Casket of Souls

by Lynn Flewelling

  Brader waited until the others had gone up to bed, then cornered Atre in the front room.

  “Have you gone completely mad?” he whispered, furious. “A noble here and there, the old ones, drew no attention, but for the love of Soru, three in less than a month?”

  “What makes you think it was me?” Atre protested.

  “Of course it was you. You think I don’t know the signs by now? Important people dropping dead for no reason, and you looking like you do? Even Merina is taking notice. She may not know what it all means, but it’s not like she hasn’t seen it before.”

  “First of all, I didn’t kill Alarhichia. That was probably someone from Kyrin’s group, or natural. As for the others? I’m sure the two cabals are convinced they’re killing each other out of revenge.”

  Brader took a steadying breath, resisting the urge to pummel his cousin. “Each side knows whether they’ve killed anyone or not.”

  “Relax, Brader. No one suspects us. This city is too huge to notice what we’re up to. That’s the beauty of it! The vicegerent will quarantine another area of the sleeping death, and the cabals will kill each other off faster than I can. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  Atre smiled. “Trust me.”

  IT was drizzling when Seregil and Alec entered the Ring again that morning, dressed this time as dirty beggar women. Swords weren’t part of the disguise, but they had knives hidden under their ragged cloaks. Both wore large faded kerchiefs that covered their hair and partially obscured their faces.

  It wasn’t Alec’s favorite form of disguise; he felt uneasy with his legs hampered by long skirts, and although Seregil had gone to great pains to teach him how to make his voice lighter and more feminine, Alec always felt a bit silly speaking that way. For this job, however, even he had to admit it was a good choice. They attracted much less attention than they had yesterday.

  “Let’s see if we can avoid any more fights,” Seregil murmured, keeping a sharp eye out for danger as they wended their way into a section of the slum they hadn’t been in before.

  They did manage to stay out of trouble, but had little luck until it was nearly dark. They were on their way back to the gate, not wanting to get caught here after dark, when Seregil glanced down a side path and saw a stoop-shouldered, bowlegged old man speaking with a young boy and holding something out to him. The man must have been tall in his day, and had a head of wild grey hair that hung to his shoulders, a bulbous nose, and a patch over one eye. His unruly grey beard was stained with something dark at the corners of his mouth.

  Seregil caught Alec by the arm and nodded in their direction, whispering, “The one-eyed old man.”

  As they watched, the boy took whatever it was and handed the old fellow something back. The man patted him on the head, then stumped away deeper into the shantytown.

  “There’s a bit of luck!” Seregil exclaimed softly.

  “He doesn’t have anything hanging from his belt.”

  “But he made a trade, all the same. You take the boy. I’ll see where the old fellow is headed. If you don’t catch up, I’ll meet you by the fountain in the Sea Market in an hour’s time.”

  Leaving Alec to his work, Seregil set off after the old man.

  The boy was walking away, looking at something in his hand.

  Alec sidled up behind him. “What you got there?” he asked, doing his best to speak with a woman’s voice.

  The child whirled around and drew a short dagger. He had a thin, ugly face and a wen on his cheek the size of a sparrow’s egg. “What’s that to you?”

  Alec held up his hands, showing that he meant no harm. “Nothin’, except I been looking for one of those raven people and I thought that might have been one you was talkin’ to.”

  The boy regarded him shrewdly for a moment, still wary, then said, “What do you want with ’em?”

  “I hear they make trades. I was lookin’ to make one myself, maybe. So, was that old man one of ’em?”

  The boy’s mouth slanted in a taunting grin. “What’s it worth to you to know?”

  Alec pretended to hesitate, then turned away and fished a couple of copper pennies from the small pouch around his neck under his tattered gown. “Will that do?”

  “Yeah, he was raven folk,” the boy said as he reached to snatch the coins from Alec’s outstretched hand.

  But Alec held them back. “For this, I ’spect more of an answer than that. What’d you two trade?”

  The boy opened his left hand and showed Alec a yellow rock crystal. “I give him my hog tooth necklace. Easy enough to come by another. Ain’t seen nothing like this, though.”

  “That is fine,” Alec replied. It was a pretty thing, and a far cry from anything the boy was likely to find here. But it was a far cry from a sweetmeat, too.

  “Sell it to you.” The boy jutted his chin at the coins Alec still held.

  Alec pretended to consider it, then nodded and took out two more coins. The boy tossed him the stone, and Alec handed over the price.

  “We finished?” asked the boy, still gripping his knife. “I got nothin’ more to trade or sell.”

  “That’s fine.” Tucking the stone away, Alec turned to take his leave, but alert to any sound of the boy coming to knife him. Glancing back, though, he was already gone.

  Seregil kept his distance, blending in with the crowd of destitute and cutthroats coming out like bats as the light failed. He dogged the one-eyed man, hoping to see him do another trade, but the old codger seemed to have somewhere to go, for he went on without pausing anywhere, head down and limping a bit. Dressed no better or worse than those around him, he attracted no one else’s attention, and no one greeted him.

  It took him a moment to notice the tall, dark-haired man trailing the old one. At first he thought it might be coincidence, but when the old man turned, so did the big man. Seregil frowned; the last thing he needed was for the old man to get murdered in front of him before he could talk to him.

  Drifting along behind them, Seregil caught glimpses of the old man’s face when he turned down a byway, and then another. Though the bowed legs could have made him a horseman, a cripple, or just undernourished, he had the rolling gait of a sailor. Perhaps the raven folk did come from somewhere else, by ship, or from a seafaring people.

  The taller man’s face was hidden by his cloak hood but Seregil guessed from his stride and those broad shoulders that he was more than a match for the old fellow, and could easily have overtaken him by now, if he’d wanted to. Perhaps Tall Fellow expected Old Fellow to lead him somewhere? If so, Seregil suspected it might be of interest to him, as well.

  Having to keep out of Tall Fellow’s way made Seregil hang back more than he liked, and he nearly lost them both when the old man turned aside and headed deeper into the shack town through a wide place in the path. There were more people here, bargaining with the sellers of bruised vegetables and questionable meat. Seregil had to look over heads and past shoulders to keep them in sight.

  And then Old Fellow was gone, along with his tall shadow.

  “Bilairy’s Balls,” Seregil muttered as he hurried up to where he’d last seen him and looked around. It was an intersection of sorts where two paths crossed amid a cluster of tumbledown shacks. Seregil checked both ways, but there was simply no sign of him, and no hope of tracking his footprints in the churned mud. The mist was turning to a downpour again and the damp was coming through his clothes.

  “Lookin’ for someone, sweetness?” a scar-faced tough called to him from the open door of one of the sturdier-looking buildings. He was dressed in the remnants of worn cavalry leathers, with a long sword at his hip and a decidedly predatory look in his eye. A fat louse crawled out from under his stringy black hair onto his left cheek. He absently pinched it between thumbnail and finger and flicked it away.

  “My father,” Seregil replied brusquely, pretending not to anticipate the man’s clear intention. “Old fellow with a patch a
nd a limp?”

  “Ain’t seen him,” the man drawled, leaving the doorway and coming a little closer. “You’re soaked through. Come on in and I’ll get you wetter.” He grabbed Seregil by the arm, trying to drag him into the hovel.

  Seregil didn’t have time for this. Drawing his knife, he kneed the man in the balls, then took him by the hair as he fell to his knees and bent the man’s head sharply back as the would-be rapist groaned in pain. Pressing the edge of the blade to his throat just hard enough to break the skin, Seregil whispered, “I don’t need no wetting from you, you whoreson bastard.”

  “Filthy bitch!” the man hissed. A trickle of blood crept down his neck to stain the already dirty collar of the shirt he wore under his leather vest.

  “Didn’t your ma teach you any manners?” Seregil asked, giving him a shake. “Come after me and I’ll cut your pox-ridden balls off and feed ’em to you. You hear me?”

  “Yes!”

  Knowing better than to take the man’s word for it, Seregil drew back his knife hand and punched him in the head hard enough to stun him. He fell face-first into the mud with a muffled grunt.

  “You should cut the bastard’s throat while you have the chance,” a wretched-looking young woman whispered from inside the man’s shack. Her dress was little more than a rag, and she had a freshly blackened eye and a swollen lip.

  Seregil pulled the man’s knife from his belt and tossed it at her feet. “I’d hurry, if I was you, dearie,” he told her, then turned back to his search, leaving the man to the woman’s doubtful mercy.

  The old man was long gone by now. Angry at losing his mark, he cast around a little while longer, hoping to find him trading with someone else, but there was no sign of him.

  “Bilairy’s hairy codpiece!” he muttered.

  Then suddenly he spotted him again, standing talking to someone on the muddy path between two shanties, just visible through the rain.

  There you are, old grandfather! Time we had a little chat.

  Holding the mud-caked hem of his patched skirt up with one hand, Seregil slogged along clutching his shawl over his head with the other, as if looking for shelter. He was almost to the old man when suddenly Tall Fellow stepped out from behind a shack, sword drawn. His sodden hood hung around his face, but Seregil could make out the black kerchief masking his nose and mouth.

  “Well now, who do we have here?” the tall man asked in an amused, raspy voice.

  Seregil pulled the shawl closer around him, hoping his large kerchief hid his face well enough. “No one, sir. I was just—” Now and then the truth was the best tack to take. “I was hopin’ to talk with the old raven man.”

  “And what raven man would that be?”

  Seregil looked past Tall Fellow’s shoulder but the old man was gone.

  “Now you’ve made me lose him!” Seregil whined. “Are you one of ’em, too? Can I make a trade with you?”

  The masked man chuckled. “And if I am? What does a scrawny little thing like you have to trade?”

  Seregil tightened his hands in the folds of his shawl. “Well, nothin’ really, except maybe a tumble …”

  “Like you gave that man back there?” The man laughed darkly. “I can do without that kind of fun.”

  Damnation, the bastard had seen him take down his would-be rapist. No wonder he wasn’t falling for the helpless beggar act.

  “To the crows with you, then,” Seregil muttered. “I’ll find someone proper to trade with.”

  “Now, don’t be hasty, dearie.” The man took a step closer, and Seregil could hear the unseen smile in his voice. “How’s about a lock of hair?” He drew a sword that had seen years of use. “I can cut it for you myself.”

  “N-no,” Seregil said, taking a cautious step backward. As he’d feared, Tall Fellow advanced.

  “Are you sure, my lovely? Just a few silken strands and I’ll give you something for luck.” But that sword said otherwise.

  Seregil brought a hand up to his covered head. “I’m afraid you might cut off too much with that big blade of yours.”

  The man raised the sword and Seregil took to his heels, holding up his skirt with one hand again and clutching the shawl with the other. The man caught the end of the latter and nearly pulled him over backward. Seregil let go of it and ran for all he was worth, ducking around a pony cart and leaping over a collection of pots an old woman had displayed on a sodden blanket. Behind him, he could hear the bastard shouting something about having been robbed, as if expecting someone here to give enough of a damn to stop Seregil. He pelted on, dignity a bit dented. The man had been playing with him, and he had the sinking feeling that he’d been sussed.

  Once he was sure he’d thrown off pursuit he slowed and held his skirts in a more womanly manner as he circled back through the cold mud to where he thought the old man might be; he’d managed to lose both shoes in his escape.

  The rain was coming down in earnest now, driving people from the street. Splashing through ankle-deep puddles, he finally gave up and went to meet Alec in the Sea Market. Alec was waiting for him at the fountain, and his grin promised better news than Seregil had to share.

  “The boy talked to you?” he asked as they set off through the downpour for the inn.

  “Better than that.” Alec showed him a yellow rock crystal. “This is what the old man traded him.”

  “Well done! How did you get it away from the boy?”

  “I bought it off him for a few pennies. What about the old man?”

  “I lost him.”

  “You lost an old man?”

  Seregil gave him a sour look. “There was a distraction. Several, actually.”

  “What?”

  “A near rape, and a big masked fellow with a sword who offered to cut my hair for me—somewhere below the chin. I think he might have been in league with the old man. A bodyguard, perhaps.”

  “Probably a good idea in there. Masked, you say?”

  “Yes. Not that I’d expect to find many honest men in that part of the Ring, but I’d bet a sester that the tall bastard was a professional.”

  “The old man didn’t look like he could afford much in the way of protection.”

  “The professional could be part of this raven tribe, with a different role to play. Considering the areas of the city they’ve been working, they may all go out with partners who stay out of sight until needed. And somehow I got the wind up him. I don’t often get noticed, tracking.”

  “Maybe he’s a nightrunner, too.”

  Seregil let out what started as a derisive snort but turned into a sneeze.

  “What happened to your shawl?” asked Alec.

  “Spoil of war.”

  Alec untied his own and draped it over Seregil’s shoulders. Seregil didn’t argue; the woolen shawl was soaked, but still held in some warmth. He was chilled to the bone and depressed now that the excitement was over. Walking wasn’t quite enough to keep him warm.

  Alec patted the stone in his wallet. “At least we have this to show Valerius and Thero. Maybe they can get something from it.”

  “Hopefully.” As they splashed along, Seregil found himself thinking more of the tall man than the old one; something niggled at the back of his mind, but he wasn’t quite sure yet what it meant.

  Atre crouched in the shadows inside a derelict shanty, stripping off the fake whiskers, wig, and putty nose. Using a clean corner of his sodden cloak, he rubbed at his face to get off the last of the cosmetics. He was nearly done when Brader stepped inside and pulled the mask from the lower portion of his face.

  “What was that all about?” Atre whispered.

  “You had an admirer,” Brader replied, looking more dour than usual.

  “That old beggar woman?”

  “Not so old, and no beggar. I saw her take down a man twice her size in the blink of an eye and nearly cut his throat. I’m not completely certain it was even a woman.” He sat down on a box and kept watch while Atre stripped off his beggar’s clothing to the p
lain garb underneath and wadded the whole disguise into a sack.

  “Oh, don’t glower so. You’ve always liked this part of our arrangement,” Atre wheedled.

  After a moment Brader said, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s happening again. You’re taking too many risks and someone is taking notice.”

  “Your raggedy lady friend?”

  “Listen to me for once, cousin!” Brader growled. “That was no beggar woman.”

  “Well, that’s why I have you, isn’t it?” Atre said with a grin. “The next time you catch someone suspicious, just kill them like you usually do. You haven’t bloodied your blade more than once or twice since we’ve been here.”

  Brader let out an exasperated snort. “Because you were being careful, until that night you got yourself stabbed in that rat-hole tavern. It’s going to be just like before—”

  “No, it isn’t,” Atre assured him with that dark, hungry smile. “It’s going to be much, much better.”

  Back at the Stag and Otter, Seregil sent word to Valerius to meet them at Thero’s tower. Washed and changed into dry, nondescript clothing, they set off for the Orëska House through the relentless downpour.

  Their cloaks were soaked through by the time they reached it. The night torches cast wavering lines of ruddy light across the huge puddles that had gathered all over the garden and in the carriage path.

  Servants took their horses and cloaks, and they hurried upstairs to Thero’s rooms.

  “We have something to show you!” Alec exclaimed as soon as the wizard let them in.

  “Something more from Reltheus, I hope?” Thero asked, wiping his hands on his work apron. The room smelled like burnt roots and wine and there was something black and acrid bubbling in a flask on one of the long tables.

  “Uh, no. We found something in the Ring that will help Myrhichia.”