"Death." It was hardly a whisper, but the Oracle repeated it, more loudly this time. There was no mistaking it. "Death! Death, and life in death. The eater of death gives birth to monsters. Guard you well the Guardian! Guard well the Vanguard and the Shaft!"
Eyes momentarily sane, the Oracle handed it back to Seregil. "Burn this and make no more," he warned darkly, crushing it against Seregil's palm. "Obey Nysander!"
The mystical intelligence drained away as quickly as it had come, leaving the Oracle as blank as an idiot child. Creeping back to his pallet, he retrieved the harp peg from under the blanket. The sound of his contented humming followed Seregil far down the dark corridor.
As he rode back to the Cockerel, Seregil wondered dourly if he was any further ahead than before. The Oracle's mention of Alec had taken him aback, although the messages seemed clear enough, particularly the reference to earth and light. As for the little rhyme, «father» and «brother» must have been meant figuratively, for such a blood relationship was clearly impossible. But "friend," certainly.
That left lover. Seregil shifted irritably in the saddle; evidently oracles were not infallible.
Shrugging the matter off, he turned his thoughts to the troubling gibberish elicited by the drawing. How was he to heed what was so obviously a warning unless he knew what the "eater of death" was, much less guard who or whatever the Guardian, Shaft, and Vanguard were?
Under normal circumstances, Nysander would be his first recourse for advice, but that was out of the question now. Cursing in frustration, he let himself in through the kitchen at the Cockerel and went upstairs.
One lamp still burned on the mantel, but the fire had gone out. The room was frigid.
"Damn, damn, damn!" he muttered, crossing to the hearth to lay on more wood. As the flames sprang up, he discovered Alec asleep on the narrow couch behind him.
He lay curled up in a tight ball, one arm bent beneath his head, the other hanging down to the floor and pale with cold. Ruetha had tucked herself up against his belly, tail folded around her nose.
What's he doing out here?
Seregil frowned down at the two of them, irked to think that Alec would be too bashful to take advantage of a proper bed. As he bent to spread his cloak over the boy, he was surprised to see the traces of dried tears on Alec's cheek.
Something to do with his father? he wondered, mystified and somewhat distressed at the thought of Alec crying.
Retiring to his own chamber, he undressed in the dark and slipped gratefully between the fresh sheets.
But sleep didn't come with its usual ease. Lying there in the darkness, Seregil rubbed absently at the hidden scar and reflected that, on the whole, his life seemed to be in greater disarray than usual.
21 Swords and Etiquette
Seregil stored away the mystery of the Oracle's words and launched back into Rhнminee life..
News that the Rhнminee Cat had reappeared spread quickly, and intrigue jobs for various nobles-together with inquiries on Nysander's behalf were plentiful enough to keep him out most nights.
Alec clearly resented being left behind, but Seregil was not ready to expose the boy to the dangers of the city just yet. Instead, he did his best to make it up to him during the day, showing him wonders and drilling him endlessly in the myriad skills necessary for survival in their precarious profession.
Swordplay was paramount, and they spent most mornings practicing in the upstairs sitting room, bare feet scuffing softly over the rush matting as they circled slowly, moving through the basic blocks and parries with wooden practice battens.
Unfortunately, these proved to be the most grueling lessons. Alec was old to be just starting and, hard as the boy worked, progress was discouragingly slow.
The only other subjects Seregil pursued on any regular basis were reading and lock work.
Otherwise, he tended to proceed in whatever direction caught his fancy at the moment. One day they might spend several hours poring over scrolls of royal lineage or sifting through the gems in the chest from the mantelpiece, Alec wide-eyed as Seregil extolled their properties and how to value them. Another day they might traipse off in disguise to practice with a band of market acrobats who knew Seregil as Wandering Kail. Dressed in gaudy tatters and besmudged with dirt, Alec watched gleefully as Seregil juggled, walked ropes, and mugged for the crowd.
Alec's own clumsy first efforts were greeted as inspired clowning.
Often they simply walked the labyrinthine streets of the city, exploring its various wards and markets. Seregil had small bundles of necessities stashed in disused attics and sheds all over Rhнminee, kept against the event that he should have to go to ground quickly.
Gradually, Seregil introduced Alec to more clandestine procedures—a little innocent housebreaking, or making a game of evading the notice of the Harbor Watch in the rough byways of the Lower City.
As the weeks passed, Alec realized that aside from certain rapidly diminishing ethical qualms, he had never been happier. The dark days in Mycena were quickly fading to uncomfortable memories and Seregil, healthy and back in his favorite setting, was once again the wry, dashing figure who'd first captured his imagination.
In spite of the odd hours they kept, Alec found it difficult not to break the habit of rising with the sun. Seregil was seldom awake that early, so he'd slip quietly downstairs to break his fast with the innkeeper's family.
The kitchen was an agreeable place at that hour.
Whatever misgivings Thryis might have had about him that first night, she had soon taken to Alec and made him welcome in the group that gathered around the scrubbed oak table each morning.
Savoring the fragile peace that lingered before the onset of each day's work, Diomis, Cilia, and Thryis planned the day's meals while Cilia suckled her baby. The sight of her round, bared breast made Alec blush at first, but he soon came to regard it as one of the simple pleasures of the day.
As far as Seregil's «lessons» went, there seemed to be an inexhaustible variety of unrelated matters to master. Reading, lock work, and so forth all made sense, but his insistence on Alec's mastery of such things as etiquette was something of a surprise.
One night, after the shutters were up and the day servants dismissed, Seregil dressed them both in voluminous formal robes and took him down to the kitchen for supper.
"There's more to disguise than changing your clothing,"
Seregil lectured as they sat down. "You must know the manners proper to any situation, or all the decking out in the world won't carry off your ruse. Tonight we dine among the nobles at a fine villa on Silvermoon Street, attended by servants."
Cilia and Thryis bowed gravely to them from the hearth. Bluff, bearded Diomis grinned as he dandled his grandson on his knee. "Old mother here was head cook to some of the finest houses in Rhнminee before Lord Seregil stole her away. You won't find better fare at a prince's table. Mind you show appreciation though, young sir, or she's like to crack you on the pate with a ladle. It's a risky thing, I always say, eating in sight of the cook."
"Consider yourself duly warned." Seregil drew Alec's attention to the dishes. "We'll begin with the table service."
The green-glazed plates and bowls seemed thin as eggshell to Alec. Each one was lightly etched with an intricate circular design at the center.
Small cups of similar design stood to the right of each plate.
"This is Ylani porcelain. Very delicate, very costly, and made only in a small town in the northern foothills near Ceshlan. Notice how translucent it is, held to the light; the green tint is in the overglaze. The simple design at the center of each piece is the traditional stylized marigold, always considered tasteful and correct. However, it also shows that your host did not spend the extra time and money to have a set made in his personal design. This could indicate several things.
"He is, perhaps, not as wealthy as he wishes to appear. On the other hand, he might simply be conservative or uninspired in such matters. Or it could be that he's
entertaining you on his second-best service, which is another thing altogether. You'd have to investigate further to sort out which.
"The use of this porcelain does portend the sort of dinner you will have, however. Only fish is served on it, never meat. Please note that a table knife is provided in addition to a spoon; never eat with your own dagger. The wine is Mycenian, a very fine variety called Golden Smoke. This betokens shellfish of some sort, for nothing else would be served with such a wine. Send in the first course, my good woman!"
Doing her best to look grave, Cilia set a broad, shallow dish before them. In it half a dozen spherical things roughly the size of a fist sat in a few inches of water. They were a dark greenish-black and bristled with nasty spines that waved slowly about.
"This is a shell fish?" Alec asked, poking dubiously at the closest one.
"There are many types," Seregil replied. "These are urchins. Children pick the smaller varieties from the tide pools along the shore and sell them by the basketful in the markets. These larger ones are brought in by fishermen who lower traps for crabs and lobsters. Just about everyone in Rhнminee eats them; the trick is to do it the right way according to your surroundings. First, let's see how you'd do it."
Alec looked at him in disbelief. "As they are? Seregil, those things are still moving!"
Thryis snorted derisively from the hearth, but Seregil motioned her to silence. "Cooking spoils both the flavor and the texture. Go on! I wouldn't give it to you if it wasn't edible."
Still doubtful, Alec pulled the smallest urchin gingerly from the bowl by one of its spines. Halfway to his plate the spine pulled loose and he ended up juggling the prickly horror the rest of the way with both hands. Once he had the thing where he wanted it, he rolled it this way and that with his spoon, wondering how to proceed. Discovering an opening of sorts on the underside, he tried prying at it with the tip of his knife. The shell immediately crushed into fragments under the blade. Water, broken spines, and bits of soft grey and yellow matter splattered up the front of his robe.
"Excellent!" Seregil laughed, tossing him a napkin. "Whenever you present yourself as an inland noble on his first visit to the coast, do it just that way. I've never yet seen anyone get through their first urchin without smashing it to bits. Now, if you were in some local tavern, posing as a workman or farmer in for market day, you'd do it like this."
Picking an urchin out of the dish with a light, sure touch, Seregil cracked it against the edge of the table and pulled back the fragments of shell to expose the contents.
"These grey bits here are the body. You don't eat that," he explained, scraping them out with a finger. With them came a conical ring of white fragments that looked like tiny carved birds. "And those are the teeth. It's the yellow parts you're after, the roe."
Plucking out several slender, gelatinous lobes, Seregil ate them with apparent relish.
"I got them at the docks early this morning," Cilia told him. "I made the fisherman give me a bucket of seawater and kept them down the well all day."
"Lovely flavor!" Seregil tossed the emptied shell into the fire behind him. Wiping his hands and lips with a
napkin, he said, "Those are tavern manners and they'll serve well anywhere outside the Noble Quarter, provided you want to be taken for a common sort. However, we are dining in Silvermoon Street, as you recall, and here they will not do at all. Observe.
"First, the hanging sleeves of a formal robe are pushed—never rolled—halfway back to the elbow, no farther. You may place your left elbow on the table, never the right, although it's generally acceptable to rest your wrist on the edge. Food is handled with the thumb and first two fingers of each hand; fold the others under, like so. Good. Now pick up the urchin with your left hand, handling it lightly, and hold it so you can see the mouth. Now, crack the shell with a single sharp stroke of your knife. Once it's open, clean out the waste with the tip of your knife, then use your spoon to scoop out the roe. The empty shell goes on your plate. Never speak with a full mouth. If anyone addresses you, simply curve a finger in front of your lips and finish what's in your mouth before answering."
Alec managed to puncture himself badly on the spines before he mastered the art of handling the things, and his fingers kept cramping from being held back so unnaturally. The roe, when he finally managed to extract a few intact lobes, had an unpleasantly viscous texture in his mouth and it's salty sweet flavor was revolting. Relying heavily on the pale, oak-flavored wine, he managed to get two down before his stomach rebelled.
Grimacing, he pushed his plate away.
"These are awful! I've found better eating under rotten logs."
"You don't care for them?" Seregil deftly split his fourth urchin. "We'll have to cultivate your tastes, I'm afraid. In Rhнminee, just about anything that comes out of the sea is considered a delicacy. Perhaps you'll find this next course more to your liking." He motioned to Cilia. "Have you ever tried octopus?"
As the weeks passed, Seregil remained frustrated by Alec's poor progress at swordplay. The situation finally came to a head during one of their morning sessions a month or so after their arrival.
"Keep your left side back backslash was he chided for the fifth time in half an hour, giving the offending shoulder a sharp poke with his wooden blade.
"Stepping forward like that after you block gives your opponent twice the target. Your enemy has only to do this—"
Seregil slapped Alec's blade smartly aside and feigned a cut across the boy's belly. "And there you are, holding your guts in your hands!"
Alec silently positioned himself again, but Seregil could see the tension in his stance. The boy turned his next feint clumsily, then brought his shoulder around again as he tried a counterattack.
Before he could stop himself, Seregil parried and gave him a sharp tap across the neck. "You're dead again."
"Sorry," Alec mumbled, wiping the sweat out of his eyes.
Seregil cursed himself silently. In all the time he'd known him, this was the first time he'd seen the boy look defeated. Fighting down his own impatience, he tried again. "It's not natural to you yet, that's all. Try imagining how you'd hold yourself pulling a bow."
"You hold the bow with your left hand and draw with your right," Alec corrected. "That puts your right shoulder back."
"Oh, yes. Well, let's hope that you end up better at swordplay than I ever did at archery. Now, once again."
Alec managed to parry an overhead swing but followed it with another unsuccessful counter.
Seregil's wooden blade caught him hard at the base of the throat and drew a few drops of blood.
"By the—Oh, damn!" Breaking his batten in two over his knee, Seregil tossed the pieces aside and inspected the jagged scratch on the boy's neck.
"Sorry," Alec repeated, staring over Seregil's shoulder, toned again."
"I'm not angry with you. As for that—"
He motioned toward the fragments of the batten. "That's just to break the bad luck. Cursed be the weapon that tastes the blood of a friend. Let's have a look at the rest of the damage."
Alec tugged the sweat-soaked jerkin off over his head and Seregil inspected the bruises scattered darkly over his chest, arms, and ribs.
"That's what I thought. Illior's Fingers, we're doing something wrong! You've caught on to everything else so quickly."
"I don't know," Alec sighed, dropping into a chair. "I guess I'm hopeless as a swordsman."
"Don't say that," Seregil chided. "Clean yourself up while I fetch lunch. I've an idea or two how we can help you."
Seregil returned from the kitchen with a steaming platter of tiny roasted birds stuffed with cheese and currants and some darkly mottled mushrooms that looked vile and smelled delicious.
"Clear a spot, will you?" he puffed, resting the heavy tray on the corner of the dining table.
"Thank the Maker, something that lived on dry land," Alec exclaimed hungrily, pushing books and rolls of parchment aside; Thryis had served another variety of raw shel
lfish the night before and he'd gone to bed hungry.
He had thrown on a clean shirt while Seregil was gone, neglecting in his haste to tuck it in or do up the lacings. The linen swirled loosely around his lean hips as he hurried to fetch cups from a shelf. His fair hair, properly trimmed at last, shone when he passed through a patch of sunlight.
Seregil caught himself staring and hastily turned his attention to the food.
"This isn't going to be another lesson in manners, is it?" Alec asked, eyeing the array of eating utensils suspiciously as he reached for one of the tiny birds.
Seregil rapped him smartly over the knuckles with a spoon. "Yes it is. Now watch."
"Why is all the food in Skala so hard to eat?"
Alec groaned as Seregil demonstrated the tricky business of eating the tiny auroles without lifting them from the plate or disturbing the bones.
"I admit I've had Thryis make us some of the more difficult dishes, but if you master those, the rest will be simple," Seregil assured him with a grin. "You mustn't underestimate the importance of such customs. Say you've managed to gain admittance to some lord's house by posing as the son of an old comrade he knew in the wars. You've studied the battles, you know the names of all the pertinent generals, your accent is correct, and you're dressed perfectly. The minute you reach out of turn into the common platter, or spear a fried eel with your knife, you're under suspicion. Or imagine you're trying to pass yourself off as a sailor down in the Lower City. If you mistakenly call for a wine that would cost a month's wages, or eat your joint with fingers folded daintily back, it's highly likely you'll next be seen floating face down in the harbor."
Chastened, Alec took up his spoon again and began picking at the bird before him. "But what about my sword training?"
"Ah, yes. Well, I suspect the problem may be more me than you."
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