Casket of Souls

by Lynn Flewelling

  The glass domes that capped the soaring white palace and its towers sparkled in the starlight. Cherry and lime trees were in bloom today, scenting the air and casting drifting petals on the breeze that caught in their hair and their horses’ manes. To his right, a young woman hovered cross-legged above a rosebush, her face serene as her fingers wove on the air glowing patterns of light that emitted sweet soft music. Farther on he caught sight of a wizard and his young protégé working on some outdoor spell by the glow of a lantern. The sight struck a sore spot, a very old one, bringing with it memories of fires, hysterical horses, insects pouring in under the doors—Seregil’s inexplicable magical impediment had saved his life more than once, and set his feet on the nightrunner path—but even with these failures, his days as Nysander’s apprentice had been some of the best of his life. He’d thought they’d remain the best, until he met Alec.

  Servants in red tabards bowed deeply to them and took their horses. Climbing the wide marble stairs, they entered the echoing atrium and strode across the huge dragon mosaic floor. Climbing five flights of stairs, they walked down the corridor to Thero’s tower and knocked. One didn’t just lift the latch at a wizard’s rooms, even if he was a friend.

  There was a pause, then a loud popping sound and a muttered curse. A moment later the door flew open and Thero glared out at them, his thin, aesthetic face framed by tendrils of curling black hair that had come loose from the leather thong tying the rest of it back. He smelled of smoke and looked characteristically annoyed. “What? Oh, it’s you. Did you find it?”

  “Of course.” Alec took out a packet of papers and waved it at him as they followed him inside to his immaculate workshop, which at the moment was filled with a haze of coiling smoke.

  “I hope it wasn’t anything too serious,” said Seregil, taking a chair by one of the long worktables. Apart from the smoke, everything else—thousands of books and scrolls on their shelves, various pieces of magical and astronomical equipment—were all in their places. Nothing like the comfortable chaos of Nysander’s day.

  “At least I still have all ten fingers.” Thero sat down by a shattered crucible and opened the packet. “Just as I thought. Did you have any trouble?”

  “No, the house was laid out as you said.”

  “Of course. And how was the play?”

  Alec hitched himself up on the table next to Seregil. “Quite good, actually. You should come with us next time.”

  “I’m far too busy.”

  “We’ve hardly seen you in weeks,” Seregil noted. “What have you been up to in this heat?”

  “Among other things, I’ve been trying to make sense of this.” Thero picked up the oo’lu horn leaning against the table, one of the two they’d brought him from their battle with the Retha’noi. Nearly five feet long, it was decorated with a black mark in the shape of a hand and bands of designs cut in with a hot knife. One end was fitted with a ring of beeswax that acted as a mouthpiece. Placing his lips inside it, Thero puffed out his cheeks and blew a few throbbing, buzzing notes.

  “You’re getting the hang of it,” said Alec. “But isn’t it dangerous, using it without knowing what the sounds can do?”

  “I thought of that, of course, and sealed myself in the casting room for the first few tries. So far, all I’ve managed to do is annoy the servants. As far as I can tell, the magic must come from the witch who plays it. The oo’lu only channels it. I donated the other one to the Orëska museum.”

  “How are you coming along with the alchemist’s books?”

  “Ah, yes. Those. If you’d been able to get me more than half of each volume, I’d be doing better. Some of the details of the making of rhekaros were lost, but there are a number of other interesting concoctions. Alchemy is really quite fascinating— Oh, sorry, Alec.”

  “It’s all right, Thero. I’m past it.”

  The wizard shot Seregil a quick, questioning look, but he just shook his head slightly.

  Changing the subject, Thero asked, “Did you pick up any interesting gossip while you were there?” The young wizard was the head of the secret spy organization known as the Watchers, which included Seregil, Alec, Seregil’s friend Micum Cavish, and now Micum’s oldest daughter, Beka, a captain in the Queen’s Horse Guard. It was a responsibility passed down from mentor to chosen pupil for centuries.

  “It seems Queen Phoria turned down a parlay for peace and means to drive the Plenimarans all the way home,” Seregil replied.

  Thero raised an eyebrow at that. “Doesn’t she know what a tinderbox Rhíminee is becoming, with all the shortages and death? This news won’t set well with the populace.”

  “No, it won’t. But Phoria’s always been stubborn.”

  “And eager to outdo her mother’s accomplishments,” Thero mused. “So, what are you two up to now?”

  “We’re off to visit Duke Reltheus’s summer villa south of Cirna,” Alec replied.

  “And by ‘visit’ I assume you mean burgle? Or do you know the man socially?”

  Seregil chuckled. “Hardly. He moves in far more august circles than we do. Do you know him?”

  “Slightly,” Thero replied. “Some fifty years old, a very wealthy, influential man with the huge summer estate you’re going to, a hunting lodge in the mountains, and a villa in Silvermoon Street. He was a favorite of Queen Idrilain. His great-aunt on his father’s side married one of the lesser sons of Idrilain’s grandmother, so there’s a tenuous blood connection. He was a friend of the old queen, and rumored to have been one of Phoria’s suitors, years back.”

  Alec raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t know him.”

  “He hosted half the court last winter for a hunt at his lodge, and several of us wizards were brought along, as well.”

  “At Klia’s request?” asked Seregil with a knowing grin.

  Thero colored a little but didn’t rise to the bait. Seregil and Alec were probably the only people in Rhíminee who knew that Thero had fallen in love with Princess Klia while he’d been her personal wizard during their time in Aurënen. It was a hopeless match, to be sure, but Thero had gone so far as to offer to go with her to war as her field wizard. Queen Phoria had instead assigned her half sister one of her own choosing. Seregil suspected that Thero’s feelings were reciprocated, but the wizard wasn’t telling.

  “It was a grand affair,” Thero went on. “The queen was there, with Korathan and Princess Elani.”

  “And Klia.”

  “Yes, and Princess Klia!” Thero snapped as his ears went red. “So, this job of yours?”

  Seregil relented. “This Reltheus is a bit of a rascal. There are certain letters a former mistress wants back before her wedding day that the duke is loath to return. Naturally, the unfortunate lady called on the Rhíminee Cat.”

  This summer had been a fine time to reestablish the Cat’s reputation. All it took was a word in the right ear—and gold and a message in the right hand—to engage the services of the shady, faceless nightrunner for hire. For years, the nobles of Rhíminee had employed the Cat to carry out their intrigues, thefts, and deliveries, little realizing that their money was lining the pockets of one of their own—now two of their own, since Alec’s arrival five years earlier. Seregil even let it be known that he’d used the Cat’s services, just for show. It wasn’t that he needed the money; it was the zest of the risk, and Alec craved it as much as he did.

  “We have it on good authority that the duke will be away from his villa at Cirna,” Alec told him. “His young wife is here in the city, in the final weeks of her first pregnancy.”

  “He’s not a man you want to be on the wrong side of,” Thero warned. “Do be careful.”

  “Aren’t we always?” asked Seregil.

  Thero raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Not in the slightest.”

  HOLDING the lightstone’s slim wooden handle between his teeth, Seregil wiped at the drop of sweat rolling slowly down his nose and glanced over one of the many letters they’d found in the duke’s private
study, including a bundle hidden in a drawer with a false bottom. Archduchess Alaya, Princess Elani’s chief lady-in-waiting, was apparently a friend of the duke’s and not above sharing some interesting court gossip. According to the latest missive the vicegerent—the queen’s twin brother, Korathan—had taken another lover, young Lord Byris. A long time ago, Seregil had briefly held that honor. Korathan had always liked his bedmates young. In another, she spoke of a man named Danos, saying that the princess royal seemed to regard him warmly and looked forward to his letters.

  Across the large study, Alec was a dark silhouette against the glow of his stone as he searched the racks of scrolls and books that filled two walls. According to the duke’s kitchen maid, whom Alec had charmed at the fish stall in Cirna Market earlier that day, their information had been correct: the duke was away visiting friends at a nearby estate, and was not expected back for several days.

  It was well past midnight, but still so muggy that everything—the parchments, the leather blotter, Seregil’s thin linen shirt—felt uncomfortably moist. He’d pulled his hair back for the job, but it hung heavy against the back of his neck, making him feel that much hotter as he riffled through the rest of the letters. No breeze stirred the thick velvet drapes that framed the balcony door. The sawing of crickets was so loud it drowned out the sound of the surf against the cliffs below. It was starting to give him a headache. But he did manage to find one more letter of interest among those that had not been hidden. It was from Count Selin, who happened to be a friend of Alec’s. In the brief note, Selin thanked the duke for a night of gambling and a good supper and invited Reltheus to dine with him and his widowed mother the following week.

  Alec was on the floor now, lifting the edges of the round wool carpet the desk stood upon. After a moment he let out a low whistle.

  “Find something?” Seregil whispered.

  “Hidey-hole, with a box.”

  “Traps?”

  “No.”

  Seregil heard him working a pick in a lock, then the rustle of papers. Alec reached up and handed Seregil a packet of letters tied up with dark ribbon. Seregil pulled one out and opened it. Finally, what they’d come for. He quickly checked a few more in the bundle, just to be certain. Judging by what he read, the secret affair had been passionate; Marquise Lania was a very descriptive correspondent and had obviously been thoroughly infatuated with the much older duke. It hadn’t taken much effort to learn that a land deal hung in the balance between Lania’s soon-to-be husband, Marquis Deciel, and another noble. Reltheus wanted the land for himself and meant to use the letters to pressure her into persuading Deciel. It was typical of the endless intrigues and posturing among the Skalan nobility.

  Seregil pulled out another letter to check the date, but suddenly Alec grabbed him by the shoulder and propelled him out onto the moonlit balcony. Seregil understood and pressed himself to the wall outside the door, clutching the purloined letters as Alec silently pulled the door shut. An instant later light showed beneath it. Someone was talking, but too low to make out the words. No, there were two voices: a man and a woman. Had the kitchen maid been wrong, or had the duke come home early for some reason? He hoped Alec had managed to get the secret compartment he’d found covered up again.

  Whatever the case, they were trapped. The balcony projected out over a deadly drop to the ocean below. The tide was low and there were rocks jutting up out of the foaming surge. If the tide had been in, Seregil might have chanced it as a last resort, but there would still have been the matter of getting Alec to jump. Picking him up and tossing him had worked in the past, but Seregil didn’t like doing it.

  The voices rose and fell inside, punctuated with laughter, then took on a decidedly amorous tone. Alec shook his head, then held up what appeared to be a letter.

  What is that? Seregil signed.

  Alec handed him the letter. It was dated ten days ago, on the fifth of Gorathin, with the salutation “Your Majesty, Most Esteemed Aunt,” and signed, “Elani, Princess Royal of Skala.” He looked up at Alec and saw his triumphant grin. Seregil grinned back and held up thumb and finger, signing Good!

  The letter itself was nothing particularly interesting, just the description of the young heir’s daily life—sword and archery practice, the gift of a new horse from a Marquis Kyrin, lessons with the royal falconer, the death of a favorite dog, mention of a letter from the potential suitor, Danos. The tone was very matter-of-fact, with little trace of girlish excitement. That struck him as rather sad, though not surprising. From what little he’d seen of Phoria’s closely guarded heir, she seemed like a very serious sort of girl.

  Never mind that, though. What was Reltheus doing with this? Seregil looked at it again with a critical eye. The handwriting looked more like a man’s than a young girl’s, and someone who was adept at fine writing. That suggested a few possibilities.

  There was no sign of a seal, either, so it was either a copy or a forgery, though it was puzzling that anyone would bother to forge such a prosaic letter.

  The sounds of lovemaking were building to a crescendo now, full of grunts and incoherent endearments. Seregil nudged Alec’s shoulder and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Alec rolled his eyes, shaking with silent laughter.

  The lovers came to what sounded like a mutually satisfactory conclusion and tapered off into panting moans and laughter. A happy couple, but who?

  After a few moments of silence the light went out and they heard the study door softly open and close. Seregil had barely gained his feet when the door beside him swung open and a burly young man strode out completely naked and apparently quite pleased with himself. He went to the edge of the balcony and leaned on the stone railing, humming a little tune under his breath. He was too young to be the duke, and the duke’s adult sons by his first wife were off at war. Probably a servant taking advantage of his master’s absence for a little fun.

  Touching Alec’s wrist, Seregil inclined his head toward the door and silently slipped into the darkened room. Alec followed close behind. The happy lover remained oblivious. There was no choice now but to use the study door. Seregil led the way into the dark corridor and into a bedchamber a few doors down, praying it was unoccupied. It was, and had a disused smell.

  They waited there, listening at the door until they heard the happy swain leave the study, then crept back inside. Alec kept watch while Seregil sat down at the desk to copy Princess Elani’s letter, using the duke’s fine parchment and expensive ink. With that done and the documents returned to their hiding places, they hurried down the steep servants’ stair at the end of the corridor, boots whispering on the worn wooden risers.

  There were watchmen at the front door and other main gates, but not in the well yard. In a spinning room they squeezed out through a tiny window that a larger man couldn’t have managed and dropped twice their height to the muddy ground below. After that it was a simple matter to scramble over the wall behind the well and make their way along a ditch to the highroad. They kept watch over their shoulders as they went, prepared for an outcry, but the villa was dark behind its ornate stone wall, the night still except for the raucous din of the crickets.

  Satisfied that they had gotten away clean, Seregil gave Alec’s braid a playful tug. “I’m glad you heard the lovers coming our way. It would have been a shame to spoil their evening.”

  “And ours. Home?”

  Seregil patted his shirt where he’d hidden the letters. “Home.”

  They took passage on the Nimbus, a small coastal trader, and reached Rhíminee just six days from when they’d left. The evening sun cast the ship’s rushing shadow ahead of them, flecking the surface of the busy harbor with touches of gilt and turning the towering cliffs above the Lower City pink. Joined by the crooked, climbing line of the walled Harbor Way, the Upper City, with its palaces and great markets, crowned the bluffs while the Lower City spread out around the head of the broad bay below—a jumble of warehouses, customhouses, tenements, guild houses, and countless tave
rns and cheap brothels catering to sailors and traders.

  Alec leaned on the rail beside Seregil, watching the city draw closer. They didn’t cut much of a figure today in their rough, well-worn traveling clothes—long linen shirts, stained leather breeches, and salt-stained shoes, with long knives hanging from their belts and hair hidden under their faded straw wayfarer’s hats.

  The stench of the Lower City rolled out to meet them on a hot land breeze as soon as they passed the inner moles. Alec scratched absently under one shoulder blade as the sailors furled the sails and the ship glided up to the stone quay. Even without their coats, they were soaked through down the backs of their shirts and under the arms. Thanks to the roles they’d had to play to get into Reltheus’s house, it had been nearly a week since they’d had a decent wash.

  “I’d give just about anything to be in the House baths right now,” Alec murmured.

  Seregil sniffed himself and grimaced. “We’ll need a wash first before they’ll let us in.”

  As soon as the ship docked, they shouldered their packs and slipped over the rail, anxious to lose themselves in the crowd. Here they might be recognized, if someone got a good look at their faces.

  The reek of spoiled fish and sour milk hung on the air as they hurried into the maze of stalls and booths in the harbor market.

  The beggars were thick as flies here now, many of them proud souls forced to it by rising prices caused by the interminable war. As they passed a bread stall a young boy dodged out with a loaf under his arm, the baker’s boys in hot pursuit. They soon caught the lad and had him down on the ground, kicking him as he cried out for mercy.