“Perhaps,” mused Seregil. “As I recall, you said that Alben confessed to forging two Queen’s Warrants, but nothing of the sort was recovered from Teukros’ house. That leaves one very powerful document, probably complete with seals, unaccounted for.”
Nysander frowned as he considered the myriad implications of this revelation. “Oh dear!”
35
CIRNA
Alec fought his way out of yet another nightmare, the stench of the charnel house strong in his nostrils. Throwing back the bed curtains, he found the first light of dawn brightening his window. What he’d smelled was nothing more than the scent of sausages frying downstairs.
“Thank the Maker!” he whispered, running a hand over his sweaty face.
He’d slept badly again that night, tossing fitfully through frantic dreams in which a threatening black figure stalked him through the charnel houses. The oppressive feel of the dream dogged him as he dressed and headed downstairs.
Seregil and Runcer were in the main salon discussing the disposal of a collection of traveling cases. “Lord Seregil” was leaving the city on a journey to recover from the shock of his ordeal, taking Sir Alec with him. Luggage sufficient for a lengthy undertaking had to be seen leaving with them.
“We’ll leave all this off at Watermead,” Seregil was saying as Alec joined them.
“And how shall I respond to those inquiring after you and Sir Alec, my lord?” asked Runcer.
“Tell them that I was too shaken to predict my return. Oh, good morning, Alec. We’ll leave as soon as you get some breakfast. Eat fast.”
“And Sir Micum is returning home?” asked Runcer.
“Yes, I am.” Micum appeared at the dining-room doorway in his shirtsleeves. “You can tell any callers that I’ve gone home to the loveliest woman in Skala, and that I’ll set the dogs on anyone who disturbs us for the next week!”
Runcer bowed gravely. “I shall convey the sentiment, sir.”
Seregil paced restlessly around the dining room as Alec wolfed down his sausage and tea. “We’ll set up back at the Cockerel when we come back.”
“Suits me,” Alec said happily. He’d had quite enough of fussy manners and overly attentive servants. Finishing hastily, he followed Seregil and Micum out to the street where their mounts and small baggage train stood ready under Runcer’s watchful eye.
They’d dressed as gentlemen to be seen leaving the city, and the groom had saddled Cynril and Windrunner, but Patch and Scrub were ready among the pack horses.
It was a brisk, fine day for riding, and they arrived at the byway leading up to Watermead just after midday.
Crossing the bridge, Alec and Seregil dismounted and ducked into a thicket to change clothes. From here they would travel as merchants.
“You’re heading for the Pony tonight?” asked Micum as they emerged again.
Seregil glanced up at the sun. “We should be able to make it if we push on.”
“Say hello to Kari and the girls for me,” said Alec. Looking up the valley, he saw a pale ribbon of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney at Watermead and imagined the warm scents of hot bread, roasting meats, and drying herbs there.
Changing mounts, Seregil roped the Aurënen horses in with the pack animals.
“Expect us when you see us,” he told Micum, handing him the lead rein.
“Good hunting to you,” said Micum, clasping hands with them both. “And take care on those damned goat paths they call streets up there in Cirna. One wrong step and it’s ass over tippet into the bay before you know what happened!”
Riding back across the little bridge, they turned their horses north and set off along the highroad again at a gallop.
The rolling hills soon gave way to steeper country. Jagged cliffs fell away to the sea on their left, and they could see the dark expanse of the Osiat stretching out past the coastal islands to the horizon.
They reined in at last to rest the horses. Pushing back the hood of his cloak, Seregil let out a happy whoop. “By the Four, it’s good to be free of Wheel Street again!”
“You, too?” Alec turned to him in surprise.
“I can scarcely breathe there anymore!” exclaimed Seregil, shaking his head. “I hate to admit it, but I’ve felt pretty trapped there these past few years. It’s a disguise that’s taken on a life of its own. Once you’ve seen how far it all goes, you’ll understand.”
“Is that why you never told me about it?” Alec asked. The residual mood left by the nightmare, together with some lingering irritation over his first introduction to the place, lent an unexpectedly sharp edge to the words.
Seregil glanced over at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“I mean all those weeks we were in the city and you never once mentioned it. Not until you could spring it on me as another of your little tests.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still mad about that?”
“I guess I am,” muttered Alec. “You do it all the time, you know—not telling me things.”
“Illior’s Fingers, Alec, all I’ve done for the last two months is tell you things. I don’t think I’ve ever talked so much in my life! What haven’t I been telling you?”
“About Wheel Street, to begin with,” Alec shot back. “Having me break in like a thief and then throwing me into the middle of that party—”
“But I explained all that! You’re not going to tell me now you weren’t proud of yourself once the shock wore off?”
“It’s not that.” Alec struggled to put his warring emotions into words. At last he blurted out, “I’d just like to have had some say in the matter. Now that I think of it, I haven’t had much of a say in anything since we met. After all we’ve been through? Bilairy’s Guts, Seregil, I saved your life!”
Seregil opened his mouth as if to answer, then silently nudged Scrub into a walk.
Alec followed, still angry but aghast at his outburst. Why was it that strong emotions always seemed to take him by surprise?
“I suppose you’re justified in thinking that,” Seregil said at last.
“Seregil, I—”
“No, it’s all right. Don’t apologize for speaking the truth.” Staring down at Scrub’s neck, Seregil let out an exasperated sigh. “It was different when we first met. You were just someone who needed help and might prove momentarily useful. It wasn’t until after Wolde that I was sure about bringing you south with me.”
“After Wolde!” Alec turned to face him, anger rising again. “You lied to me? All that talk out there on the Downs of Skala, and me being a bard?”
Seregil shrugged, still not looking up. “I don’t know, I guess so. I mean, it sounded good to me at the time, too. But I didn’t really know how suitable you were until that burglary in Wolde.”
“What would you have done if I wasn’t ‘suitable’?”
“Left you somewhere safe with money in your pocket, and then disappeared. I’ve done that often enough, with people I’ve helped. But you were different, and so I didn’t do that.”
Alec was surprised by an eerie sense of connection as their eyes met; heat like a gulp of brandy sprang up in his belly and spread out from there.
“So yes, I lied to you a little at first,” Seregil was saying. “Think of how many strangers you’ve lied to since you hooked up with me. It’s the nature of our work. Since Wolde, though, I swear I’ve been as honest with you as I could be. I wanted to tell you more, prepare you, but then the sickness came on.” He paused. “In your place, I doubt I’d have been as faithful. Anyway, after Wolde and the ambush in the Folcwine Forest I began to think of you as a friend, the first I’d made in a long time. I’d assumed you understood that, and for that assumption I beg your kind forgiveness.”
“There’s no need,” muttered Alec, embarrassed.
“Oh, I think there is. Damn it, Alec, you’re as much of a mystery to me as I probably am to you. I keep forgetting how young you are, how different we are. Micum and I were almost of an age when we met. We saw th
e world with the same eyes. And Nysander! He always seemed to know my thoughts before I did myself. It’s so—so different with you! Blundering around the way I do, I seem to end up hurting you without even realizing it.”
“Not so much,” Alec mumbled, overcome by this unexpected openness. “It’s just that sometimes it seems as if—as if you don’t trust me.”
Seregil gave a rueful laugh. “Ah, Alec! Rei phöril tös tókun meh brithir, vrí sh’ruit’ya.”
“What’s that?”
Seregil held out his poniard hilt first to Alec. “ ‘Though you thrust a knife at my eyes, I will not flinch,’ ” he translated. “It’s a solemn pledge of trust and I give it to you with all my heart. You can take a stab at me if you want.”
“Do you just make those things up?”
“No, it’s genuine, and I’ll swear ten others just as dire if it will convince you I’m sorry.”
“Maker’s Mercy, Seregil, just tell me about Wheel Street!”
“All right, Wheel Street.” Seregil slipped the knife back into his boot. “It all started after I’d failed with Nysander. I ran off and lived rough for a few years. That’s when I learned thieving and all that. When I came back, I saw at once how I could keep myself nicely employed with the intrigues of the Skalan nobility. I had to establish myself somehow, but that didn’t prove too difficult. My checkered past, together with my status as Queen’s Kin, the novelty of being Aurënfaie, and my new skills as a thief and general busybody—” He spread his hands comically. “That all pretty much guaranteed success in Rhíminee society. Posing as the reformed exile, Lord Seregil soon established a reputation as a sympathetic listener, a reliable buyer of drinks, a willing roisterer, and a holder of no strong opinions on any subject. Altogether, a person of little consequence and therefore the man everyone talks to.
“I got to be quite a favorite among the younger nobles, and through them I managed to pick up valuable information. After that it wasn’t hard to spread the rumor that Lord Seregil, charming as he was, didn’t always keep the best company. Word soon trickled out into the right circles that I could sometimes aid in the hiring of a certain discreet but shady character who would carry out any sort of silly undertaking for the right price.”
“The Rhíminee Cat?”
“Exactly. Nysander was the only one who knew my secret. I’ve been more use to him as a spy than I ever was as an apprentice. Even back then, though, I liked my freedom too much to play the noble role all the time. So I bought the Cockerel and fixed up some rooms there. Nysander found Thryis for me. Cilla couldn’t have been much older than Illia—”
“Yes, but Wheel Street!” insisted Alec, wanting to hear the end of the tale before dark. Once Seregil made up his mind to explain something, he tended not to leave out any details.
“Sidetracked again, am I? Well, as time went on the young nobles I’d rooked around with settled down and had young nobles of their own. Aurënfaie or not, I was expected to do the same. To maintain the confidence of those I depended on, I had to give some outward sign that I was of their ilk. I began by investing in shipping concerns and managed to do fairly well. Small wonder, really, considering the sort of information I was privy to. Aside from the money, my supposed business concerns give me ample excuse to be away for the better part of the year.
“Unfortunately, the charade has grown rather cumbersome. If I didn’t love Rhíminee so much, I might just kill off Lord Seregil and start over again somewhere else. What it all boils down to for you, though, is that Sir Alec of Ivywell has a lot of educating ahead of him.”
“I’ll be an old man with a beard to my knees before I’ve learned half what you expect me to know!”
Seregil gazed out over the sea a quizzed look on his face. “Oh, I doubt that. I doubt that very much indeed.”
They spent that night at the Pony, a respectable wayfarers’ inn, then set out again at dawn under a clear sky. By late morning they reached the southern end of the isthmus that linked the Skalan peninsula to the mainland to the north.
Jutting up from the sea like a blanched backbone, the land bridge was scarcely five miles wide at any point. The road ran along the crest of it and Alec could see water on either side: the Osiat steely dark, the shallow Inner Sea a paler blue.
Just after midday they came to the small outpost guarding a fork in the highway. From here the roads diverged to the two bridges, east and west, which led down to the opposing Canal ports of Cirna and Talos. Taking the right fork, they soon came within sight of the east bridge, arching smoothly across the black chasm of the Canal. It was a broad, sturdy structure, wide enough for the heaviest drays to pass without crowding.
“It’s an amazing sight from up here, don’t you think?” said Seregil, reining in. At the moment several wagons were coming across from the far side, followed by a turma of cavalry.
Alec felt cold sweat break out down his spine as he looked at the precipice beneath it. He’d been at the bottom of that chasm, seen its depth. To him, the great bridge looked as tenuous as a spider’s web by comparison.
“Illior’s Fingers, you’ve gone white!” Seregil observed, looking over at him. “Maybe you’d better walk your horse. Lots of people are a bit nervous their first time across.”
Alec gave a quick, tense shake of his head. “No. No, I’m fine, I—I’ve just never crossed anything that deep.”
Embarrassed by his sudden weakness, he gripped the reins resolutely and nudged Patch into a walk. Keeping to the center of the road as much as traffic allowed, he fixed his attention on a string of donkeys plodding along ahead of him and did his best not to think about what lay below.
“See, it’s perfectly safe,” Seregil assured him, riding close beside him. “Solid as the highroad itself.”
Alec managed another tight nod. From far below came the faint creak of oars and ropes; sailor’s voices rose like the whispering of ghosts.
“There’s a good view of the west bridge from here,” Seregil said, directing Alec’s attention out over the left side of the bridge.
Alec looked and felt his belly lurch. From here, the western bridge looked like a child’s construction of dry branches across a ditch, a fragile toy poised over the dizzying gorge. Closing his eyes, he fought off a sudden mental image of the stonework beneath him giving way.
“How did they build these?” he gasped.
“Those ancient wizards and engineers understood the value of forethought. They built the bridges first, then dug the Canal out beneath them.”
At the far end of the bridge, Alec unclenched his aching fingers and drew a breath of relief.
A switchback road led down the cliffs to the harbor town below. Cirna was a confusing city of square, closely packed buildings lining a maze of narrow streets so sharply inclined in places that it was difficult for riders going down not to pitch forward over their horses’ necks. The local inhabitants apparently favored foot traffic, for many parts of the town were accessible only by narrow stairways.
Clinging to the back of his saddle, Alec looked across the bay and located the shining columns of Astellus and Sakor, his first landmarks in Skala. There were far fewer vessels anchored in the harbor now. Seasonal storms were already whipping all but the most hardy coasters into port for the winter.
By the time they’d wended their way down to the customs house by the harbor, both of them were grateful to set foot on level ground again. Entering the whitewashed building, they found a ruddy woman in salt-stained boots at work over a table cluttered with documents.
“Good day to you,” she greeted them, as she finished with a wax seal. “I’m Katya, the harbor mistress. You gentlemen need some assistance?”
“Good day to you,” Seregil replied. “I’m Myrus, merchant of Rhíminee and this is my brother Alsander. We’ve come to track down a shipment that went astray some three years back.”
The woman shook her head with a dubious frown. “You’ve got a job ahead of you, then. Do you know how many ships go through her
e in a season?”
“We have the name of the ship, and the month she came through, if that’s any help,” Alec offered. “It was the White Hart, a square-rigged trader of the Tyremian Line, Cirna registry. She’d have docked here sometime in early Erasin.”
“Ah, well that’s a start, anyway.” Opening a side door, she led them into a room filled from floor to ceiling with ranks of scroll racks.
“If we’ve still got the manifest it’ll be in the back there somewhere. They’d generally have been chucked out by now, but the old harbor master died in the middle of the job and I’ve never gotten around to finishing it.”
At the back of the room she scanned the racks, then extracted a document at random. The movement disturbed a thick layer of dust that set both her and Seregil sneezing.
“Push open that window just beside you, young sir, before we all suffocate,” gasped Katya, brushing at her nose.
Alec threw back the shutters. Shaking the scroll out again, she held it up to the light.
“You see how it’s laid out, sirs. Here’s the ship’s name and the captain’s at the top, followed by the date she put in and a detailed listing of cargoes delivered and taken on. These seals at the bottom belong to the captain of the vessel and the various merchants involved. This big one here in the lower right corner is the harbor master’s. I’ll leave you to it. Mind you close the shutters when you leave and tuck things back where you found them.”
There was no system to the storage of documents except a rough chronological layering. Pulling scrolls and checking dates, they narrowed their search down to a few likely shelves. Powdery clouds of dust roiled about them as they sorted and sneezed their way through pile after pile of musty, yellow parchments.
The writing, done aboard ships rolling at anchor, was a challenge to decipher—especially for Alec, whose skill at reading was still far from accomplished. Gnawing absently at his lip, he puzzled his way through a confusing succession of scrawled names: The Dog, Wyvern’s Wing, Two Brothers, Lady Rygel, Silver Plume, Coriola, Sea Mist, The Wren—
Luck in the Shadows Page 47
