec at his heels, Seregil moved smoothly to the window. Swinging the casement wide, he looked up to find the overhang of the roof within easy reach.
He’d already pulled himself up onto the slates above before he noticed the two guards lounging near the fountain. For a brief second his breath caught in his throat; he was in plain sight if they looked up. The noise from the hall must have covered his scramblings, however, or perhaps they were drunk, for neither of them did.
Alec snaked out the same way, and Seregil caught his wrists to help him up. The boy looked scared, but still had presence of mind enough to gently push the window shut with his foot on the way up.
The slick slate roof was steeply pitched, but they managed to get over to the back side, reaching the servants’ stairway without mishap. At the bottom Seregil grasped Alec’s shoulder for a moment in silent approval, then pointed him off toward the kitchen door.
Alec was nearly there when a tall figure reached from the shadows and caught him by the cloak. Seregil tensed, hand stealing to his dagger. Alec jerked back instinctively and the man laughed. Just as Seregil was about to spring to his aid, however, he heard the man speak and realized this must be one of the soldiers who’d accosted the boy earlier that day.
“Hey, you sing good in there,” the man exclaimed. His tone seemed friendly enough, but he hadn’t released his grip on Alec’s cloak. “You sing more for me now maybe?”
“I’ve got to get back in.” Stepping away as far as he could, Alec pulled the harp string from his tunic and waved it like a pass. “My master needs this. I’ll be in trouble if I make him wait.”
“Trouble?” The man squinted at the string. “No trouble for you, Cavish’s man-child. Go sing some more for the fat mayor and my master!” Turning Alec loose, he sent him on his way with a resounding slap on the back.
Letting out a soundless sigh of relief, Seregil waited until the way was clear, then skirted back through the shadows to reappear from the direction of the mayor’s privy.
It was after midnight before they returned to the Three Fishes. Nonetheless, Seregil insisted on making ready to leave at first light.
“You did well tonight,” he said as he finished strapping up his pack. “That was quick thinking, with the window.”
Alec grinned happily at the praise and continued checking over his new equipment. Master Radly had included an oilskin bow case and a covered quiver in the price of the bow, to which Alec had added a score of arrows, linen twine and wax for bowstrings, and packets of red and white fletching.
Seregil was just turning to say something more when they both were startled by the sound of
someone pounding up the stairs. Micum Cavish burst into the room. Panting, he said, “I don’t know what you did this time, Seregil, but a pack of Plenimaran marines are on their way here right now!”
Somewhere below they heard a door bang open, then the sounds of heavy feet.
“Grab your things, Alec!” Seregil ordered, throwing back the shutters.
A moment later Tildus and a dozen Plenimaran soldiers burst into the room, only to find it dark and empty.
6
ALEC EARNS HIS BOW
From the inn window the three of them dropped thirty feet into water cold enough to knock the breath from their lungs.
Alec floundered, gasping as he tried to hang on to his gear and keep his head above water. A strong hand closed over his wrist; Micum hauled him to a handhold on the slimy pilings supporting the building.
“Quiet!” Seregil whispered against his ear.
Working their way back to the shallows, they crawled out onto a narrow mud bank and huddled there as the sounds of a violent search rang out overhead.
“I doubt you two will be welcome again at the Fishes,” Micum whispered through chattering teeth.
It was a miserably cold vigil they kept, and dangerous. At one point several marines found their way under the building, forcing the three fugitives to turtle back into the icy water until they were gone. It was over an hour before Micum judged that it was safe to go.
They made a sorry trio as they staggered from the shadows of the tavern. Covered in mud, their hair and clothing stiffened into fantastic configurations, they moved as fast as their numbed legs would allow, heading for the market square.
Micum led the way to the Temple of Astellus that stood next to the Fisherman’s Guildhall on the square. It was a plain, windowless structure, but the large double doors at its front were elaborately carved with boats and water creatures. The lintel above displayed the stylized wave symbol of Astellus the Traveler. By custom, the doors of the temple were never locked, and they slipped inside without challenge.
Alec had never been inside the place before, though he’d passed it often enough. The plastered walls of the central room glowed with fanciful underwater scenes and icons showing several of the patron deity’s more noteworthy labors.
Near the central shrine a young acolyte dozed at his post. Passing quietly, they found their way to a door at the back of the temple and into the storeroom beyond.
Offerings, sacks of food for the priests, and oddments of furniture were stacked carelessly about. Alec sat down on an upended crate while Micum cast about, looking for something.
“Isn’t it over to the left more?’ asked Seregil.
“I’ve got it.” Micum pulled open a trapdoor in the floor.
Looking over his shoulder, Alec saw a ladder descending into the darkness. Cold, earth-smelling air rose up the shaft.
“Let’s hope the mayor neglected to tell his visitors about this route,” Seregil muttered.
Micum shrugged. “A good fight puts the fire of Sakor in your blood. I think we could all use the warmth!”
Seregil cocked a wry eyebrow at Alec. “He works as hard to find trouble as I do avoiding it.”
With a derisive chuckle, Micum climbed down the ladder. Alec followed while Seregil took a moment to prop several small crates to fall over the door when it closed.
Once down, Micum rummaged in a belt pouch and drew out a small glowing object. Its pale radiance spilled out through his fingers, spreading a small circle of light.
“Magic?” Alec asked, leaning closer.
“A lightstone,” Seregil told him. “I lost mine in a dice game two months ago and I’ve been fumbling around with flint and steel ever since.”
“Too bad it doesn’t give off any heat,” Micum said, chaffing his arms as he led the way down the tunnel.
“Where are we?”
“An escape tunnel leading out of town,” Micum explained. “It has openings near the lake shore and another just inside the woods. The Temple of Dalna has one, too. The idea was to be able to evacuate the town secretly if it was ever besieged. I doubt it would work, though—most likely bring you right up in front of the enemy. But it was thought up by merchants, not generals. As it is, Seregil and I have probably made the best use of them over the last few years.”
“Where to now? The cave?” Seregil was shivering visibly now as he tried to pull his stiff cloak more closely about him.
“That’s the closest place.”
The passage ran in a fairly straight line back from the river. It was hardly wide enough for two men to pass, and the roof was so low that Micum had to stoop in places. The damp earthen walls, shored up at intervals with timber, gave off an unpleasant chill. Blotches of lichen and pale fungi sprouted from the support beams. After some time, the tunnel branched.
Taking the right fork, Micum drew his sword and whispered over his shoulder, “Look sharp, boy, in case we have company.”
Alec moved to draw his own blade but Seregil nudged his hand away from the hilt. “Never mind that,” he said. “You couldn’t get by to fight and if you stumbled, you’d probably run Micum through. If we meet anyone, fade back with me and stay out of the way.”
But they met nothing except a few rats and slow-moving salamanders, and soon the tunnel began to slant upward, ending at a narrow cave. It was hardly more than a thin cleft in the rock and the floor of it narrowed sharply to a V, making for uncomfortable going.
Barking shins, hands, and heads against sharp-edged stones, they clambered up the fissure. Micum pocketed the lightstone as they reached the top and they pushed their way through a dense thicket of bramble at the mouth of the cave.
Looking around, Alec saw that they were somewhere in the woods; stands of oak, birch, and fir grew thickly around them. The sinking moon cast netted shadows through the canopy of branches overhead, curling darkness beneath the firs. Dawn was a few hours away and all was still.
Seregil was trembling more violently than the others.
“You never could stand the cold,” Micum said, unclasping his cloak. When Seregil moved to shrug it away, Micum stopped him with a stern look and swung it around his shoulders himself.
“Save your pride for warmer days, you damn fool. The boy and I are bred to it. Your blood’s too thin. Come on.”
Still scowling, Seregil tied the cloak strings under his chin without further protest.
Moving quietly over the snowy ground, they headed deeper into the forest. The ground rose and fell sharply, and the shadows were thick, but Micum went along as confidently as if they were hiking a highroad.
Halfway up a hillside, they reached another cave. It was larger than the last and its opening lay in plain sight. High-roofed and shallow, it narrowed at the back to a tiny passage leading farther into the hillside. Alec and Seregil were slim enough to pass through sideways without much trouble, but Micum grunted and swore as he worked his way in.
“I don’t recall you having so much trouble a few years back,” observed Seregil.
“Shut up, you,” Micum wheezed, pulling free at last.
The crevice twisted sharply several times, threatening to close altogether, but finally opened into a wider space. Micum brought out his light again, and Alec saw that they were in another cave, this one quite large.
Wood lay arranged for a fire in a circle of stones. Hunkering down beside it, Seregil found a small jar among the logs and shook what appeared to be hot coals onto the tinder.
“More magic for you.” Grinning, he handed Alec the jar. Small chips of stone glowed bright as embers but, like the lightstone, gave off no heat.
“Those are fire stones,” he explained. “Be careful with them. They won’t hurt skin but the second they touch anything that will burn—cloth, wood, parchment—they ignite. I’ve seen too many accidents to carry them traveling.”
Flames licked up through the dry wood, dispelling the chill and darkness. The natural chamber narrowed overhead to a crevice, and by some trick of the d
raft the smoke was drawn neatly up this natural chimney.
Firewood, folded blankets, and a number of pottery jars lay on various ledges around the caves. Piles of dry bracken and fir boughs were formed into rough pallets against the walls.
“This is snug camp,” said Alec, admiring it.
“Micum found it a while back,” Seregil said, huddling over the flames as closely as he dared. “Only we and a few friends know about it. Who was here last?”
Micum inspected the stone shelf that held the jars and held up a black feather. “Erisa. She must have stopped here before going into town. Let’s see what she’s left in the larder.”
Carrying a few of the jars to the fire, he inspected some marks carefully incised on the wax seals. “Let’s see. There’s a bee on these, that’s honey. A wheat stalk, that’s hard biscuit. A bee and a cup—mead. What’ve you got?”
“I’m not certain.” Seregil held a jar closer- to the light. “Dried venison. And here’s some tobacco for you.”
“Bless her kind heart.” Micum took a pipe from somewhere inside his tunic and filled it. “I left my pouch behind in all the scuffle.”
“And these two must be herbs,” Seregil continued. “Looks like yarrow and fever bane. Well, thanks to our good friend Micum Cavish, we’re in no need of healing. I just want to get dry!”
Stripping off their filthy garments, they spread them by the fire and wrapped up in blankets.
Too cold to concern himself with modesty for once, Alec noticed that both of his companions had a number of scars, though Micum’s were by far the more numerous and serious. The worst was a pale rope of tissue that began just beneath his right shoulder blade. It curved down around his back to end just short of his navel. Noticing the boy’s interest, he turned to the light and ran a thumb proudly over the end of the welt.
“Closest I ever came to Bilairy’s gatepost.” Lighting his pipe, Micum puffed out a few rings of mellow smoke. “It was nine winters ago, wasn’t it, Seregil?”
Luck in the Shadows Page 9
