Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3

by Lynn Flewelling

  Adzriel looked up sharply, her face as solemn as her brother’s. “I chose the staff for this house myself. They are above reproach.”

  Seregil shook his head. “That’s not who I was thinking of.”

  25

  NIGHTRUNNING

  Skalan mourning was an austere affair, and fires, hot food, alcohol of any sort, lovemaking, and music were all strictly abstained from. A single candle was allowed in each room at night. Should the soul of the departed visit any of its loved ones, there must be nothing to distract it from its journey.

  This was new territory for Alec, whose Dalnan upbringing dictated a quick burning and ashes plowed into the earth. He’d seen death often enough since he’d come south with Seregil, but his friend was neither Skalan nor one to adhere to custom. When Thryis and her family had been murdered, Seregil had set the inn ablaze as a pyre and sworn vengeance on their murderer, a vow Alec had himself carried out when he strangled Vargûl Ashnazai. Seregil’s grief for Nysander’s death had been too deep and silent for mere ritual to encompass. For a time he’d almost stopped living himself.

  This time, however, Seregil willingly observed the abstentions, sitting with Klia through the interminable visitations. Alec sensed genuine sadness in his friend, although Seregil said little.

  It was Beka who finally drew him out. The three of them had gathered with Thero in the wizard’s room on the second night, passing the time in desultory conversation.

  Thero was weaving the shadows cast by the candle into fantastic shapes against the wall. Seregil remained unusually quiet as he sat slouched in his chair, legs stretched out before him, chin on hand. Alec studied his friend’s pensive face, wondering if Seregil was watching Thero’s shadow play or lost to his own inner phantoms.

  Beka suddenly nudged Seregil’s foot with her own and raised her eyebrows in mock surprise when he looked up.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “And here I’d been thinking it must be Alec sitting there. No one else I know can keep quiet for so long.”

  “I was just thinking about Idrilain,” he replied.

  “You liked her, didn’t you, Uncle?”

  Alec smiled, guessing that she’d used the familiar term to coax him out of his brown study; she called him “Uncle” only in private now.

  Seregil shifted in his chair, clasping his hands over one updrawn knee. “Yes I did. She was queen when I came to Rhíminee, and did her best to find a place for me at court. It didn’t work out, of course, but I might never have met Nysander if not for her.” He sighed. “In a way, Idrilain was Skala to me. Now Phoria sits on the throne.”

  “Don’t you think she’ll rule well?” asked Beka.

  Seregil’s eyes met Alec’s, acknowledging shared secrets. Then he shrugged. “I suppose she’ll rule according to her nature.”

  The nature of the new queen proved to be a topic of prime interest to the Aurënfaie.

  Adzriel had arranged a receiving room for Klia just off the main hall, mixing Skalan and Aurënfaie trappings. A tripod of headless spear shafts supported Klia’s inverted shield. Censors clouded the air with the bittersweet vapors of myrrh and stop-blood weed, the soldier’s field herb. Delicate Aurënfaie scrolls hung beside the room’s three doors, painted with prayers directing the queen’s soul onward should she come to visit her daughter and forget how to move on. An Aurënfaie screen of thin parchment blocked the window, except for a small hole by which the khi could come and go.

  Another Aurënfaie touch was a small brazier by the door, where each guest cast a small bunch of cedar tips as they entered, an offering to the departed. The scent of it was said to be pleasing to the dead, but the living were soon well sick of it. By the end of each day a pall of smoke hung near the ceiling in a slow-roiling cloud. The odor of it clung to clothing and hair and followed them to their beds at night.

  Sitting beside Klia each day, Seregil wondered what the dead queen would make of the conversation if she did choose to visit.

  Each visitor, regardless of clan or stance, began with the usual expressions of condolence but soon maneuvered their way to subtle inquiries about Phoria.

  Alec reported similar interest. Every member of the Skalan delegation, even the Urgazhi riders, were suddenly thought to be authorities on the new queen’s character. People who had not deigned to speak to Alec since his arrival now cornered him on the street. “What is this new queen like?” they all wanted to know. “What is her interest here? What does she want from Aurënen?”

  Braknil and Mercalle had the most to say in Phoria’s favor; they’d both fought beside her in their younger days and praised her bravery in glowing terms.

  Lacking Seregil’s connection to the royal family, Alec made himself useful helping Thero and Torsin greet their visitors in the hall and seeing that each dignitary was properly attended to as they waited for an audience with Klia.

  He was so occupied on the third day when Rhaish í Arlisandin and his young wife arrived. He withdrew as Torsin and the khirnari launched into a hushed discussion, but Amali followed him and laid a hand on his arm.

  “There’s something I must share with you in private,” she murmured, casting a quick glance back at her husband.

  “Certainly, my lady.” Alec led her to an unused room just off the hall.

  As soon as he’d closed the door she strode to the far end, clasping her hands in obvious agitation. Alec folded his arms and waited. She hadn’t spoken directly to him more than twice since their arrival in Sarikali.

  “Nyal í Nhekai advised me to speak with you,” she confided at last “He says you are a man of honor. I must ask that no matter what you say to the request I am about to make, what I say will go no further than this room. Can you give me your word on that?”

  “Perhaps it would be better if you spoke to someone with more authority,” Alec suggested, but she shook her head.

  “No! Nyal said to speak only to you.”

  “You have my word, my lady, as long as whatever you have to say doesn’t put me at odds with my loyalty to Princess Klia.”

  “Loyalty!” she exclaimed softly, wringing her hands. “You must be the judge of that, I suppose. Ulan í Sathil has summoned certain khirnari to meet with him tonight at his house. My husband is among those who will be there.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought he and your husband were enemies?”

  “There is no good feeling between them,” Amali admitted, looking more distracted than ever. “That is why it worries me so. Whatever Ulan has to say, it cannot bode well for your princess, yet my husband will not tell me what the purpose of the meeting is to be. He has been so—so very upset by all this. I cannot imagine what would convince him to go to that man’s house.”

  “But why tell me?”

  “It was Nyal’s idea, as I said. I spoke with him earlier. ‘Bring this to Alec í Amasa as soon as you can!’ he said. Why would he send me to you?”

  “I can’t say, my lady, but I give you my word that your secrets are safe.”

  Amali clasped his hands between hers for a moment, tears standing in her eyes as she searched his face. “I love my husband, Alec í Amasa. I wish no harm or dishonor to come to him. I would not have spoken if I did not fear for him. I cannot explain it—there’s just been such a weight of dread on my heart since this whole dreadful debate began. Now more than ever, he is Klia ä Idrilain’s best ally.”

  “She knows that. When are the khirnari to meet?”

  “At the evening meal. The Virésse always wait until after sunset to dine.”

  Alec stored away this information. “Perhaps you should return to the hall now, before you’re missed?”

  She gave him a small, grateful smile and slipped out. Alec waited a few moments, then went out to the barracks to find Nyal.

  The Ra’basi was playing bakshi with Beka and several of her riders. As soon as Alec appeared in the doorway, however, he excused himself and walked with him into the stable.

  “I just spoke with Amali,�
� Alec told him.

  Nyal looked relieved. “I feared she would not go to you.”

  “Why, Nyal? Why me?”

  The man gave him a wry look. “Who better than you to act on such information? Unless I’m mistaken, you and Seregil have certain—talents, shall we say? But Seregil is bound at Klia’s side by duty and blood ties, and by other concerns you are well aware of. You aren’t.”

  “Concerns such as atui?”

  The Ra’basi shrugged. “Sometimes honor is a matter of perspective, is it not?”

  “So I’ve been told.” Alec wondered if he’d just been insulted or shared a confidence. “What’s the purpose of this meeting? Amali seems concerned for her husband’s safety.”

  “I have no idea. I’d heard nothing of it until she came to me. Ra’basi was not included in the invitation.”

  Ah, so that’s your angle! Keeping the thought to himself, Alec went on ingenuously, “That’s odd. Moriel ä Moriel still supports Virésse, doesn’t she?”

  “Perhaps Virésse grows arrogant,” said Nyal, arching a sardonic eyebrow. “Perhaps Ulan í Sathil forgets that Ra’basi is one of the Eleven and not some minor clan who owes him loyalty.”

  “And if I do make use of this information, what then? What do you want from me in return?”

  Nyal shrugged. “Only to know of anything that affects my clan’s interests. Or Akhendi’s.”

  “Akhendi? You ask that on behalf of your khirnari?”

  Nyal colored visibly. “I ask for myself.”

  Alec frowned. “Or for Amali ä Yassara? How many lovers do you have, Nyal?”

  “One lover,” he replied, meeting Alec’s look without flinching, “but many that I love.”

  Alec was waiting for Seregil when he emerged from the receiving chamber late that afternoon. Drawing him aside, Alec quickly repeated what Amali and Nyal had told him, then held his breath, waiting for Seregil to come up with some reason for him not to investigate. Not that it would stop him from going, of course.

  To his relief, Seregil finally gave a reluctant nod. “Klia must know nothing of it until you’re back.”

  “Easier to apologize than to get permission, eh?” Alec grinned. “I suppose you can’t—”

  Seregil dragged the fingers of one hand through his hair, scowling. “I hate this, you know. I hate not being able to act, being so damned constrained by honor and law and circumstance.”

  Alec raised a hand to his friend’s cheek, then let his fingers trail down to a fading bruise just visible above his collar. “I’m glad to hear it, talí. You haven’t seemed yourself since we got here.”

  “Myself?” Seregil gave a mocking laugh. “Who’s that, I wonder? You go, Alec. I’ll stay here and behave myself like a good little exile.”

  They slipped into Klia’s darkened receiving room just after nightfall. Alec felt a bit guilty, but elated, too. Beneath his cloak, he wore an Aurënfaie tunic, trousers, and loose sandals, filched by Seregil from some servant. His tool roll, rescued at last from the obscurity of the clothes chest, was secreted once more inside his tunic. It was a risk to bring it, which is why he hadn’t bothered to tell Seregil, but he felt better having it along.

  I’m doing this for Klia, whether she wants me to or not, he thought, quelling any doubts.

  They lifted aside the screen covering the window and Alec threw one leg over the sill. A sudden rush of excitement left him a little giddy. Finally, after all these weeks, here was some useful work. A stray thought sobered him for a moment, however. “No sen’gai!” he whispered, raising a hand to his head.

  “I didn’t know if I could still wrap one properly,” Seregil admitted. “Besides, going bareheaded will make you all the more anonymous in the dark—just another servant out for an evening stroll.”

  “I’m always a servant,” Alec complained jokingly, trying to simultaneously whisper and whine.

  “Breeding tells,” Seregil shot back, clasping him by the back of the neck and giving him a playful shake. “Luck in the shadows.”

  “I hope so.”

  It was a short drop to the ground, and Alec managed it soundlessly. This side of the house stood perpendicular to the street and overlooked open ground. Following it back would take him to the wall of the stable yard. Either direction meant passing sentries. He could hear Arbelus and Minál talking somewhere out front. Waiting until they’d wandered back toward the door, he quickly crossed the grassy verge and blended into the shadows beyond.

  Following Torsin weeks before had been an impulse, a fluke. This time, he had a mission and it felt as if he were seeing the place through different eyes, overlaid with memories of similar jobs carried out in Rhíminee. Here there were no cutpurses and footpads to avoid, no City Watch to evade. No whores of either sex called to him from the shadows. There were no lunatics, beggars, or drunken soldiers. The makeshift taverns had none of the disreputable reek of the raucous establishments of Skala.

  Instead, the strange quiet that overlay the city tonight pressed in on him, and his imagination conjured ghosts in shadowed doorways. Never before had he been more aware that this was a city of the dead, tenanted only occasionally by the living. It was a relief to meet other people along the streets, though he kept his distance.

  He had an uneasy moment as he passed Haman tupa. Movement in a side street to his left caught his eye. He continued on to the next building, then ducked around the corner and looked back, waiting for any potential stalkers to betray themselves. No one appeared. Nothing but the call of a night bird broke the silence.

  Shrugging off a lingering sense of being watched, he continued on, running now to make up for lost time. It wouldn’t do to arrive late even if he wasn’t invited.

  Ulan í Sathil’s grand house stood on a small rise overlooking the Vhadäsoori. According to Seregil, who’d known the place in his youth, it was laid out around a series of large courtyards, not unlike the clan house at Gedre. As he surveyed its imposingly plain walls from the shelter of a nearby alleyway, he longed again for Rhíminee’s villas, with their tall, well-tended trees and usefully ornate exterior carvings. If the Virésse house ran true to form, however, whatever it lacked in handholds was more than made up for by a scandalous lack of walls, dogs, sentries, and locks. At least this place had a few accessible windows.

  Most were dark. The only visible signs of light were concentrated to the left of the main entrance. Alec kicked off his sandals and poised for a dash, but shrank back at the sound of approaching hooves. Four horsemen reined in and knocked for admittance. In the spill of light from the doorway Alec caught a brief glimpse of the visitors as they entered. He couldn’t make out faces from this angle, but he saw that they wore the purple sen’gai of Bry’kha.

  Looks like I’m just in time.

  He waited until the door closed, then ran to a window to the right of the door that looked promising, unshuttered and dark. Alec slipped over the sill and went into a crouch, listening. Satisfied that the room was unoccupied, he pulled the lightstone from his tool roll and shielded it with his hand. By its light, he saw that he was in an empty room. He tucked the stone into his belt and crept out into an unlit corridor, his bare feet silent on the smooth stone floor.

  He found his way to a passageway leading to the main hall. As he watched from the shelter of a doorway, a servant crossed the room and returned a moment later with several Lhapnosans. He caught the words “welcome” and “garden.”

  Luck in the shadows indeed, thought Alec, retreating back the way he’d come. Whatever the ’faie might think about thieves and thought readers, it seemed their god had a favor or two to spare the humble nightrunner. Now if his luck would just hold until he found the right garden.

  After several wrong turns, Alec ended up in a room with a low balcony overlooking an illuminated courtyard. Creeping to the archway, he peered out, then ducked quickly back, heart pounding in his chest. Ulan í Sathil sat less than twenty feet away. Moving more carefully, Alec chanced another look.

&nbs
p; The large, lushly overgrown garden was lit by crescent-shaped lanterns set on tall poles. Ulan faced his guests, most of whom were hidden from view by the angle of the wall. Alec guessed by the murmur of conversation that there were no more than a dozen people present. Those he could see included the khirnari of Lhapnos and Bry’kha, together with some of their kin and members of minor clans. Servants were circulating with wine and sweets.

  He was about to belly-crawl to the opposite side of the archway when a whiff of scent froze him on all fours. He’d smelled the same spicy, musk only once before, in the shadows of the House of Pillars. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck and spread gooseflesh up his arms.

  Turning, he scanned the room for its source, glancing toward the door in time to see a growing glimmer of light beneath it. He had just time enough to scuttle behind the door before it swung open. Through the crack between door and frame, he saw a bored-looking watchman raise the lantern he held and peer around the room. Satisfied, he went out again, closing the door behind him.

  Alec stayed where he was for nearly a minute, testing the air like a hound as he waited for his heartbeat to slow. For an instant he thought he smelled the perfume again.

  “Who are you?” he whispered, realizing as he did so that he was more fearful of receiving a response than not.

  No one answered, and the scent did not return.

  Don’t be a fool, he berated himself as he crept back to the window. Someone wearing a strong scent had passed by in the corridor, maybe even someone the watchman was looking for. It was probably a common scent. Then again, he’d been to endless gatherings since his arrival in Aurënen and never smelled anything like it.

  He shook off the disconcerting thoughts. He couldn’t afford to linger.

  Standing on the opposite side of the archway now, he peered around and with a sinking heart recognized Seregil’s old friend, Riagil í Molan of Gedre sitting between Ruen í Uri of Datsia and Rhaish í Arlisandin. The khirnari of Bry’kha and Silmai were there, too, along with several minor khirnari.