“No, but Alec is there, with Seregil and the red-haired Tír. The other ’faie is still with them, too. The spy is certain it’s them.”
“What did he say?”
“There’s no mistaking them. Alec’s hair is brown now, but the eyes are the same—a most distinct dark shade of blue. The spy got a good look at him and the red-haired Tír when the guards searched them. The Tír is playing the master.”
“Clever boys. How long ago did they arrive?”
“No more than two hours. Your man followed them to the waterfront and heard them asking about you. Some men told the Tír about this house. They didn’t come this way, though. He followed them to an inn in a street called Irsan. He waited to see if they came out again, but they didn’t, so he came back.”
“No matter. We know that they’re coming,” Ulan said with a smile of satisfaction. “Ilar, I must ask you to be my watchman. There is no one else whom I can trust with the task. No one else must know of the books.”
“I understand, Khirnari, but what if they see me?” Ilar replied, eyes widening with fear.
“You shall be perfectly safe, keeping watch from there.” A curtained alcove at the back of the room between two bookcases was the best he could do for a hiding place for Ilar.
Several large volumes lay on the table at the back of the room, books the same size and color as the ones they’d taken from Yhakobin’s house. “There is our bait. When our mice come into our trap, you’re to wait until they’ve gone, then come to me. I shall raise an outcry and we’ll have them as escaped slaves and common thieves.”
“As you wish, Khirnari.” Ilar was pale now, and trembling.
Ulan nearly changed his mind; one of his escort could just as well be stationed here under some pretext, but his secret was too valuable to risk. It would not do for his people to learn that their khirnari had played the thief himself, or the nature of what he was trying to protect. The making of a rhekaro stank of necromancy, no matter what Yhakobin had said about his so-called art. There was no question of taking Alec and the books to Virésse city, of course; he already had made preparations at a mountain hunting lodge far from there. He would keep Alec there. The boy would not be mistreated, either. Perhaps in time, he could even be made to understand his own importance.
This is for the good of the clan, he reminded himself, steeling his resolve. It was the duty of the khirnari to sacrifice for his people, even his life.
But my honor?
That was even more precious, but he had no choice but to press on with his plan. He was too close to success to lose his nerve now.
That night Ulan waited until the household servants had gone to bed, then had Ilar blow out the lamps in the library, leaving only the fire on the hearth for light.
“At last,” he murmured, smoothing his hand over the cover of the topmost book. The real ones were safely hidden away. He held out his own silver-handled dagger. “Take this, dear boy, just in case.”
Ilar looked at the knife as if it were a serpent. “I could never win against them!”
“So long as you keep quiet, there’ll be no need. I shall feel better if you’re armed. You must be careful and silent, Ilar.”
“Like they are,” the younger man whispered, taking the knife with shaking hands.
Ulan gathered the trembling man in a fatherly embrace. “How many times have you wished to repay my kindness? Do this for me, Ilar, for the love you bear me. Just be quiet, and things should go as planned.”
Ilar nodded, though he still looked terrified. “I won’t fail you.”
CHAPTER 29
Paths Cross
SEREGIL and the others spent that day and the next exploring the seaside district, taking note of potential hiding places in abandoned buildings and accessible cellars, and the layout of the streets. The new inn where Micum had taken a room was just two streets way from Ulan’s villa, and had a spacious slave pen in the back, the door held by nothing but a stout bar; Micum was no hand at picking locks. For the time being, Seregil, Alec, and Rieser were the only ones there. There was no heat, but the straw was deep and clean and Micum saw to it that they had blankets and passable food.
Leaving his slaves behind, Micum went out to taverns each night, seeking information about Ulan’s habits. He’d done this sort of nightrunning innumerable times over the years. He enjoyed the challenge of finding the right tosspot to coax information from. Most folks he talked to here didn’t pay the Virésse any mind, though some allowed that Ulan was a fine man to trade with, except for being Aurënfaie. There was one well-dressed fellow, a cloth merchant, who confirmed what Micum had learned at Virésse: that Ulan í Sathil bought back slaves taken from the Virésse and the Goliníl fai’thasts, and that he had bought the majority of them from Charis Yhakobin before the alchemist’s murder. A few more men gathered around them when they overheard the name.
“That was the first slave killing in years,” one of the old ones told him. “It’s made a lot of masters take sterner measures with their own slaves, especially the males. And in the markets there’s more call now for little ones that you can train up right. The slavers can hardly keep up with the demand.”
Micum also learned that the Virésse ’faie kept carefully to themselves here in Riga, never ventured out unless in an armed group, and even then seldom at night and never to anywhere like a tavern. Not everyone respected the treaty between Plenimar and Virésse. As several of Micum’s drinking companions were glad to tell him, once you got their head rags off and got a brand and collar on, who could tell one ’faie from another? And who was going to take the word of a slave if they tried to tell? A mile or two inland no one gave a damn about Virésse; a slave was a slave and they all lied.
He returned the second night to find Seregil and Alec in the midst of an argument made up of hand signs and whispers.
“What’s going on?” Micum asked.
“He says I’m not going in!” Alec whispered, and it was clear it was an effort to keep his voice down.
“Why?”
“We were nearly caught last time,” Seregil told him. “If he gets you and the book?” He gave Alec a meaningful look that was half order, half plea. “It’s too risky.”
In the end Alec gave in, but he wasn’t happy about it.
One more day and Rhal should be there to meet them. That night, Micum waited until the house was asleep, then took up a pack and stole out to the slave pen. He lifted the bar as quietly as he could and let the other three out. Behind them, Micum could just make out two bodies prone on the thick straw that covered the floor. Another man with slaves had come to the inn that afternoon.
“Quick, the rope!” Seregil hissed. Micum pulled it from the pack and Seregil cut four short lengths of it. He and Alec quickly tied up the unconscious slaves. That done, they gagged them both with rags.
“I hate to do that to them,” Alec murmured as they stole away from the inn. “They have a hard enough life as it is.”
“There’s no help for it,” Seregil said.
The groom in the stable woke while they were saddling their horses, but a quiet word from Micum and a coin or two was enough to make him think they were getting an early start on a long ride.
They made their way to a small side street behind Ulan’s villa. There they tethered their horses in front of an abandoned house just up the street and moved silently back to the wall. All was dark up and down the street. There were no trees to climb, or sturdy vines, and the stonework didn’t offer much purchase, either. They’d have to chance the muffled grapple again.
Seregil scanned the top of the wall for torches and sentries, but saw neither. “That’s odd.”
“The man must feel safe behind his high walls,” whispered Rieser.
“Just because there isn’t light doesn’t mean there aren’t any guards,” whispered Alec.
“I hope this isn’t a fool’s errand,” muttered Micum.
“So do I.”
Seregil spun the grapple on th
e rope and sent it flying up to the top of the wall. It missed and nearly brained Rieser when it fell. The second try was successful, but the hooks of the grapple grated against stone as they found purchase. They pressed up against the wall, waiting for an outcry, but nothing happened. Micum would almost have been happier if there had been. At least they’d know where the guards were.
Seregil checked that his tool roll and Micum’s knife were tucked securely in his belt under his shirt, then slung the loose cotton bag over one shoulder. With a kiss for luck from Alec tingling on his lips, Seregil quickly scaled the wall, his bare feet making hardly a whisper against the rough stone.
Pausing just under the top of the wall, he listened carefully, but heard nothing except the faint tinkling of bells. He chanced a look over, and found there was no parapet. A formal garden filled the space between the wall and the back of the house, a white crushed-shell path bright between the dark clipped hedges and flower beds. The sound of bells must be wind chimes hung somewhere in the garden.
Dark windows like accusing eyes lined both the lower and upper stories, and torches burned on either side of a central door framed with two imposing pillars that seemed too big for the plain façade. It wasn’t Aurënfaie architecture, and he couldn’t be certain it was similar to a Skalan villa, either, which meant he’d have to be doubly careful, and probably take more time finding what he wanted. At least in Skala the houses usually followed a somewhat similar plan.
From here he could also see that the sides of the house stood apart from the surrounding wall—just the sort of place to find a side door.
There were no watchmen or dogs in sight. Pulling the rope up, he reset the grapple and slowly paid the rope down into the shadows below. Seating the grapple more firmly on top of the wall, he climbed down into the garden. He debated taking the rope with him, but that meant carrying the heavy grapple, too, and he suspected the night’s job was going to need more finesse than that would allow. It was dark here; perhaps no one would see the rope, even if they happened by.
Clipped turf gave softly under his feet as he moved silently toward the right side of the house. The torchlight reached nearly to that corner, and he had to make a dash to the safety of the shadows beyond.
The lack of watchmen, not to mention dogs, was making him nervous.
There was no door on this side of the house, or windows, since there was no view, he supposed. Skirting back the way he’d come, he approached the left side of the house. A low wall separated the main gardens from a smaller courtyard, with a well, kitchen garden, and wood stack. This at least was familiar ground; where there was a kitchen garden, the kitchen was usually not far away.
Sure enough, there was a promising door near the back of the house. It was flanked on either side with rain butts fed by sturdy wooden downspouts that offered a way upstairs if he needed it. As it turned out, he did. The kitchen door was barred from the inside, so there was no lock to pick.
Seregil pressed his ear to the door, but either there was no one stirring or the door was too thick for him to hear anything. He stepped back and scanned the upper story of the house. There was a window close enough to the downspout; he hoped Ulan didn’t lock up his windows as tightly as he did his kitchen.
Gripping the drainpipe in both hands, he gave it a shake. It held solid and felt sturdy enough. He took several small picks and a wooden shim from his tool roll and stuck them in the corner of his mouth.
The wooden pipe held. Holding tight to it with one hand, he leaned over as far as he could and slipped the shim between the two leaded glass panels of the window, then slowly moved it up and down until he found the latch and unhooked it.
Swinging the far panel open, he stretched over and got his footing on the bottom of the deep casement. He crouched there for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the deeper darkness of the room. Gradually he could make out enough to know that this was a sitting room or ladies’ day room. He lowered himself to the floor, which was partially covered by a round rug.
This is as good a place to start as any, he thought, although it was unlikely that Ulan would leave the book lying around in plain sight.
There were a few books on a side table near the hearth, but they were much smaller than the one Alec had described. Chancing the lightstone, he quickly paged through them anyway, but they were common romances, nothing more. He crossed to the door and inched it open. Beyond it lay a short hallway. Two small night lamps in sconces lit it well enough to see several doors on each side of the corridor and where it took a turn at the far end. A pair of expensive shoes sat next to one of the doors near the corner, set out for some servant to clean. Just as he was about to head down the hall to begin his search, he heard footsteps from the far end. A man wearing a Virésse sen’gai and a short sword at his hip came around the corner and started in Seregil’s direction.
Seregil quickly dropped the lightstone down the neck of his shirt and waited, weighing his options and keeping watch through the crack of the door. He could knife the man as he passed, but once again the thought of spilling ’faie blood kept his hand from his knife. No, he’d much rather knock him out or choke him unconscious and leave him here alive.
But the man seemed satisfied with his search halfway down the corridor. Turning back, he disappeared the way he’d come.
Seregil waited until he was certain he was gone, then inched the door open and listened. Yes, there were more men beyond that corner.
He crept silently down the hallway and chanced a quick peek around the corner. A short stairway led down to an open door, and from here he could make out enough of the murmured conversation to know that they were expecting a burglary.
But why are they down there? Why only one man making a cursory search up here?
Because it’s a trap, of course.
Keeping a sharp ear out, he quickly began his search, inching each door open a little and listening intently for breathing before chancing the lightstone. The first two were unoccupied bedchambers; there was no sign of books of any size. He even lifted the rugs and felt under the beds for some secret hiding place under the floorboards, but there was nothing to be found.
Moving on, he opened the door across from the occupied bedchamber, well aware, as he slipped inside, that any sound he made here was likely to be heard.
This room overlooked the garden. The torches below cast enough light for him to see that it was a library, with a few half-filled bookcases against the walls, several armchairs, and a long table with unlit lamps on either end and several orderly stacks of books between them. Large books.
Too easy, he thought again, expecting any moment for armed guards to burst in. Going to the window, he unlatched it and peered down. Fancy carved stonework looked like it offered enough purchase to climb down low enough to jump if he had to. With that settled, he turned his attention to the books.
Ilar bit his knuckle to keep silent as he left the low divan and cautiously peered out between the heavy velvet curtains. It was Seregil. It must be. Certainty came when the shadowy figure drew a lightstone on a stick and held it between his teeth as he looked around the room. The sight of that illuminated face made the breath catch in Ilar’s throat and his heart pound. Seregil was dressed only in loose trousers and a shirt, with a slave collar around his neck. Had he been caught and enslaved again by some other master? And if so, what was he doing here like this? Ilar couldn’t think straight in his excitement. None of that mattered, anyway. Seregil was here!
Seregil was examining the books Ulan had set out, quickly paging through each one and setting it aside. There was no sound but the soft ruffle of the paper. Apparently not satisfied with what he found, he began searching the bookshelves, taking down only the larger books. This brought him closer and closer to the alcove, and Ilar began to feel lightheaded. All the old yearning came over him in full force and before he knew what he was doing, he parted the curtains and stepped out, revealing himself when Seregil was hardly more than arm’s length away. Seregil q
uickly backed away, shoving the lightstone under his shirt and drawing a knife in its place. Ilar knew he should raise the alarm, even at the risk of his life, but they both stood frozen, staring at each other in the faint light from outside. Then, before he gathered anything like coherent thought, Ilar sank to his knees, shaking with excitement and guilt, unable to make a sound.
Seregil stared down at him, face lost in shadow now, though the knife blade still caught the light from the window. “What are you doing here?” he hissed.
“I—” Ilar struggled to find his voice. “I am under the khirnari’s protection now. This—” he gestured weakly around the library. “It’s a trap. For you. And Alec.”
Seregil looked around quickly again, but Ilar reached out a hand to him. “No, not unless I call out. And I won’t, I swear! Ulan has the books about the rhekaros and he needs—”
“I know what he needs. Wait, did you say ‘books’? You mean there’s more than one?”
“Yes. Three. And he was certain you would come looking for them, once he knew that you’d come back to Riga.”
“He—? Never mind. Where are they?”
“Take me with you!”
“You said Ulan has offered you his protection.”
“Please!” Ilar didn’t even know what he was pleading for, except that he wanted to be near this man, to somehow …
“If only you’d forgive me!” he whispered, voice quavering as the tears came.
Seregil’s manner softened a little. “Tell me where the books are, Ilar, and I’ll consider it. You already helped us once, and I haven’t forgotten that. But I need those books. They’re not here, are they?”
“I’ll tell you, but only if you take me with you!”
“How am I supposed to do that? You could no more get out the way I got in than fly!”
“I know a way,” Ilar told him, desperate.
“Another tunnel?”
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