Shadows Return n-4

by Lynn Flewelling

  Alec could only hang there and scream as the alchemist drove the sharp end of the tap into his chest.

  CHAPTER 23 Treachery

  IT WAS TOO soon to look for his kinsmen’s return. Riagil í Molan had no reason for concern until a trader of the Akhendi clan named Orin í Nyus brought him a handful of bloodstained Gedre sen’gai, an earring that belonged to Aryn with a wizened bit of flesh still clinging to the silver hook, and a Skalan gorget.

  He rode out at the head of a search party that same day, with the Akhendi as their guide. The trader led them a day and a half up the coast, to a little ravine in a wooded pass. He’d seen the crows circling over it, he explained, and followed them to the pile of stripped bodies piled by a stream at the bottom.

  Aryn was there, with the rest of the escort. Of Seregil and his talimenios, however, there was no sign.

  “Could they have done this, Khirnari?” his cousin Nurien asked, with one hand over his nose to block out the stench.

  The old man bent to examine the bodies more closely. In addition to sword wounds, he found the stumps of broken-off arrows in most of them. He pondered this for a moment. Then, asking his kinsman’s forgiveness, he cut one of the broken shafts from Aryn’s body. The barbed, intricately incised steel head was unmistakable. “This is the Zengati work.”

  Nurien shook his head. “Slavers, this far inland, and this far east?”

  “It’s less than a day’s ride to the sea from here,” Orin í Nyus pointed out. “They could have put in at any of a dozen smuggler’s coves.”

  Riagil nodded and turned to wash his hands in the stream, already composing a letter to Queen Phoria.

  CHAPTER 24 A Change of Scenery

  “I MUST SAY, I liked my previous accommodations much better,” Seregil croaked, licking blood from a split lip. Ilar had finally made the mistake of thinking him tamed, not realizing how much of Seregil’s strength had returned. He’d visited him that afternoon without having his pet prisoner drugged first.

  Seregil had looked up out of habit as soon as the door opened, expecting Zoriel. But it was Ilar instead. Seregil was on his feet with his hands around the bastard’s neck before either of them guessed he was going to attack. In the blink of an eye, he had Ilar on the floor under him, digging his thumbs into the man’s windpipe under that golden collar and watching his eyes bulge.

  Looking back on it now, Seregil had to admit that it hadn’t been the wisest course of action. If it had just been the two of them, his rage might have carried the day. But naturally, the coward had guards just outside the door, and they’d made short work of Seregil, hard as he’d fought. To his credit, it had taken three strong men to pry him off Ilar. The last of his strength was gone by then, leaving him with no choice but to curl up like a pill bug as they beat and kicked him unconscious. He did, however, have the satisfaction of seeing Ilar hanging back, clutching his throat and looking suitably shaken. Seregil would have much preferred him on the floor dead, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  It had been early afternoon then. When he’d come to in this cold little cell, the light through the single tiny window was colored with the slanting glow of sunset.

  They’d left him his slave’s robe, at least, but the brick floor under him was damp and cold and his collar was digging into the side of his neck. His abused body felt like it was stuffed with broken glass as he rolled slowly onto his back and tried to take stock of his new surroundings before he lost the light.

  It was a task made more difficult by the fact that there appeared to be two of everything: two windows, somewhat overlapped; two doors, both sadly lacking an inner handle or lock hole; two smelly slop buckets against one wall; and, against the other wall, a weirdly elongated sleeping pallet.

  When he tried to sit up, his head threatened to explode, so he quickly gave that up. Instead, he forced himself back over onto his belly and crawled to the pallet, which drifted frustratingly in and out of focus and insisted on bobbing like a boat on the tide.

  He made it at last and dragged himself onto it. There were a few faded quilts and a dented pillow. As tempting as it was to just collapse on top of them, the room was already too cold for that. Whimpering a little, he used up the last of his strength to crawl under the covers, face crushed into the pillow.

  Suddenly he was surrounded by the scent of Alec, stale, but unmistakable. Alec had slept in this bed, this cell!

  “So this is where you’ve been, talí,” he whispered, sniffing the quilts and finding traces of his lover’s scent there, too-musk and sweat and unwashed hair. He let out a hoarse noise caught between a laugh and a sob and pressed his bruised face to the pillow again. “But where are you now?”

  The double vision warned of a bad head wound. He dragged himself up with his back to the wall and pulled the quilts up to his chin, trying very hard to quell the nausea burning in his throat. He pressed his cheek to the cold wall, hoping it would help. He found if he sat very, very still, he didn’t feel quite so much like dying.

  Stop whining and think!

  But thinking turned to Alec, and those thoughts soon turned to worry. Where in Bilairy’s name was he?

  He’d been struck on the head before, with similar effects, and Micum had gone to great lengths to keep him from sleeping, claiming it was dangerous. Seregil had no one but himself to rely on this time and it was difficult. His body kept trying to betray him. Time and again he caught himself nodding off, and paid for it with pain and nausea when his head snapped up. Would dawn never come?

  It was still dark when a faint scratching at the door awoke him from another light doze. He’d been dreaming that he was in bed with Alec back at the Stag and Otter; in his confusion he tried to get up and go to the door, thinking it must be the damned cat wanting to be let in.

  Moving, however, proved a worse idea than ever. His bruised muscles had stiffened while he slept; even this slightest movement was too painful, and his head felt like an inflated bladder on a stick. He gave up. “What do you want?”

  The scratching became a soft tapping, brief and faint.

  “Who is it?” he demanded more loudly, wondering if he was in fact addressing a rat.

  “You are Seregil, of Bôkthersa clan?” a woman whispered in Aurënfaie. “Come to the door.”

  He tried again, but the prospect of dragging himself across the floor was too much right now. He was still seeing double and felt dizzy just raising his head. “I can’t. Who are you?”

  “Zoriel sent me. She fears for you.”

  “Tell her I’m fine.” He waited, but there was no response. “Please, where is the young man who was here before me?”

  Again silence. He waited, but his mysterious visitor was gone. Why hadn’t he asked about Alec first? In the back of his mind lurked the very real possibility that Alec was gone from the house-sold off, or dead-

  Focus, damn it! You’ve gotten out of worse scrapes than this.

  Then again, he didn’t really know what sort of scrape he’d landed in just yet. Alec had been kept here, and the few times that Seregil had seen him in the garden, he’d looked well enough.

  He stared up into the darkness, assessing the strange, brief conversation. He was surprised that the old woman cared enough to ask after him. And it seemed she’d had to convince a third party to do it for her, and apparently at some risk. His visitor had spoken Aurënfaie, meaning either she was a slave or that someone intended for him to believe she was.

  Dawn found him still awake. Using the wall to brace against, he managed to get on his feet and limp around the confines of the little room, trying to work some of the pain from his body. His vision was better now, at least.

  A thorough search left him depressed and disappointed. Whoever had built this cell had known what he was doing. There wasn’t a damn thing he could make use of, unless he could take down the guards with the pail. Which wasn’t completely out of the question.

  Time passed and no breakfast appeared. Forcing himself up again, he searched ag
ain, looking closely at every inch of the place. While examining the door, he came across the scratched names. Khenir’s was there, and Alec’s, too. Seregil traced the awkwardly incised lettering with the tip of his finger, then added his own beside it, in case they changed places again. “I’ll find you, talí. Hold on.”

  He was given no food or water that day. No one came near him at all. That night he moved the pallet across to the door, hoping his unseen visitor would come again, but the night passed in silence.

  The following morning a sullen man brought him a pitcher of water and a stale crust of bread, but no water for washing. Seregil ate sparingly and was glad when they had no ill effect.

  He wasn’t so lucky that evening. The morning meal had been too small, and by suppertime he couldn’t resist the temptation of warm bread and cheese. Nor was he surprised when the numbness of the drug stole over him again. He almost welcomed it, assuming that it meant Ilar would soon arrive to taunt him. Perhaps he could get him to let slip where Alec was. If nothing else, it was good not to be in quite so much pain for a while.

  He’d guessed right. Ilar approached him more carefully this time. It amused Seregil, but he was too far gone to laugh. Lying there, helpless and numb under the quilts, he noted with satisfaction the bruises showing on Ilar’s throat above the neck of his robe. He could make out the marks of his own fingers on the pale flesh behind the golden collar.

  Just give me another chance to finish that job.

  Ilar squatted down by the pallet and gripped him by the hair, giving his head a painful shake. “I suppose you’re very proud of yourself.” His normally deep voice was thin and raspy. “Still the same little monster I remember. I should have known. Fortunately for me, that garshil of yours is more tractable.”

  “Alec. S’name’s Alec.” Seregil mumbled, anger cutting though his daze. People had called Alec that in Aurënen, too: mongrel. It was the worst of insults, and he wasn’t surprised to hear it on Ilar’s lips. “Where-?”

  Ilar gave him a sour smirk, then stood and waved to his escort. The men pulled the blankets from the pallet, fastened a heavy chain to his collar, and dragged Seregil unresisting from the room.

  Walking was out of the question. He could barely hold his head up. His bare feet scraped over cold brick as they passed along an ill-lit corridor outside. At the end of it they carried him up a narrow stair, and through a very fine courtyard paved with a black-and-white mosaic. As they passed a long, rectangular fountain, he caught sight of a veiled woman with two small children, watching him from the far side.

  She was ’faie and Khatme, too. There was no mistaking the clan markings on her face above the veil. How had the slavers gotten hold of one of that clan? Perhaps she’d been a traveler, or a merchant.

  She pulled the children close as they passed, but Seregil didn’t miss the slight nod she gave him. Perhaps this was his night visitor?

  He tried to flex his limp arms and legs as they dragged him down a broad stair into a different court, but his body was dead weight in their hands.

  They stopped at the door of an outbuilding and Ilar grabbed him by the hair again. “I’m going to do you a great favor. In fact, I’m probably granting your most heartfelt wish. I do hope you’ll show me some gratitude afterward.”

  Seregil’s heart beat faster as they took him through a large, sunny workshop. The large athanor dominating the center of the room and various alembics steaming away on a table suggested alchemy. He didn’t have time to form much of an impression otherwise; his handlers wrestled him roughly through another door on the far side of the room and down a staircase. It stopped at a landing where there was another door, then continued down into a cellar below.

  It stank of damp earth and blood here, and something else he couldn’t identify. It was sweet, but with an underlying stench of decay, like moldy apples.

  The men lowered him to his knees, but kept a grip on his arms, holding him upright. His head lolled limply, but his eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light cast by a single lamp, and he saw that part of the dirt floor had been disturbed. There was loosely mounded soil there and, as he watched, a drop of something dark and glistening fell on it. As the droplet sank in, something underneath the soil moved.

  “Ah, I see you’ve brought your friend to visit,” a deep, cultured voice remarked from somewhere across the room. The words were Aurënfaie, but the accent was Plenimaran.

  “Yes, Ilban. Thank you for allowing it,” Ilar replied.

  Ilban. That was the Plenimaran word for master.

  Seregil turned his head slightly, wanting to see what sort of man owned Ilar. He managed a glimpse of a tall, robed figure on the far side of the disturbed earth-the alchemist, perhaps-and another, taller man in black.

  The loose earth heaved again, and Seregil was suddenly afraid of what might be about to emerge.

  “Why…?” he managed to croak.

  “I was hoping you would ask,” Ilar rasped. “Let him see.”

  His keepers released him and Seregil slumped forward in an ungainly heap. The cloying stench of the damp earth against his face was overwhelming. He gagged, then let out a startled grunt as they turned him over onto his back. He found himself staring up at some sort of grillwork suspended from the beamed ceiling. No, he realized as his eyes adjusted to the light; a cage.

  Ilar lifted a torch close to it and Seregil let out a low whine.

  Alec hung there, splayed facedown and naked. His eyes were closed and his face was slack and deathly pale. He was thin, too. Seregil could count his ribs through the bars.

  Oh Illior, he’s dead! Seregil thought in despair, but then saw that this was not so. Corpses didn’t bleed.

  There, in the center of Alec’s chest, was a tiny metal tap, just large enough to funnel a slow, steady fall of blood, drop by slow, small drop. Every time a drop landed on the mound of earth, whatever horror lay beneath moved in response, as if it shared a pulse with Alec.

  “Killing…him!” Seregil whispered between suddenly chattering teeth.

  “I promise you, I am not,” the robed man assured him. “If my labors here prove fruitful, I will be keeping your friend alive for a very long time. He will be my precious and most prized alembic, brewing wonders for me. At the moment, I’m keeping him comfortable and asleep.”

  As if he’d heard, Alec suddenly stirred in his bonds. His hands clenched and his eyes moved behind closed lids, making his lashes quiver.

  “Alec!” Seregil croaked.

  Alec’s eyes remained closed, but his cracked lips moved. No sound issued, but Seregil was sure they formed the word “talí.”

  Ilar leaned over him, gloating. “And it’s all thanks to you, Haba. If not for you, I’d never have known this boy existed. I wanted you to see what’s become of him and show you that you are helpless to stop it.”

  Seregil glared up at him. “Kill…you!”

  “This one has spirit, too,” the alchemist observed in Plenimaran. Seregil kept very still, not letting on that he understood. “I wonder if he’d be any use to me? Which clan is he again?”

  “A Bôkthersan, Master.”

  Seregil gritted his teeth, imagining himself hanging in a cage like Alec’s.

  “But I don’t know if he’s strong enough, Master,” Ilar murmured. Seregil couldn’t see his face but caught a distinct hint of hesitation.

  “Nonsense. A little bloodletting won’t hurt him. And do I need to remind you that until I see fit to free you, both you and he are mine to do with as I choose?”

  “No, Ilban!” Ilar replied, obsequious again. “Kheron, take him up at once!”

  “Wait.” The man in black, who’d remained silent until now, looked more closely at Seregil. Nudging him with the toe of his boot, he asked, “This is the one who killed Duke Mardus?”

  “So I’m told.”

  “He should be executed, though I suppose he did us all a favor in the end. Ambitious fools like Mardus always end up as liabilities. He did have his uses, though.”
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  “I assure you, Your Grace, the fate of this ’faie will not be an easy one.”

  “See that it isn’t.”

  “Take him up!” the master ordered, and one of the guards hoisted Seregil in his arms and carried him upstairs to the workshop. Seregil cast a last desperate look back at Alec, cursing his own helplessness.

  Once upstairs, he was placed facedown on a slate-topped table, with his left arm over the side. The guards held him, and the alchemist nicked a vein in Seregil’s wrist and held his hand over a bowl, collecting his blood. While this was going on, he and Ilar talked casually over Seregil, as if he weren’t there, still speaking Plenimaran.

  “He stinks, Khenir.” Apparently Ilar’s master didn’t know his real name. “I thought you’d been taking better care of him.”

  “It’s part of his punishment, Master, for attacking me.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, I suppose it’s more humane than the prescribed flogging.”

  “I hate to mark him, Master.”

  “He is a particularly fine-looking specimen, even for a ’faie. You could set yourself up quite nicely, contracting him to the breeders.”

  “Perhaps when I’m done with him, Master.”

  The master bent to look at the back of Seregil’s hand. “Hm. Another simple tattoo. The boy has one as well. What do you know of these?”

  To Seregil’s surprise, Ilar replied, “Nothing, Ilban. My clan didn’t use such marks. How fares the rhekaro?”

  You lying bastard! Seregil nearly laughed. As usual, Ilar was playing his own game, even against the master he professed to worship. And he’d changed the subject nicely, too. He’d probably have made a good nightrunner.

  “As you saw, it quickens nicely,” the master replied, none the wiser. “I expect it will be complete by tomorrow. The moon phases have been more of a factor than the treatises led me to believe. Or perhaps it’s the boy’s mixed blood. Whatever the case, I’m glad, for he isn’t as strong as I’d hoped. He’s not stirred in over a day.”