Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

  “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 Micum 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, “ ‘Know that I, Barien í 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 í Tolomon, and Lady Royan ä 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.