Casket of Souls

by Lynn Flewelling

  “I suppose so.” But Alec didn’t look satisfied. “Still—does Atre strike you as the sort of man who would stop to help a street urchin on a dark street?”

  Seregil chuckled again. “Probably not the real story. Most of the doxies are half cutpurse, themselves. He must have propositioned the wrong one. Or ran afoul of some street toughs.”

  “Maybe.” Alec paused, then asked, “By the way, did you enjoy your performance at the Three Dragons?”

  “My amazing winning streak?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, the stripping naked in front of a hundred or so noblemen and women part of the evening. Enjoy isn’t the word I’d use, but it was satisfyingly useful.”

  “Useful?”

  “Absolutely! Before I met you, Lord Seregil was known for things like that. Well, not usually in such a public place, perhaps—”

  “Perhaps?” Alec raised a skeptical eyebrow at that.

  “At parties, mostly.”

  “So you did things like that a lot?”

  “Now and then, just to keep up my reputation. Mostly it was getting other young nobles into trouble stealing public statues or bluecoats’ horses while we were drunk, slumming in borrowed clothes, or daring each other to jump off Widow’s Cliff into the sea. You should try that, actually. Very invigorating—if you live.”

  “And carrying on with actors, I suppose.”

  “Oh, yes. And actresses.”

  “Am I bad for your reputation, now that we’re spending so much time back in the city?”

  Seregil grinned. “I’d say we reestablished my bad name tonight, wouldn’t you? I was lucky, though.”

  “You did win a lot of money.”

  “Yes, but I was thinking more of Foris’s search of my person.”

  “What was so lucky about that?” Alec laughed. “He had you standing naked on a chair.”

  Seregil winked at him as they passed under the glow of a street lantern. “Yes, but his search stopped short of the most obvious hiding place.”

  “The most—?” Alec gave him a questioning look, then realization dawned and it was replaced by one of shock. “Bilairy’s Balls, Seregil!”

  “Close.” Seregil grinned. He loved still being able to make Alec blush.

  They were nearly to Wheel Street when suddenly Cynril and Windrunner both shied. As Seregil and Alec reined the horses in, two dark forms detached themselves from the deeper shadow of a side street and sprang up onto their horses behind them.

  Seregil’s attacker locked an arm around his neck, choking him as they tumbled together to the street. Seregil landed hard with the man on his back. Between that and the pressure on his throat, he was already seeing stars. The pressure disappeared for an instant, quickly replaced with the cutting tension of a garrote. It caught on the collar of his coat, but he could feel the wire against his skin where the collar gaped. Fighting for his life, he reached back and clawed at the man’s hands. Panic lent him strength and he managed to roll the man off. He felt the wire cut into his neck as he wiggled around and jammed his thumbs into his attacker’s eyes. The garrote went slack as the man grabbed Seregil’s wrists and threw him over onto his back. Seregil wasn’t quick enough to roll away before the man was on him again, a knee planted in Seregil’s gut, choking him with his bare hands. The bastard was big and very strong, but Seregil was limber and fighting for his life. Twisting sideways, he brought his foot up and kicked his would-be murderer in the side of the head. The grip on his throat loosened again. This time Seregil managed to reach the poniard in his boot and stabbed the man through the neck. Scrambling to his feet, he turned to find that Alec’s would be-assassin had the younger man pinned, tightening a garrote around Alec’s neck while Alec fought wildly. Seregil grabbed the man by the hair, stabbed him in the heart, and dragged the limp body off Alec.

  Alec had managed to get one hand up to his throat between skin and garrote wire, which had probably saved his life—but the palm of his left hand was cut deeply.

  They scanned the surrounding shadows for other attackers, but the night was silent except for the snorting of their panicked horses, who had stopped halfway down the street.

  “Bilairy’s codpiece!” Seregil croaked hoarsely, examining Alec’s hand. Pulling out his handkerchief, he tried to bind the wound.

  “Never mind me,” Alec replied. “Your neck is bleeding.”

  Grabbing the handkerchief from Seregil’s fingers, he used it to blot the thin wound across the base of Seregil’s throat. If Seregil hadn’t managed to get loose, the wire would have cut his throat.

  “We’re both in sorry shape.” Seregil could hardly speak above a harsh whisper. “Let me tend your hand. You’re bleeding all over me.”

  Using Alec’s own handkerchief, he tied it around Alec’s cut palm, then pulled him close in the windswept darkness.

  Alec hugged him back. “You’re shaking.” So was he, for that matter.

  Seregil rubbed his smooth cheek against Alec’s, whispering hoarsely, “I just never get used to almost losing you, I guess. And they were good, the bastards. Professionals.”

  They turned to the two dead men sprawled at their feet.

  Alec nudged the one Seregil had stabbed in the neck. “Guild assassins?”

  “That would be my guess.” Seregil picked up one of the fallen garrotes. It was made from thin, flexible steel wire with a small wooden handle at each end. “Yes, from the looks of this, I’d say they were professionals.”

  Keeping an ear out for bluecoats, they made a quick search of the bodies, but neither man carried so much as a belt purse. It was too dark to look for guild marks, but chances were there wouldn’t be any; the Rhíminee guild was cagier about such things than some. The lack of any identification and possessions was telling in itself.

  Leaving them for the Scavengers, they rode for home.

  “I wonder who set them on us?” Alec said as soon as they closed the front door behind them.

  “I can think of two,” Seregil croaked, leading him to the kitchen. “Reltheus may have seen me spying at Elani’s today, although I don’t know how. He certainly knew where we’d be tonight. These assassin bastards probably followed us from there.” He paused. “And then there’s Malthus.”

  “But he’s our friend!” Despite all his training and all the things they’d been through since they’d met, Alec still had some of his native innocence intact. The sign of a good heart, Seregil supposed, and usually he admired Alec for it, but in situations like this it could get a person killed.

  “Queen-making might trump friendship, don’t you think?” In the kitchen he lit a candle from the banked coals on the hearth, filled a basin with water from the barrel by the door, then went to the cupboard where the simples were stored. “Interesting that General Sarien took an interest in me tonight. Even patted me on the shoulder. If Malthus’s cabal considers me a threat, then he could have been signaling one of the assassins, concealed in the crowd.”

  “They could just as well have attacked me when I was alone tonight,” Alec noted.

  “I don’t think you were the target,” said Seregil, sitting down beside Alec to clean and tend his wound. “Which would mean that Malthus believed me when I told him you weren’t involved.” He paused and shook his head. “Perhaps I tipped my hand too soon, speaking with him.”

  Alec winced as Seregil sponged the blood away. “Or he knows you set his house on fire,” he said, only half joking.

  “I doubt that. But we can’t afford to trust anyone now.”

  “Maybe not. What are we going to do?”

  Seregil pulled the garrote from inside his coat. “Send this and a heavy purse to one of my less savory connections.”

  “Are we still going to talk to Valerius about the sickness?” Alec asked. “I really think he should know about it. Besides, we don’t have any engagements so far tomorrow, and there’s not much we can do with Reltheus and Kyrin in daylight.”

  Seregil glanced out the window, where the grey
lowering clouds were beginning to brighten. “It’s almost dawn. We might as well stay up and have an early breakfast. We’ll go to the temple at sunrise. Valerius is a disgustingly early riser.”

  SEREGIL and Alec set off for the Temple Precinct just after dawn. Both were stiff and bruised from the night’s attack, and Seregil’s voice was still as rough as a crow’s. The cut left behind by the assassin’s garrote was a scabbed, angry red line just below the edge of his collar. Alec’s hand wasn’t much better, being a deeper cut.

  The early-morning sky was filled with lowering red-tinted clouds that presaged more rain to come. Leaving their horses with a precinct ostler, they made their way on foot past lesser temples and shrines to the heart of the precinct.

  The main temples of the Four flanked the black-and-white-paved square, washed at this early hour with a soft morning glow that made the white paving stones look pink in the light and pale blue in the shadows. The stones here were laid out to form squares within squares, which in turn formed a greater pattern symbolizing the eternal unity and balance of the Sacred Four. The white-domed Temple of Illior and the dark bulk of the square-pillared Temple of Sakor faced each other across it, looking west and east. Red firelight showed between Sakor’s pillars at all hours, reflecting off the great ruby-studded gold aegis that hung behind the altar.

  The Temple of Astellus with its fountains, and Dalna’s temple in its great grove, took the other two sides. A soft hush hung perpetually over the sacred site, and at this hour there was little to hear but the bright tinkling of the falling water and the mournful cooing of the Maker’s doves. Although Sakor and Illior were the patron Immortals of Skala, this sacred square with its four temples was repeated in every city and town; even the humblest villages had a small patch of ground flanked by four simple shrines. Reverence for the Four, in all their complex unity, had for centuries given Skala internal harmony and power.

  They climbed the broad staircase leading up to the open doors of the Dalnan temple and left their boots in the care of an elderly verger. There were already quite a few other shoes lined up in the portico.

  The huge temple hall was shadowed and cool. At the far end of the vaulted room a bright, welcoming fire burned on a huge stone altar carved with sheaves of wheat bound with serpents biting their own tails. A line of people stood waiting their turn to place their offerings of food and wine on the altar and get their blessing for the day. Priests, rather than drysians, served here, except for Valerius, who was both.

  A young priest in simple white vestments led them through to the high priest’s meditation room and knocked softly. Seregil steeled himself; Valerius was a renowned drysian healer, as well as a fellow Watcher, but he was also the most ill-tempered person Seregil had ever called a friend.

  A little acolyte answered the door and put a finger to his lips as he let them in. Valerius stood at a small altar similar to the one in the hall, wreathed in incense as he made the daily offerings for the queen, the city, and the land, assisted by two older acolytes, one male and one female.

  Alec made a sign of respect and bowed his head. Seregil folded his arms and leaned against the wall by the door.

  When the last of the wine, grain, and oil had been dispensed with, Valerius dusted his hands on the front of his gold-embroidered green robe and turned to them with a look of annoyance. “Well? I suppose you have some good reason for interrupting my morning ritual?”

  “We need your opinion on something,” Seregil replied.

  “What’s wrong with your voice? Do you have a cold?”

  Seregil nodded slightly toward the acolytes.

  Valerius dismissed them. “What’s all this, then?” He noted Alec’s bandaged hand. “In trouble again?”

  “We were attacked by assassins,” Alec told him.

  Valerius snorted. “Surprised it doesn’t happen more often. Let me see.”

  He unwrapped Alec’s hand, then inspected the shallow cut on Seregil’s throat. “Clean cuts. No infections.” He rested a hand on Alec’s head and gave some healing that made Alec shiver.

  “What about me?” Seregil asked.

  “For that little scratch? You’ll heal. Is this what you came for?”

  “No, Valerius. We were wondering if you’d heard anything about a strange sickness in the Lower City?”

  “It’s being called sleeping death,” Alec added.

  The drysian raised a bushy black eyebrow at that. “Sleeping death? No, not a word. Since when have you two turned physician?”

  “It’s just something we stumbled across,” Alec explained. “Last night I found a few people with it up here, near Brass Alley.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it, and neither have your healers,” Seregil said.

  The drysian’s frown was ominous. “Why haven’t I heard about this from them?”

  “I think they’re afraid of quarantine, but it doesn’t seem to be passed by touch. Alec and I both have handled the sick ones before we realized what it was and we’re fine. So are the drysians taking care of them.”

  “What are the symptoms?”

  “People just fall down and lie there with their eyes open until they die,” Alec explained. “Do you know what could cause that?”

  “Sounds like some sort of fit.” The drysian led them through the cool dark corridors to his chambers. The sitting room and bedchamber, visible through an open doorway, were austere and sparsely furnished. His private library overlooking the gardens and grove, however, was impressively stocked, lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves of ancient books and racks of scrolls, with ladders for reaching the highest ones. Deep, comfortable armchairs flanked a couch in front of a black basalt fireplace carved with garlands of herbs. Another chair, more worn than the others, stood by one of the tall open windows, the table beside it already stacked with books.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Valerius said absently, already perusing a shelf.

  Seregil helped himself to a gold-stamped book on herbal medicine. Alec found one filled with pictures of poisonous plants and they settled down to wait.

  The drysian climbed a ladder, retrieved several weighty volumes, and sat down in the chair by the window. For nearly an hour the only sound in the room was the soft flutter of turning pages and the rustle of leaves in the grove outside.

  At last, Valerius added the books to the pile on the table beside him, then consulted another book and several scrolls in quick succession. “No, nothing exactly like that. Not that lasts that long with the eyes open.”

  “Care to come see for yourself?” asked Seregil, knowing full well what the answer would be.

  The Harbor Way was less oven-like at this early hour, and once they reached the Lower City, a freshening sea breeze cooled their faces. The Grampus Street temple stood at the far end of the ward, near the north mole.

  The Maker’s temples were always humble in comparison with those of the other Immortals of the Four, but this one, though larger than the shrines in the area, lacked even a single tree by way of a grove, just a weathered stump near the front door with a potted bay tree sitting on it. It was a low, flat-roofed stone building, and only its cleanly swept front yard and the sheaf pattern painted over the doorway set it apart from the neighboring houses. Even so, there were doves about, and the youngest acolytes in their short brown robes were spreading the morning offerings to the birds when they arrived.

  Valerius had changed into a simpler brown robe, though nothing so plain as his old drysian garb from his wandering days. The lemniscate he wore around his neck was made of gold now, but his staff was the same simple, worn one he’d always carried.

  His arrival caused quite a stir. Tongue-tied acolytes bowed and led their unexpected guests through the offering hall and into a larger room beyond.

  Twenty-seven people—most of them children—lay on pallets around the room, each dressed in a long nightshirt made of cheap linen.

  “So many!” Alec exclaimed softly, dismayed at the sight.

&nbs
p; A drysian was at work over one of them, but it was a middle-aged, balding priest in green vestments who hurried in to greet them. “Brother Valerius! What brings you here?” He gave the rest of them a puzzled look, too.

  Valerius wasted no time on pleasantries. Fixing the man with a dark look, he said, “I’m told there’s some new ailment going through the Lower City, but it came to me from these men, rather than one of you. Why is that?”

  The priest seemed to shrink a little under that hard gaze. “We’ve been dealing with it, Brother, and saw no reason to trouble you—”

  “Or attract the vicegerent’s notice? There have already been a few found up above. Fetch me water and clean rags.”

  The priest gestured to the acolytes, who scurried away.

  Valerius began his examination of the stricken, touching them with remarkable gentleness and skill. Meanwhile, Seregil knelt down by one of the few adults, an emaciated old woman with chapped, large-knuckled hands that spoke of a hard life. Her rheumy eyes were fixed; her chest barely stirred.

  Across the room, Alec was looking at a tall, sharp-featured young man not much younger than himself. “This is Long Nais, the keek.”

  “The what?” asked the priest.

  “A kind of footpad, one really good at locks,” Alec told him.

  Seregil joined him and looked down at the prone figure. “Yes, that’s him, all right. Odd finding him here among the likes of these others.”

  “Tell me what you know,” Valerius ordered the cowering priest as he moved slowly among the sleepers.

  “We’ve never seen the like, and nothing we do brings them around, Brother,” the man told him. “There’s no rhyme or reason to it that I can make out: young, old, men, women, children. The only thing they have in common is that they are all poor.”

  “There are more children than adults,” Alec noted.

  Valerius nodded and turned back to the priest. “How many have you seen so far?”

  “There are reports of seventy-two dead since the beginning of the summer, and what you see here. And those are only the ones we know about.”