Luck in the Shadows n-1

by Lynn Flewelling

  The lily-shaped capitals of the marble columns supported a carved pediment and dome.

  Inside the colonnade, concentric circles of marble formed a series of steps leading down to the clear water welling up from a deep cleft in the rock below.

  Kneeling, they pulled off their gloves and dipped up handfuls of sweet, icy water.

  "You're shivering," Alec noted with concern. "We should've ridden."

  "Walking's the best thing for me." Seregil sat back on the step and wrapped his cloak around him.

  "Remember this night, Alec. Drink it in and commit it to memory! Your first night on the streets of Rhнminee!"

  Settling beside him, Alec looked out at the wild beauty of the night and let out a happy sigh. "It feels like the beginning of something, all right, even though we've been here a week."

  He paused, and Seregil saw that he was staring toward the Street of Lights. Across the circle, the dark outline of the archway and the colorful twinkle of lights beyond shone invitingly.

  "I meant to ask you about something the other day," Alec said. "I'd forgotten about it until just now."

  Seregil grinned at him in the darkness.

  "Regarding what lies beyond that arch, I presume?

  The Street of Lights, it's called. I guess you can see why."

  Alec nodded. "A man told me the name the other day. Then he made some joke when I asked what the different colors mean."

  "Said if you had to ask you were too young to know?"

  "Something like that. What did he mean?"

  "Beyond those walls, Alec, lie the finest brothels and gambling establishments in Skala."

  "Oh." There was enough light for him to see the boy's eyes widen a little as he noted the number of riders and carriages passing under the arch.

  "Oh, indeed."

  "But why are the lights different colors? I can't make out any pattern."

  "They aren't meant for decoration. The color of the lanterns at each gate indicates the sort of pleasures the house purveys. A man wanting a woman would look for a house with a rose-colored light. If it's male company he craves, then he'd choose one showing the green lamp. It's the same for women: amber for male companionship, white for female."

  "Really?" Alec stood up and walked to the far side of the fountain for a better view. When he turned back to Seregil he looked rather perplexed. "There are almost as many of the green and white ones as there are the others."

  "Yes?"

  "Well, it's just that—"

  Alec faltered. "I mean, I've heard of such things, but I didn't think they could be so-so common. Things are a lot different here than in the north."

  "Not so much as you might think," Seregil replied, heading off again in the direction of the Street of the Sheaf. "Your Dalnan priests frown on such couplings, I understand, claiming they're unproductive—"

  Alec shrugged uncomfortably, falling into step beside him. "They would be that."

  "That depends on what one intends to produce," Seregil remarked with a cryptic smile. "Illior instructs us to take advantage of any situation; I've always found that to be a most productive philosophy."

  When Alec still looked dubious, Seregil clapped him on the shoulder in mock exasperation. "By the Four, haven't you heard the saying, "never spurn the dish untasted"? And here you haven't even had a smell of the kitchen yet! We've got to get you back there, and soon."

  Alec didn't reply, but Seregil noticed him glance back over his shoulder several times before they were out of sight of the lights.

  Though they kept their hoods drawn, the occasional glimpses Alec got of his companion's face showed that Seregil was delighted to be back in his own element.

  At the Harvest Market. Seregil ducked briefly into a potter's shop. A moment later he was out again without explanation, leading the way into a neighborhood of modest shops and taverns crowded together along the edge of the square. Turning several corners in quick succession, they came out on a small lane marked with a fish painted some dark color.

  "There it is," Seregil whispered, pointing to a large inn across the way. "We move quietly from here."

  A low wall enclosed the inn's small yard and Alec saw that bronze statues of the inn's namesake, a cockerel, were set on either side of the front gate, each clutching a glowing lantern in one upraised claw.

  The Cockerel was a prosperous, well-kept establishment, square built of stone and wood, and three stories high. The small windows on the upper levels were shuttered, but the two large windows overlooking the front court let out a welcoming flood of light through their leaded bull's-eye panes.

  "Looks like a busy night," Seregil noted quietly, keeping to the shadows as he led the way into the stable that ran along the left wall of the courtyard.

  A young man with a disheveled mop of coarse red hair looked up from the harness he was mending as they came in. Smiling, he raised a hand in greeting.

  Seregil returned the gesture and continued on between the stalls.

  "Who is that?" Alec asked, puzzled by the man's silence.

  "That's Rhiri. He's deaf, mute, and absolutely loyal. Best servant I ever found." Stopping at a back stall, Seregil paused to inspect a rough-coated bay with a white snip.

  "Hello, Scrub!" he said, patting the animal's shaggy flank. The horse nickered, craning his neck around to nuzzle at Seregil's chest.

  "Where is it?" Seregil teased, throwing his cloak open.

  Scrub sniffed at the pouches at his belt and butted at one on the right. Seregil produced the prize, an apple, and the horse munched contentedly, occasionally rubbing his head against his master's shoulder.

  A restless shuffling of hooves came from the next stall.

  "I haven't forgotten you, Cynril," Seregil said, pulling another apple from the pouch as he stepped around. A large black mare tossed her head and pinned him against the side of the stall as he entered.

  "Get over, you nag!" Seregil wheezed, whacking her on the haunch to shift her. "She's half Aurлnfaie, but her disposition certainly doesn't give it away." Despite this, he rubbed the horse's head and nose with obvious affection.

  At the back of the stable, a wide door let out into a larger yard behind the inn. A smaller wing at the back of the building housed the kitchen; bright light from an open doorway shone across the paving flags, and with it came the inviting smells and dm of a busy kitchen. To the left of this door was a second, much broader one where casks and barrels of provender were delivered, the remainder of the ground level, and the stories above, were windowless. A lean-to sheltered a well and a wood stack at the angle of the building. The courtyard walls were much higher here, and the broad gateway was stoutly barred for the night.

  Slipping inside, Seregil pointed across the crowded kitchen to a stooped old woman leaning on a stick in front of the enormous hearth.

  "There's Thryis. She runs the place," he said, putting his mouth close to Alec's ear.

  Thryis' heavy face was deeply seamed with age and her braid was the color of iron. In spite of the heat, she wore a thick embroidered shawl over her woolen gown. The briskness of her voice belied her gnarled appearance, however. Rapping out orders over the hectic clatter from the scullery, she kept servers, cooks, and kitchen maids scurrying about under her shrill direction.

  She seemed strangely familiar to Alec; after a moment's puzzled thought he realized that she must have been the model for the disguise Seregil had assumed when he booked their passage in Boersby.

  "How many leeks did you put into the stew, Cilia?" she was demanding of a buxom young woman stirring a pot. "It smells weak to me. It's not too late to add another. And a pinch more salt.

  "Kyour, you lazy pup, get that platter out there! Those draymen will box your ears for you if you make them wait any longer for their supper, and so will I! Has the wine gone out to the merchants in the side room?

  "Cilia, has it?"

  Everyone in the kitchen seemed accustomed to their mistress' sharp tongue and bustled about their duties with an
air of busy contentment. Cilia, the apparent second in command, moved serenely among the servants, pausing occasionally to look into a cradle near the hearth.

  Motioning for Alec to follow, Seregil made his way around the long tables without either of the busy women noticing his approach. Coming up behind Thryis, he surprised her with a quick peck on the cheek.

  "By the Flame," she exclaimed, pressing her free hand to her cheek. "So here you are at last!"

  "It's only been half a year," Seregil replied, smiling down on her.

  "If only you'd sent word I'd have had something special for you! All we have tonight is red fire beef and lamb stew. The bread is fresh, though, and Cilia's made mince tarts. Cilia, fetch a plate of tarts for him to start with while I put together something."

  "There's no need for that just yet. Both of you come into the lading room for a moment."

  Catching sight of Alec, Thryis paused and looked him over with a sharp eye. "Who's this?"

  "I'll explain in a moment." Taking a small lamp from the mantel, Seregil led Alec and the two women through a side door into the lading room. The broad door Alec had seen from the outside stood barred at their left. To the right, a wooden stairway led to the second floor.

  "Thryis, Cilia, this is Alec," Seregil told them when he'd closed the kitchen door.

  "He'll be living upstairs now."

  "Welcome to the Cockerel, Lord Alec,"

  Cilia greeted him with a warm smile.

  "It's just Alec," he said quickly, liking her kind face at once.

  "Is that so?" Thryis said, giving him a decidedly sharp look, though Alec couldn't imagine why she should be suspicious of him.

  "Alec's a friend," Seregil told her. "Everyone here will accord him the same respect that they do me, which in your case is little enough. He'll come and go as he pleases and you'll answer no questions about him to anyone. Inform Diomis and the others."

  "Just as you wish, sir." Thryis gave Alec a final dubious glance. "Your rooms are just as you left them. Shall I send up wine?"

  "Yes, and some cold supper." Turning back to Cilia, Seregil wrapped an arm about her waist, making her blush. "I see you've regained your maidenly shape. How's the baby?"

  "Young Luthas is well. He's a sweet one, no trouble at all."

  "And the business?"

  Thryis pulled a long face. "A bit slack. But Festival time isn't far off. I'll have an accounting ready for you in the morning."

  "Don't trouble yourself." Seregil turned to head up the stairs, then paused. "Is Ruetha around?"

  "That animal!" Thryis rolled her eyes.

  "Disappeared soon as you left, same as always. I even put out cream for her this time, but the ungrateful wretch never showed so much as a whisker. Now that you're back, she'll probably be in by breakfast like always."

  "Thryis never changes," Seregil said with a hint of fondness, leading Alec up the back stairs.

  "Whether I've been gone for two days or six months, she always tells me I should have let her know I was coming, which I never do; apologizes for the menu, which is never necessary; promises an accounting, which I never look at; and then complains about my cat."

  At the second floor, the stairs turned sharply and continued up to what appeared to be an attic. A short, dimly lit corridor, broken only by a few closed doors, ran in the direction of the main building.

  "That door at the end opens into the main inn." Seregil pointed down the hall. "It's kept locked at all times. This door closest to us is a storeroom, the next are the rooms of Diomis and the women. Diomis is Thryis' son and Cilia is his daughter."

  "What about Cilia's husband?" Alec asked.

  "No woman ever needed a husband to have a baby. There was talk of conscription last year, and Cilia simply made certain she wouldn't be eligible. She even offered me the honor, which I politely declined. Sometime later she turned up with a big belly. Thryis was a sergeant in her younger days, and none too pleased with her granddaughter, but the damage was already done, so to speak. Now come this way and pay close attention. I have a few things to show you."

  The attic stairway was steep. Holding up the small lamp, Seregil went halfway up and pointed to the bare plastered wall on the left.

  "Listen and watch the wall," he said softly. " Etuis miдra koriatьan cyris."

  For a brief second, Alec caught the soft glow of magical symbols like those he'd seen at the Orлska House. They were gone too quickly for him to see them clearly or be certain of how many there had been, but as they vanished a narrow section of the wall swung back like a door. Seregil motioned him through, then closed the door firmly after and continued up a precariously steep set of steps ending at a blank wall. At the top of the stairs Seregil stopped and said, " Clarin, magril, nodense."

  Another door appeared and Alec felt air moving against his face as they stepped into a cold, dusty room.

  "Almost there," Seregil whispered. "Watch your step."

  Picking their way among the crates and boxes jumbled around the floor, they reached the far wall.

  "Here we are. Bфkthersa!»

  A third door opened in the seemingly blank wall, revealing another dark room beyond.

  "Welcome to my humble abode," Seregil said, ushering him through with a crooked grin.

  Stepping in, Alec barked his shin against a stone basilisk beside the door. Reaching out to steady himself, he felt thick wall hangings beneath his hand. He could make out little in the darkness, but this place smelled of things more exotic than dust.

  "Better stay put until I get some more light," Seregil advised. The little lamp bobbed this way and that as he crossed the room, revealing tantalizing glimpses of polished wood and patterned carpet. Suddenly it jogged to one side and Alec heard the sound of something heavy falling over, immediately followed by a muffled curse. The light bobbed precariously, then came to rest on a cluttered mantelpiece where its light was reflected in a hundred hues by a pile of jewels spilling from a half-open box that stood there.

  Rummaging around for a moment, Seregil found a jar of fire stones and shook one out onto the wood laid ready on the hearth. Flames crackled up at once and he went around the room lighting candles and lamps.

  Alec stepped forward with a soft exclamation of wonder as the room brightened. The place glowed with the rich colors of tapestries and easily rivaled Nysander's workroom in the variety and disorder of its contents. Slowly turning about, he tried to take it all in.

  Shelves packed with books and racks of scrolls covered half the wall opposite the door. More books were stacked on the dining table that stood in the center of the room, and still more on the mantel. An immense carpet woven in patterns of red, blue, and gold lay between the central table and the hearth. Rush matting covered the rest of the floor.

  Spaced along the wall to his right were two small windows facing out over the back court; a small writing desk stood under the right-hand one, the pigeon holes in its low back holding a neat collection of pens, inks, drawing quills, rolls of vellum and parchment, and wax tablets. The desk, along with most of the other furniture in the room, was made of a pale wood inlaid with darker bands along the edges.

  The design, pleasing in its simplicity, was noticeably different from the ornate furnishings of the Orлska.

  A long, scarred table beneath the second window was littered with locks, tools, stacks of books, what appeared to be a small forge, and dozens of half-assembled things that defied immediate description.

  Shelves holding a bewildering assortment of objects framed the window and filled the remaining wall. More locks, more tools, rough chunks of metal and wood, and a number of devices whose uses Alec could not guess were mixed indiscriminately among masks, carvings, musical instruments of all descriptions, animal skulls, dried plants, fine pottery, glittering crystals-there was no rhyme or reason apparent in the arrangement.

  A broad collar of gold and rubies caught the light from the lamp on the desk, sending ruddy spangles of light across a large lump of baked mud tha
t might have been either a crude bowl or some sort of nest.

  On the section of wall that jutted into the room to the left of the entrance hung a collection of weapons, mostly swords and knives, apparently chosen for their unusual design and ornamentation. Beyond it, near

  the corner, was another door. Trunks and chests stood everywhere-along the base of walls, stacked in corners, under tables. Statues peered out from odd corners some lovely, some grotesque.

  Eclectic to the point of eccentricity, the overall effect of the room was nevertheless one of warmth and cluttered, haphazard grace.

  "This is like the Orлska House museum!" Alec exclaimed, shaking his head. "Where did you ever get all this?"

  "Stole some of it." Seregil settled on the couch in front of the fire. "That statue by the front door came from an ancient temple Micum and I unearthed for Nysander, up in the eastern foothills of the Asheks. That one there by the bedroom door was the gift of an admirer." He pointed out a beautifully rendered mermaid of marble and green jade. The sea maiden rose from the crest of a wave that partially covered her scaled lower body, one hand across her breast, the other sweeping her heavy hair back from her face.

  "The red tapestry there between the bookcases I found among the possessions of a Zengati bandit I killed after he ambushed me," Seregil continued, looking around.

  "Those locks over the table? You'll get to know those well enough before I'm done with you. As for the rest—"

  He gave a rather rueful smile. "Well, I'm a bit of a magpie. I just can't resist anything unusual or shiny.

  Most of it's trash, really. I keep meaning to chuck most of it out. The only thing of true value is one you can take away with you in a hurry."

  "At least there aren't any crawling hands." Alec glanced over at the shelves again. "Are there?"

  "I'm no more fond of that sort of thing than you are, believe me."

  Still gazing around, it occurred to Alec that something was wrong with the room.

  "The windows!" He leaned over the desk to look out.

  "I didn't see any windows from outside."

  "Nysander did an obscuration on them, like with the scar on my chest," explained Seregil. "The windows are undetectable from the outside, unless you happened to climb out through one. And even then it would look like you were coming out the side of the building."