Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

  Standing by the cell door, the bailiff unrolled a scroll and droned out, “ ‘Lord Seregil í Korit Solun Meringil Bôkthersa, now of Rhíminee, the charge of treason laid against you has been rescinded. Your name is cleared of calumny. By the Queen’s grace, step forth and be free.’ ”

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

  “Harder for me than you, I’m sure,” Thero snapped, striding off without a backward glance.

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

  Alec and Micum caught up with Thero on the stairs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The magic was indiscernible, the effect instantaneous. Restored to his own body, Seregil went a clammy greenish-white. Releasing Thero, he staggered to the fireside armchair and sank down, head between his knees. Alec grabbed up a bowl and hurried to his side.

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

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

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

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

  “You’ve little enough to be vain of,” Thero shot back tartly, returning to his supper.

  Still grinning, Seregil tugged at the lacings of his shirt. “I don’t know why you have to wear everything so tight, though—”

  Alec was the only one who noticed the momentary faltering of his friend’s smile. Before the boy could ask what was wrong, however, Seregil locked eyes with him, discreetly motioning silence.

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

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

  “Now there’s a surprise,” Micum said glumly. “Did you learn much from the others?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “At least he’s already dead,” Seregil said with a shudder, all too aware that he’d faced a similar fate only a few days ago without such benefit. At the moment, however, he had a more pressing concern. “Before we all go our separate ways, Nysander, I’d like a private word.”

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

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

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

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

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

  Seregil caught Nysander’s wrist and held it.

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

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

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

  Nysander looked away, saying nothing.

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

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

  “That’s never been any prayer of mine and you know it!” Seregil spat back. For an instant anger made him reckless. “As it happens, I know more about it than you might think. I’d have told you already if it wasn’t for—”

  The words died on his lips. Nysander had gone ashen, his face a mask of anger. At his swift incantation, the room went dim and Seregil knew
from past experience that Nysander had sealed the room against intrusions of any kind.

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

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

  “Alone?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did you do there?”

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

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

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

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

  “You headstrong fool!” Nysander glared up at him. “I suppose you might have heeded my order. My warning! Tell me the rest. What did Orphyria say?”

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

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

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

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

  “I’d stake my life on it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Sound advice indeed. And did you heed it?”

  “Yes.”

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

  “No one. I told no one. I’ll swear an oath on it if you like.”

  “No, dear boy, I believe you.” A little color had returned to the old wizard’s cheeks. “Listen to me, I implore you. This is not a game. You have no idea the precipice you have danced along, and I am still bound not to tell you—No, no interruptions! I want no oaths from you now, but a promise made on your honor—on your love for me if nothing else—that you will be patient and allow me to proceed as I must. I swear the wizard’s oath to you, by my Hands, Heart, and Voice, there is no doubt now that I shall reveal everything to you one day. You have my word. Can you abide by that for now?”

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

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

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

  “The others must be wondering what happened to us.”

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

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

  “Probably not. And Seregil?”

  “Yes?”

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

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

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

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

  33

  AMONG THE SCAVENGERS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Here’s a familiar face,” Micum remarked from a
cross the room. “Not one of ours, though.”

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

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

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

  “Sakor’s Flame!” Micum croaked, clapping a vinegar rag over his nose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “That’s her, all right,” said Seregil.

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

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