Stalking Darkness

by Lynn Flewelling

  Seregil’s strange, virile beauty, at first unappreciated, then taken for granted as their familiarity grew through months of close living, seemed to leap out at him now against the muted backdrop of the crowd: the large grey eyes beneath the expressive brows, the fine bones of his face, the mouth, so often tilted in a caustic grin, was relaxed now in sensuous repose. As Alec watched, Seregil leaned his head back and his robe fell open to expose the smooth column of his throat and the lean planes of his chest and belly. Fascinated and confused, Alec felt the first hesitant stirring of feelings he was not prepared to associate with his friend and teacher.

  Still hovering at his elbow, Azarin somewhat misinterpreted his bedazzled expression. “If I may be so bold, perhaps you lack experience in such matters?” he asked. “Don’t let that trouble you. There are many hours in the night, take your time.” He swept a graceful hand at the murals. “Perhaps you’ll find inspiration there. Or have you a particular sort of companion in mind?”

  “No!” Startled out of his daze, Alec took a step backward. “No, I didn’t really— I mean, I thought I saw a friend come in here. I was just looking for him.”

  Azarin nodded and said, ever gracious, “I understand. But now that you are here, why not join us for a while? The musician is new, just in from Cirna. I’ll send for wine.”

  At Azarin’s discreet summons, a young man detached himself from a knot of conversation nearby and came up to join them.

  “Tirien will attend you in my absence,” said Azarin. Giving the two of them a final, approving look, he disappeared back into the vestibule.

  “Well met, young sir,” Tirien greeted him. Thick black hair, glossy as a crow’s wing, framed his face and a soft growth of new beard edged the hollows of his cheeks. His smile seemed genuinely friendly. He was dressed in breeches, boots, and a loose shirt of fine linen; for a moment Alec mistook him for a noble. The illusion was shattered, however, when Tirien stepped closer and said, “There’s a couch free near the fire, if you like. Or would you prefer to go up at once?”

  For one awful moment Alec was speechless; what in Illior’s name was he to do? Glancing past Tirien’s shoulder, his eyes happened to fall on one of the panels. The young prostitute turned to follow his gaze, then smiled.

  “Oh, yes, I’m quite good at that. As you can see, though, we’ll need a third man.”

  Seregil’s eyes widened in genuine amazement at he caught sight of Alec framed in the salon entrance, amazement followed at once by a bittersweet pang of something deeper than mere surprise.

  The boy had obviously stumbled into Azarin’s house by mistake—the tense lines around his mouth and faint, betraying color in his cheeks attested as much.

  I’d better go rescue him, he thought, yet he remained where he was, letting the scene play on a bit longer.

  A quick glance around the room confirmed that Alec was attracting the notice of other patrons, as well. And no wonder, Seregil thought with a stab of something dangerously close to possessiveness. For a moment he allowed himself to see Alec through the eyes of the others: a slim, somberly dressed youth whose heavy, honey-dark hair framed a finely featured face and the bluest eyes this side of a summer evening sky. He stood like a half-wild thing, poised for flight, yet his manner toward the young prostitute was almost courtly.

  Tirien leaned closer to Alec and the boy’s mask of composure slipped a bit, betraying—what? Alarm, certainly, but hadn’t there been just a hint of indecision?

  This time Seregil couldn’t deny the hot flash of jealousy that shot through him. Thoroughly annoyed with himself, he began disentangling himself from Wythrin.

  “Do you want to go back up now?” the young man asked hopefully, sliding a warm hand up his thigh.

  This gave him pause. Seregil touched the back of one hand to Wythrin’s cheek, savoring the faint roughness of it. This one, a favorite for some time now, had charms of his own, and talents that spared Seregil’s heart even as they satisfied his need. Wythrin, and others like him, offered safe, guiltless passion, free of obligation.

  “In a moment. There’s someone I need to talk to first.”

  He’d get Alec out of whatever jam he’d stumbled into, whether that sent him upstairs with Tirien or not, Seregil told himself sternly, then lose himself once more in Wythrin’s deep bed. It was as simple as that.

  Alec quickly realized that Tirien had no intention of being put off. His own increasingly embarrassed protestations that he had no experience in such matters only seemed to whet the courtesan’s interest. It wasn’t the first time Alec had run into this attitude; country virgins seemed to be a rare and much sought-after novelty in Rhíminee.

  For a fleeting instant it occurred to him that Tirien was attractive, but he dismissed the treacherous thought at once; that sort of thinking was not going to get him out of this mess.

  To his relief, he saw Seregil coming his way. Clearly amused, he gave Alec a discreet need help? sign. Alec answered with a quick nod.

  At that, Seregil strode up to them and slipped an arm around Alec’s waist. “There you are at last! Forgive me for intruding, Tirien. My friend and I have some business. Will you excuse us for a moment?”

  “Of course.” The young courtesan withdrew with a graceful bow, betraying only the faintest hint of disappointment.

  Alec braced for the inevitable ragging as they withdrew to the vestibule, but Seregil simply said, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I heard you singing. I mean, I thought it sounded like you and—well, I just came in.” Aside from the fact that he was stammering like an idiot, Alec was suddenly all too aware of the fact that Seregil’s arm was still around him. Strange, enticing scents clung to his friend’s skin and hair, unlike his usual clean smell. The troublesome new feelings stirred again, closer to the surface this time, but just as confusing. “I didn’t think to check the lantern. I just came in.”

  Seregil chuckled softly. “Curious as usual, eh? Well, now that you’re in, are you going to stay? Tirien’s an excellent choice. Azarin knows his business.”

  “No.” Alec glanced at the young prostitute, still waiting hopefully nearby, then hastily back to Seregil. There was no hint of challenge in his friend’s face, just bemusement. Why then, held in the calm gaze of those grey eyes, did his own agitation increase? The situation was well past his ability to explain.

  “No, I was just looking for you. I’d better go. This place makes me feel strange.”

  “There’s more than incense burning in those bowls. But I assume if you were just passing by, then you’re here on business of your own? Let’s see now, how long has it been?”

  “I was thinking of it,” Alec admitted. He could feel the warmth of Seregil’s skin through the thick silk of the robe now. “I don’t know—I might just go on home.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Seregil said, releasing him at last. “I was planning to go back upstairs, but that can wait.” The grin flashed again, and Alec abandoned all hope of escape. “There’s a place just down the street that’s probably more to your liking. And long overdue, too. I’ll be right back.”

  Returning to the main room, he said something to Tirien. The man gave Alec a last wistful look, then drifted away.

  Leaning in the shadow of the arch, Alec watched Seregil take leave of his companion, who was clearly dismayed by his departure. After a brief, animated exchange, Seregil pressed him back on the couch with a deep, lingering kiss, then disappeared up the stairs.

  He came down again a few moments later fully dressed, sword belt slung over one shoulder.

  “Come along,” he said jauntily, leading the way to a villa down the block.

  Well, at least there’s a pink lantern here, Alec thought, nervous again as Seregil urged him up the stairs.

  Seregil appeared to be well known here. A number of women greeted him enthusiastically as he led Alec into the salon. This establishment was quite similar to Azarin’s. Erotic tapestries and statuary adorned this room and lovely women in
various states of dishabille entertained their patrons, brilliant and lovely as rare birds.

  As they handed their cloaks and swords to a page, a richly dressed woman left a knot of conversation and rushed to embrace Seregil. Her skin, generously exposed by the blue silk gown she wore, had a golden olive tone Alec had never seen before. Thick black ringlets hung in a shining cascade to her waist.

  “Where have you been keeping yourself, you rogue,” she cried with obvious delight.

  “A million places, Eirual, my love, but none so pleasant as here,” Seregil replied, kissing her throat lasciviously.

  She laughed, then pushed him away, dark eyes widening in mock reproach. “I know that scent. You’ve been to Azarin’s already. How cruel you are, coming to me with your fires already spent.”

  “Spent? My fires?” Seregil caught her close again. “And when, my lovely one, have you ever known that to be the case?”

  “I’d like to put you to the test—upstairs.”

  “I accept your challenge gladly, madame, but first we have to find companionship for my young friend.”

  Alec had been gazing around the room during this exchange, his heart pounding in a manner even his old, Dalnan-bred self could find no argument with.

  “I think he’s found someone already,” Eirual said with an amused smile.

  Alec nodded shyly at a slender, blue-eyed brunette in burgundy silk. “She’s very pretty.”

  “Myrhichia?” Eirual shot Seregil an arch look as she summoned the woman. “He has excellent taste, this friend of yours.”

  “He hasn’t disappointed me yet,” Seregil replied, giving Alec a wink.

  Myrhichia glided over, wrapped in perfume and mystery. She was older than Alec had supposed, older than he, but that didn’t matter—there was something familiar about her, something that made him wave aside the offer of wine and let her lead him up the stairs to her room.

  It wasn’t until she turned to speak to him over her shoulder that he realized how much she resembled Seregil, or rather Seregil as he’d looked playing Lady Gwethelyn aboard the Darter. It was an unsettling revelation and he did his best to put it out of his mind as they entered her chamber. Looking around, Alec felt the last of his trepidation giving way to sensuous anticipation.

  A fire cracked invitingly on the hearth, its flames softly illuminating the small, elegant room. The bed was high and draped with patterned hangings. Huge cushions were piled near the hearth, together with a few oddly shaped stools. An elaborate washstand was half-visible behind a painted screen in a shadowy corner.

  Myrhichia stood demurely at the center of the room, offering him the choice of where to begin. “Does it please you?” she asked, cocking her head prettily.

  “Yes,” he whispered. Closing the door, he went to her and loosened the jeweled pin holding her hair. It tumbled free over her shoulders in dark, sandal wood-scented waves.

  Where his experience with Ylinestra had been out of his control from the first, this woman seemed content to let him direct things. He touched her face, her hair, then hesitantly brought his lips to hers. Her hands found his face, his shoulders, then slid slowly lower.

  The fastenings of her gown were no challenge for Alec’s expertly trained fingers; her clothes and his were soon in a pile at their feet.

  “Shall I light a lamp?” she whispered as he took her hungrily in his arms.

  He shook his head, pressing his body against the yielding roundness of breasts, belly, and thighs, letting the feel of her envelop him. “The fire’s enough.”

  Still holding her, he sank down onto the cushions by the hearth. The warring sensations of the long, confusing evening seemed to coalesce and clarify as he at last abandoned himself to the powerful simplicity of desire.

  Eirual was half Zengati, Aurënen’s traditional enemy. It was that, together with the dark beauty of her race, that had first attracted Seregil. Though hardly more than a girl at the time of their first meeting, she’d been a fiery lover and he’d entertained notions of taking her away for himself. She’d been the one who’d dashed that plan; she liked her work, she’d told him firmly. What’s more, she planned to own a brothel of her own one day, just as her mother and grandmother had before her. Although his pride had been somewhat jarred, Seregil had respected her wishes and over the years they’d become friends.

  She’d achieved her dreams. She was now the owner of one of the city’s finest and most nobly patronized pleasure houses. This often brought interesting bits of information her way and, though she was no gossiping whore, she was aware of Seregil’s supposed connections to Rhíminee’s mysterious “Cat” and had often found it lucrative to pass on certain facts and rumors.

  Their reunion this night had been spirited in spite of Seregil’s earlier activities. Afterward, they lay tangled together in the damp, disheveled sheets and laughed together over little things.

  Presently she sighed, then said, “You know, I saw something rather odd a few weeks ago.”

  “And what was that?” he murmured, contentedly admiring the contrast of his skin against hers as he stroked her thigh.

  “I entertained a new visitor last week, a stranger. He was well turned out and behaved himself, but I could tell from his way of speaking and the state of his hands he wasn’t upper class, just a common fellow who’d come into gold and meant to treat himself. You know the sort.”

  “But he was handsome and broad-shouldered and smelled of honest labor,” Seregil teased. “Sounds delightful. Let’s have him in.”

  “As if I’d share you! But I admit I was intrigued at first, though he turned out very ordinary in the end. No, I think you’d be more interested in what fell out of his coat than what fell out of his breeches.”

  “Oh?” Seregil raised a questioning eyebrow, knowing better than to hurry her. She always enjoyed spinning out a tale.

  “He’d thrown his clothes every which way, so when he was snoring afterward—which was all too soon, I might add—I decided to tidy up a bit. A letter fell from his coat when I picked it up. The ribbon had come loose and I took a quick peek. He stirred a moment later and I had to put it away, but I had time to recognize the handwriting, and the seal at the bottom.”

  “Did you, you clever girl? Whose was it?”

  “Lord General Zymanis’.”

  “Really?” Zymanis had recently been appointed to oversee the defenses of the lower city. “How do you know it wasn’t a forgery?”

  Eirual traced a playful finger around his navel. “Zymanis is a very dear friend of mine, as you well know. Two months ago he knocked his ring against that bedpost there behind you and chipped the stone seal. It was a tiny piece, really, but he made such a fuss over it! Quite spoiled the mood. This chip makes a tiny flaw in the impression, so tiny that most people wouldn’t even notice it. But I knew what to look for and it was his, all right. What do you think of that?”

  Seregil cupped her full breast in his hand like a goblet and kissed it reverently. “I think, in your place, I’d have found some way of inquiring where this lover of yours could be found again.”

  Eirual pressed closer with a luxuriant sigh. “Sailmaker Street in the lower city. A tenement with a red and white lintel. His name is Rythel, a big, blond fellow with a lovely soft beard, very handsome.”

  “And you don’t think this visitor of yours ought to have such a letter?”

  Eirual shook her head. “For starters, it was addressed to Lord Admiral Nyreidian. I’ve never met the admiral, but I’d bet a month’s gold he doesn’t have fresh calluses on his hands and stained fingernails.”

  “Or a yellow beard,” mused Seregil, thinking of the man he’d met at the Mourning Night ceremony. Nyreidian had spoken of his own commission from the Queen, too, overseeing privateering ships.

  “Zymanis wouldn’t let a fellow like this step on his shadow, much less write letters to him.” She gave him a sly sidelong glance. “I thought maybe your friend the Cat might be interested?”

  “He just migh
t.”

  “I could tell him myself,” she wheedled, not for the first time. Over the years the unseen Rhíminee Cat had taken on a glow of romance for many, who envied Seregil his apparently favored status.

  Seregil kissed his way slowly across her chest. “I’ve told you before, love, he’s not what you think. He’s a nasty, weedy little man who spends half his time wading through the sewers.”

  “Last time you said he was a hunchback,” she corrected, stroking his head.

  “That, too. That’s why he keeps out of sight, you see, because he’s so hideous. Why, his boils alone are enough—”

  “No more!” Eirual laughed, admitting defeat. “Sometimes I think you’re the Cat, and you just make all the rest up to hide it.”

  “Me? Wading through sewers and running errands for bored nobles?” He pinned her down, feigning outrage. “Fancy me mincing across the roof slates!”

  “Oh, yes,” Eirual gasped, giggling helplessly at the thought. “You’re the terror of the town.”

  “You’ve pegged me wrong, my girl. There’s only one thing I put that kind of effort into.”

  “And what’s that, may I ask?”

  Seregil leered down at her. “I’ll show you.”

  The candle had burned to a stub when he slipped from her bed.

  Eirual stirred drowsily. “Stay, love. I’ll be cold without you.”

  He drew the comforter up under her chin and kissed her. “I can’t tonight. I’ll send a nice present tomorrow.”

  “All right, then.” She smiled, already half asleep again. “Something with rubies and I might forgive you.”

  “Rubies it is.”

  He dressed quickly and blew out the candle. Closing her door quietly behind him, he headed for Myrhichia’s room down the corridor.

  He had to knock several times to get a response. She opened the door a few inches at last, peering out with a resentful pout.

  “He’s sleeping,” she informed him, pulling her dressing gown closed.