Summoning all his will, he managed to draw up his leg to reach his boot top. A sizzling haze of stars swam before his eyes, but practiced fingers found the grip of his poniard. With the last of his strength, he
drove it back between his assailant's ribs.
The big man let out a startled grunt, then crumpled over on top of him, still pinning him down.
Gasping for air, Seregil heaved the body aside and staggered to his feet.
"Illior's merciful today," he panted, bending to make certain the man was dead.
Something buzzed past his head like an angry wasp and he flung himself down, pulling his poniard free of the body. But it was Alec, another arrow ready on the string, who stepped from the trees. The boy's left thigh was bloody and he looked decidedly pale. Micum Cavish was with him, holding a bloodstained wad of cloth against his side.
"Behind you." Micum nodded past Seregil's shoulder.
Turning, Seregil found another ambusher sprawled dead in the snow not four feet from his back, a red-feathered arrow through his throat.
"Well," he gasped, standing up to brush off the snow, "I believe you just repaid me for that bow."
"By Sakor, this child can shoot!" Micum grinned.
"He just put me in his debt back at the road, then picked off two more as easy as you please. I saw another take off through the trees when Alec was coming over to tend me."
"Damn," Seregil muttered as he collected his weapons and searched the dead men scattered around.
"Get your arrow from that one, Alec."
Alec approached the dead man and gingerly tugged on the shaft protruding from his neck. As he pulled it free, the man's head rolled to the side, his open eyes seeming to fix on his killer. Alec backed away from him with a shudder, carefully wiping the arrowhead in the snow before dropping it into his quiver.
Back at the road they gathered the other bodies into a heap. Alec pulled the arrow from the first man he'd shot, but before he could clean it, Micum took it from him.
"That was your first man, wasn't it?" he asked.
"Micum, it's not his way," Seregil warned, knowing what his friend was up to.
"It's best to do these things proper," Micum replied quietly. "I did it for you, remember? It's you should be doing it for him."
"No, it's your ritual," Seregil sighed, slouching against a tree. "Go ahead, then. Get it over with."
"Come here, Alec. Stand facing me." Micum was uncommonly serious as he held up the arrow.
"There's a twofold purpose in this. The old ways, the soldier ways, say that if you drink the blood of your first man, none of the others you ever kill will be able to haunt you. Open your mouth."
Alec shot a questioning look to Seregil, who only shrugged and looked away. Under Micum's
commanding gaze, Alec opened his mouth. Micum laid the arrowhead briefly against his tongue, then withdrew it.
Seregil saw the boy grimace, remembered the salt and copper taste that had flooded his own mouth years before when Micum had done the same with him. His stomach stirred uneasily.
When it was over, Micum patted Alec's shoulder.
"I know you didn't enjoy that much, any more than you enjoyed killing those fellows. Just remember that you did it to protect yourself and your friends, and that's a good thing, the only good reason to kill. But don't ever get so that you like it, any more than you liked the taste of the blood. You understand that?"
Alec looked down at the steaming crimson stains spreading out from the bodies in the snow and nodded.
7 South to Boersby
In spite of his wound, Micum agreed with Seregil that they should bolt through as quickly as possible to Boersby. Giving wide berth to the few steadings and inns that lay along the road, they kept up a steady pace for as long as Micum could stay in the saddle, slept in the open, and ate whatever Alec shot. Micum's wound didn't fester, but it was giving him more pain than he cared to admit. More aggravating still, however, was Seregil's increasing silence during the day and a half it took to reach the banks of the Folcwine.
From past experience, Micum recognized this as a sure sign that something was amiss; Seregil's black mood could go on indefinitely if something didn't happen to shake him out of it.
They rode out of the forest at late afternoon and sat looking out over the broad course of the Folcwine.
Micum was bleeding again, and it left him faint and irritable.
"Bilairy's Guts, Seregil, come out with it before I knock you down!" he growled at last.
Scowling down at his horse's neck, Seregil muttered, "I wish we'd taken just one of them alive."
"One of-oh, hell, man! Are you still brooding about that?" Micum turned to Alec. "A nest of forest bandits-hardly a rarity in the Folcwine—surprises him, and instantly there's some dark plot afoot. I think he's just piqued that he didn't hear them coming."
Alec looked down at his hands, apparently finding it politic not to comment.
"All right, then." Seregil turned in the saddle to face Micum. "We searched the bodies. What did we find?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary," Micum snapped. "Not one solitary thing!"
"That's right. But think again, what did they have?"
Micum snorted with exasperation. "Cloaks, boots, belts, tunics, all local stuff."
"Swords and bows," Alec ventured.
"Locally made?"
"The bows were. I don't know about the swords."
"Looked to be," Micum said slowly, thinking back. "But what in the name of all-"
"Everything was new!" Seregil exclaimed, as if they should immediately understand. "Did they have gold, jewelry, fancy clothes?" he demanded. "Not a scrap! A little silver in their purses, but not so much as a luck charm or knucklebone otherwise. So what we're left with is a gang of ruffians in new local clothing, carrying new local weapons, who are either so inept at their trade or of such austere temperament that they forgo any of the usual adornments."
With that he sat glowering at the others, thin mouth twisted in an exasperated grimace.
He looks like a filthy young lordling berating dim-witted servants, thought Micum, again resisting the temptation to knock his friend off his horse.
Alec suddenly straightened in his saddle. "They weren't bandits at all. They were just rigged out to look like it!"
Seregil's features relaxed into something like a smile for the first time that day. "But more than that, they were foreign to the area. Otherwise, they'd have had no need to buy everything new."
"When we searched the bodies there weren't any guild marks, were there?" asked Alec. "You know, like that Juggler at Asengai's?"
"No, at least none that I recognized. But that may not be significant in itself."
Micum smiled to himself, watching them go over the details of the ambush again like two hounds on a fresh scent.
The boy was hooked for certain.
"So who are they?" he broke in at last.
"Plenimarans? Even if they tracked us, which I doubt, how could they get far enough ahead of us to set up an ambush?"
"I don't think they could," said Seregil. "These fellows were already in place, waiting for us."
Micum stroked down the corners of his heavy mustache. "But that still means they'd have to have gotten word of who we were and which way we were corning."
"That's right," Seregil agreed. "It could have been by magic, or pigeon. In any case, it means there's a good deal more afoot here than we thought. All the more reason for staying off the main roads and getting to Skala as soon as possible. Time may be shorter than we think."
"If the Overlord's forces—" Micum began, but Seregil cut him short with a quick glance toward Alec.
"Sorry, Alec," he said, "we trust you well enough, but we answer to others in this matter. It's probably safer this way anyhow."
Seregil looked up at the lowering clouds.
"We're losing the light fast, but we're too close to town for me to spend another night outside. What do you say, Micum? Are you well enough to pr
ess on?"
"Let's press on. You've got contacts there, don't you?"
"At the Tipsy Frog. We'll stay the night there."
The lamps were lit by the time they reached the town.
Unlike Wolde, Boersby was a rough and ragged wayside town consisting almost entirely of establishments catering to the traders. Jumbled together at the water's edge like thirsty cattle, inns, taverns, and warehouses competed for frontage with the long docks stretching out into the river.
With winter coming on, the town was crowded with the last rush of traders trying to make a profit before the roads closed until spring.
Seregil led the way to a dubious-looking hostelry at the edge of town. The battered signboard over the door displayed a bilious green creature—no doubt intended by the artist to be a frog—draining a hogshead.
A sizable crowd milled about in the dim confines of the main room, hollering back and forth and pounding on tables for service. A fire smoldered on the large hearth, filling the room with an eye-stinging haze. A heavy plank laid across two barrels served as the bar, and behind it stood a lean, pasty-faced man in a leather apron.
"Any rooms?" Seregil inquired, giving the taverner a discreet hand sign.
"Only got one left at the back, nothin' fancy," the taverner replied with a quick wink. "One silver penny per night, in advance."
With a curt nod Seregil tossed a few coins on the bar. "Send up some food-whatever you've got and lots of it—and water. We're just off the trail and hungry as wolves."
The room was hardly more than a lean-to built onto the back of the tavern. A sagging bedstead against the far wall, its linen hinting broadly of previous lodgers, was the only furnishing. A scruffy lad appeared a moment later with a candle stand and a covered firepot, closely followed by another with a platter of roast pork and turnips, and pitchers of ale and water.
A soft knock came at the door as they were eating.
It was the landlord this time. Without a word, he handed Seregil a bundle and left.
"Come along, Alec," said Seregil, tucking it under his arm. "Bring the pack. There's a bathhouse next door and I could do with a wash. What about you, Micum?"
"Good idea. I doubt I could stand the three of us in a closed room tonight." He rubbed a hand ruefully through the thick, coppery stubble on his cheeks. "I could do with a good shave, as well, not that either of you would understand!"
The bathhouse was a drafty establishment. After some determined haggling with the woman who owned it, Seregil saw to it that the two splintery wooden tubs the place boasted of were emptied of their murky contents and refilled with clean water. For an additional fee she heated two buckets of water to take off the chill. As they stripped down, she brought in towels and coarse yellow soap, then took their clothes away to be washed. No stranger to naked customers, she greeted Alec's hot-cheeked discomfort with open disdain.
"You've got to get over that, you know," Seregil remarked as he and Micum settled in their tubs.
"What?" Alec huddled closer to the room's tiny fire, waiting his turn.
"This modesty of yours. Or at least the blushing part."
Micum sank back with a sigh, letting the tepid water soften the crusted blood around his wound.
Seregil scrubbed himself quickly head to foot and climbed out again.
"All yours, Alec. Use the soap and have a care for your nails. I've a notion to elevate our station in life by tomorrow." He was shivering as he scrubbed the ragged towel over his hair and shoulders. "Illior's Hands!" he grumbled. "I swear when I get back to Rhнminee I'm going to head for the nearest civilized bath and stay there a week!"
"I've seen him fight through fire, blood, starvation, and magic," Micum remarked, speaking to nobody in particular, "but deny him a hot bath at the end of it and he fusses like a kept whore."
"A lot you'd know about that." Unrolling his bundle, Seregil shook out a coarse woolen dress and pulled it on over his head.
Alec gaped in astonishment, and Seregil give him a wink. "Time for another lesson, I think."
He quickly plaited his hair back into a loose braid and pulled a few strands free to hang untidily around his face. Greyish powder from small pouch dulled his hair and skin. Unwrapping the rest of the bundle, he pulled out a huge striped shawl, battered wooden clogs, and a leather girdle. Satisfied with his work, he tucked the smallest of his daggers out of sight under his belt and turned away for a moment, rearranging his body beneath the loose gown to give the impression of the stooped frailty of age. When he turned back again, Alec and Micum saw an unremarkable little servant woman.
"Would the two gentlemen be good enough to give an opinion?" Seregil asked in an old woman's voice
heavy with the soft accent of Mycena.
Micum gave his nodded approval. "Well met, gramma. Where are you off to in that getup?"
"Less said, less heard," Seregil replied, going to the door. "I'm off to see which way the wind blows. If anyone asks, just say I had other clothes, which of course," he added, dropping a rusty curtsy and flashing his best crooked grin, "I do!"
When their clothes came back, Alec and Micum returned to their room at the Frog. The candles were lit and the firepot glowed cheerfully on its tripod in the center of the room.
"How's your side feel now?" Alec asked.
"Better, but I'll rest easier on the floor," Micum said, eyeing the sagging ropes showing beneath the bed frame. "Just be a good lad and help me make up a pallet with the cloaks here next to the door."
Alec laid down blankets and cloaks for him and Micum sat down gratefully, sword across his knees.
"Bring your sword over and I'll show you how to keep a proper edge on it," he invited, taking out a pair of whetstones.
They worked in silence for a while, listening to the singing of metal against stone. Bone-tired, Alec was grateful to find Micum a person easy to be quiet with. The man's uncomplicated good nature demanded no idle chatter.
He was rather startled, therefore, when Micum said without looking up from his task, "You're as quiet as a stump. You might not think it, but I'm just as nosy as Seregil in my way."
When Alec hesitated, he continued, not unkindly,
"I never imagined him taking on an apprentice at all, and certainly not a simple young woods colt like you. Not that I mean any offense, mind you. It's just that you've more the look of a gamekeeper's son than a spy. So tell me, what do you think of our friend?"
"Well, to be honest, I'm not quite sure what to think. From the first he's treated me like—as if—" He stopped in confusion; he'd seldom been consulted about his opinions, and had to search for the words to frame them. Besides, while Micum's open, jovial manner invited candor, it was clear that he and Seregil were close friends.
"It's as if he knows all about me," he managed at last. "And sometimes like he assumes I know all about him. He's saved my life, clothed me, taught me all sorts of things. It's just that every so often it occurs to me that I don't know much about him. I tried asking him about his home, his family—that sort of thing—but he just smiles and changes the subject. He's good at that."
Micum gave a knowing chuckle.
"Anyway," Alec continued, "he seems to think he can make me into whatever it is that he is, but it makes me nervous sometimes. I don't know enough about him to know what he expects of me! You're his friend and all, and I wouldn't ask you to break a confidence, but isn't there something you can tell me about him?"
"Oh, I think so." Micum ran a thumbnail along the edge of his sword blade. "We first met years ago up near the Gold Vein River. We got on well enough and when he went south to Rhнminee again, I went with him.
"He has an old friend there, Nysander, and it was from him that I learned most of what I know about our closemouthed friend. Where he came from and why he left is for him to tell you. I don't know much of it myself, except that he has some degree of noble blood that connects him to the Skalan court. He was hardly older that you are now when he came to Skala, but he'd seen som
e trouble already. Nysander's a wizard, and he took Seregil on as an apprentice. It must not have worked out, though—Seregil's no wizard, for all his tricks with animals—but they've stayed friends. You'll meet him when you get there. Seregil always visits him first thing when he comes home from a jaunt."
"A wizard! What's he like?"
"Nysander? He's a good old soul, kind as the Maker on a summer's day. A lot of the other wizards act pretty grand and mighty, but let old Nysander get a drink or two in him and he's likely to start conjuring green unicorns or setting the knives to dancing with the spoons, for all that he's one of the old ones."
"Old ones?"
"Wizards live as along as Aurлnfaie, and Nysander's been around a good long time. He must be pushing three hundred these days. He knew Queen Idrilain's grandmother, and Idrilain's a grandmother herself now. He's a great favorite of hers. She has him to her chambers frequently, and he's always at banquets."
"Seregil said there were a lot of wizards at Rhнminee."
"There's a whole place full of them, called the Orлska House—though it's more like a castle than a house. Like I was saying, a lot of them are pretty full of themselves and take him for a doddering old fool, snub him even. But you just wait until you meet him, then make up your own mind. As for Seregil, don't worry about him. He's not the trusting type, so if he's chosen to take you along with him, you can be sure he's pleased with you—whatever his reasons. One thing I can tell you for certain is that he'll lay down his life for a friend, and never leave a comrade in the lurch."
"Never."
"He may tell you different—and once you see how he lives in Rhнminee, you may wonder—but I know him and he's as true as the sun in the sky. The one thing he can't forgive is betrayal; you'll do well to remember that. Somewhere, back before he came to Skala, someone betrayed him badly somehow and it's left a mark on him for life. He'll kill anyone who betrays him."
Alec mulled this over for a moment, then asked, "What's Rhнminee like?"
"It's the most beautiful city in the world. It's also rotten with intrigue. The royal family has more branches than a willow and they're always scheming against each other for a higher place on the tree.
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