It had also been used several times today.
Alec kicked it over to make it look like an accident, but was careful to send the contents away from the bed. Stale urine spread across the floor and soaked into the mortar. Satisfied, Alec carried the bucket away from the mess and sat down to work on the pin.
He soon discovered that wood was no fit tool for shaping cold bronze. At first all he managed to do was dent the bottom of the pail and leave traces of metal on the floor. Just as he was about to give up, however, he accidentally struck the ivory bead on the end of the pin and shattered it, revealing a precious length of knurled metal that had been hidden before. He picked up every broken fragment and hid them in the mattress, then went back to the door.
The extra little bit of length was enough. The lock gave and he inched the door open on darkness. There was no sign of light from the cellar below, or from the workshop. He crept up the stairs and put his ear to the door. More silence there.
He took a deep breath, then tested the latch. It lifted with a faint snick of metal and he opened the door a tiny crack. The workroom was in darkness except for the red glow from the athanor’s furnace.
A fire needed tending. He pushed the door open a little further and looked around for the alchemist and his servant. But the room appeared deserted.
Or so he thought until something moved just outside the dim glow of the furnace.
It was the rhekaro. It was clad in a short slave’s tunic that left its limbs bare. Alec saw more bandages than had been there this morning. As he watched, it squatted by the athanor, stared a moment at the fire within through one of the ports, then took a handful of woodchips from a basket and fed them one by one into the chamber.
It’s not a mindless thing, thought Alec, pleased but wary. If it served the alchemist, it might just be loyal. Well, there was only one way to find out.
He stepped slowly into the room, watching the rhekaro for a reaction.
It paid him no attention until he came up behind it and touched its shoulder.
It turned and looked up at him, then its lips made a little sucking motion.
“Are you hungry?” Alec whispered.
The creature made no reply but fixed its gaze on Alec’s hand.
“All right, then.” He went to one of the tables and found a bodkin lying next to a bowl of flowers. He stabbed his finger and offered it. The rhekaro took it eagerly and sucked, looking him in the eye as it always did.
“Do you know me?” he asked softly. “Can you speak?”
As always, there was no answer. Perhaps it lacked the ability to speak or understand, thought Alec. And despite the number of wounds it clearly had, he hadn’t heard much screaming, either.
The rhekaro made no move to resist when Alec untied one of the bandages around its left arm to inspect the damage. He expected to find skin sliced away, but instead he found a painted symbol similar to those he’d seen on the amulets Yhakobin had made him wear.
Other bandages revealed similar marks. Some looked inflamed, but there was no serious wound. So the alchemist was taking better care of this one, at least. The little thing was clean and its long hair shone in the firelight.
“What are you for?” Alec murmured, retying the bandages.
As soon as he was finished, the rhekaro squatted down to feed the fire again, seeming to forget all about him.
Alec left it to its task and began searching the shop for anything that might help them escape. There was nothing like a weapon, except for the bodkin, and that wouldn’t be much good against a sword. What knives Yhakobin used were stored away out of sight. Once again, he cursed his lack of Plenimaran. The drawers of the alchemist’s cabinets and cupboards were all carefully labeled in clear but incomprehensible script.
“Damn! I can’t even find the tea, much less a knife,” he muttered aloud.
The rhekaro straightened again and went to the tallest of the cabinets, the one with scores of small drawers. Without any hesitation at all it pulled one out and reached in, then came to Alec and held out a pottery jar with a leather top. Surprised, Alec opened the lid and sniffed at the contents.
It was tea.
Meanwhile, the rhekaro went to one of the tables and grasped the handle of a drawer there. When it would not open, it just stood there, apparently baffled.
“Is that where the knives are?” Alec asked, not expecting an answer.
The rhekaro touched the handle again, then let its hand fall to its side.
Alec made short work of the simple lock and opened it. Inside was a neatly arranged array of knives that would have made a butcher happy.
He clapped the rhekaro on the shoulder. “Thank you. Now, you don’t know if he has any dyes, do you?”
The rhekaro went to another large cupboard and opened it, showing Alec a pile of leather pouches, many of them stained from the contents inside.
“Brown dye?” Alec tried.
The rhekaro selected a pouch and carried it to him.
“Do you know how to mix it?”
Stymied again, the rhekaro just stood there.
“That’s all right. You’re a good helper.” It was impossible not to speak to it as if it was an actual child. “Keys?”
Again there was no response.
“Food? Bread?”
Nothing.
“Flower?”
Despite the fact that the flower bowl was only a few feet away, the rhekaro paid it no mind.
“Let’s see. What would be useful? Rope?”
It went to a closet and returned with several hanks of rope, some of it stained and stiff with what appeared to be blood.
“Seregil?” Alec tried. As expected, that got him another blank look. It seemed that the rhekaro’s education was very limited. “Well, let’s try this. Alec?”
The rhekaro immediately came to him, took his hand, and sucked on his finger.
Alec chuckled and pulled his hand free. “At least you didn’t come at me when I said ‘food.’” He took those cool little hands in his and pressed them to his chest. “Alec. My name is Alec. Alec is me. Do you understand? Name?”
The rhekaro gazed up at him and he could have sworn he caught a fleeting look of confusion. Perhaps, having no name of its own, such distinctions meant nothing to it. “Alec” was probably the same to it as “chair” or “rope” or “tea”: just another useful item to be found in the workshop.
There was no question that it was focused on him now, though. As he stole to the outer door to listen, it followed right behind on bare silent feet.
There were guards somewhere outside. He could hear them talking. No use going out the front door, then.
It would have been helpful if the place had a window into the smaller garden, but no such luck. The skylights were no more help, either; there were bars across them now. When had that happened? Perhaps it was a night barrier, set in place when the alchemist finished for the day? The rhekaro followed him like a lost pup as Alec hastily searched further, looking for any other way out.
In the process he found a cupboard containing a few of Yhakobin’s stained work robes. They were a bit large, but had sleeves and were not slave garb. There was a pair of worn shoes, too.
He paused, keeping one ear attuned to the door, and took stock. So far he had access to clothing, knives, tea, a dye he didn’t know how to use, and a lock pick that worked.
And no idea where Seregil was.
He paused by the athanor, watching the contents boil sluggishly. It still looked like mud to him.
“What is he up to, I wonder?” he murmured.
Cold fingers closed around Alec’s wrist. Surprised, he looked down to find the rhekaro staring up at the retort as well, and it had a hand pressed to its chest, just as he had when he’d tried to make it understand his name.
“What? You have a name?”
As expected, there was no answer except that it lowered its hand.
“You want a name?”
That little hand went back
to its chest, over its heart-assuming it had one.
“Can you tell me what you mean, or is that just something you saw me do?” he wondered. “But I should call you something, I guess. I’ve never named anyone before, except a horse.” He studied the little creature for a moment, then said, “How about Sebrahn?” It was the Aurënfaie word for moonlight. He touched the rhekaro on the chest. “Sebrahn. That’s you. What do you think?”
The rhekaro looked at him a moment, then slowly pointed at the retort and then at itself, and held up a finger, showing him the white line of a scar.
Alec held its hand a little closer to the waning glow of the fire. A scar? And it had healed without the help of his blood, too. He looked at the roiling mass, then back at the creature. “He put something of you in there, didn’t he? He made you from me, and now he’s trying to make something from you.”
Sebrahn went to the knife drawer, selected a small, sharp blade, and brought it to Alec, then held out its hand.
Alec put it back and closed the drawer. “No. I won’t do that to you.”
Just then he heard a louder voice outside: Yhakobin, speaking with the sentries.
Alec looked frantically at all the open cupboards and drawers. He’d let himself get distracted by the rhekaro, forgetting that the alchemist worked all hours!
Cursing silently, he flew around the room, trying to put everything back to rights. It was only when he stumbled over Sebrahn that he realized that the rhekaro was still following him. The voices were getting closer now. Ahmol was with his master.
Alec took the rhekaro by its thin shoulders and whispered, “Tend the fire!” then bolted for the stairs. A final glance found the creature squatting by the athanor again with its basket of chips, but it was looking at him.
Alec just managed to get the stairway door pulled shut when he heard the workroom door open. It hadn’t been locked!
Damning himself for all kinds of fool, he crept back to his room and locked himself in with shaking hands. It took several tries, and he had just gotten the pick hidden in the mattress when he heard steps on the stairs outside his room. He braced for the worst, but they continued on downstairs to the cellar.
Alec quickly moved the pick, since Khenir already knew that hiding place. Reaching under the bed, he wedged the brass pin between the mattress and the bed ropes. That done, he sagged back across the bed, limp with relief, until he heard the rhekaro’s first thin squeal of pain from the cellar. It took every ounce of will he had not to pick the lock again and dash down to stop whatever was going on. Instead, he pounded on the door, yelling, “Leave him alone. Stop hurting him, damn you!”
It did no good, of course. The cries continued for a little while, then stopped just as abruptly. He kicked the door in frustration. “You heartless bastard! He’s just a child. How can you do that?”
He jumped back quickly as a key rattled in the lock. The door swung open and there was the alchemist, whip in hand and furious. Ahmol stood just behind with Sebrahn’s limp little body in his arms.
“You killed him!” Alec snarled.
Yhakobin strode in and grabbed Alec by the hair, dragging him back to the doorway.
“Him, you say? Look at its hand,” he ordered, giving Alec’s head a hard shake, and then shoving him to his knees for a closer look.
The rhekaro’s left arm hung limply down, and Alec saw that its entire hand had been cut off this time. Something was dripping from the terrible wound, but it wasn’t blood. As with the last one, it was thicker, and almost clear.
“You are a fool, Alec, if you think this thing is in any way human,” the alchemist said sternly. “And you are a greater fool to insult me. I’ve no patience with you-or it-tonight.”
He barked out an order and two strapping men appeared and held Alec while Yhakobin drove the bodkin into Alec’s finger and yanked his hand to the rhekaro’s slack lips. After a moment the lips closed around it and it sucked weakly, but its eyelids didn’t even flutter.
Yhakobin shoved Alec’s face closer to the severed wrist and he saw five little nubs protruding from the stump, the same sort as he’d seen when Yhakobin had cut the fingers off the first rhekaro he’d made. It was the beginning of a new hand.
If it was healing, then perhaps it wasn’t dead, after all.
His relief was short-lived. Yhakobin handed his whip to one of the men. “Good night, Alec. Pleasant dreams.”
The beating that followed involved not just the whip, but fists and boots as well. By the time it was over Alec was spitting blood and both eyes were swollen shut. They left him on the floor. The last thing he heard was the door locking after them.
As consciousness spun away, he comforted himself with the knowledge that his new pick was still hidden. Freedom was his when he chose to grasp it. Next time he wouldn’t hesitate.
CHAPTER 34 The Watchers Go Forth
THE WEATHER TURNED rotten before Micum and Thero could set sail from Gedre. Lashing rain and high seas held their vessel in port for three days, then the wind was against them, forcing the captain to tack endlessly to make any progress at all. The Osiat was deeper than the Inner Sea, and the storms fiercer, especially heading north toward the Strait. But the ship was a sturdy, sleek little caravel, lateen-rigged and well ballasted, under the command of a Gedre named Solies.
It took nearly a week to reach Virésse. Thero used the tooth to keep track of their quarry; so far Notis was still in the harbor town. The Gedre khirnari had given them letters of introduction, but Micum seemed increasingly uneasy as they neared the port.
“Would it be fair to say that Seregil and Ulan í Sathil aren’t exactly on cordial terms?” he mused as they sat in the galley, trying to keep their salt meat and turab from sliding off the table as the ship pitched and rolled.
“I’ve been thinking the same,” Thero admitted. “And if Seregil were here, I think he’d be reminding us that he’s never one to go in the front door when he has a chance to do otherwise.”
Micum grinned. “Are you turning nightrunner on me, too?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but there’s much to be said for caution.”
“Can you magic us somehow, so we don’t stick out in the crowd?”
“I could, but remember where we are going. My magic is more likely to call attention to us than it is to shield us. I think an attempt at stealth might be the better plan.”
“Well then, I guess we’d better ask Captain Solies if he knows of any back doors.”
As it happened, the captain did, and put in that evening at a secluded inlet a few miles west of Virésse harbor. Sailors swam their horses ashore for them, and Captain Solies went with Micum and Thero as they were rowed ashore, looking less than pleased with the plan.
“Keep those letters with you in case you’re challenged,” he warned. “I’ll be left explaining our anchorage here if anyone comes asking.”
“We’ll be back in a few days,” Thero promised. “And I’ll do my best to send you word if it all goes wrong.”
* * *
They spent the night under tall pines, wrapped in their blankets against the damp chill.
“I had my first taste of this with Alec, when the Plenimarans took us,” Thero admitted, huddled near the little fire Micum had coaxed to life. “I must admit, I miss my tower rooms at times like this. Nysander and Magyana were better at this sort of thing.”
“You’ve hardened up nicely, though.” Micum lifted the little kettle of tea off the coals and poured Thero a cup, then took out his pipe for a smoke. Settling with his back to a tree trunk, he took a few puffs. “It’s been a while for me, too. Feels damn good to be sleeping rough again.”
The following morning found the forest thick with fog. Thero would have been hopelessly lost, but Micum, who seemed to have an infallible sense of direction, soon found a narrow cart track leading in the right direction.
Micum kept up the horses at good pace through the morning as the mist burned off under the rising sun. By the time they dismou
nted by a roadside spring to eat, Thero noticed that his limp was more pronounced.
“I think I can help you with that,” Thero offered. “Nysander taught me a bit of healing, and I learned more from Mydri in Bôkthersa.”
Micum sighed. “I can’t say no to that, I suppose. What should I do?”
“Just sit on that rock there. I’ll have to put my hands on you.”
“Go on, then.” Micum sat down and stuck out his bad leg.
Thero knelt beside him and carefully pressed a hand to the front and back of Micum’s thigh. He’d never laid hands on a man before, and felt a little awkward, but Micum just watched with interest and showed no sign of discomfort.
Thero hadn’t seen Micum’s wound since it had healed, but he could easily trace the long, uneven ridges of scar tissue through the thin leather of Micum’s breeches. They ran from behind his knee to just below his buttock. Closing his eyes, Thero whispered the healing charm Magyana had taught him to take away pain. The tense muscles under his hands relaxed a bit and he heard Micum’s grateful sigh.
“That’s a bit better.”
“Wait a little.” This time, Thero summoned the deeper healing Seregil’s sister had taught him-one he’d used often to help Klia through the long, painful days of healing, when her remaining fingers threatened to curl permanently into withered claws. As the spell took hold, he could feel the rush of blood through muscle and the tension of tendon along bone. He imagined warm sunlight and sent the heat of it deep into the flesh.
“By the Light!” Micum murmured.
Thero held on until he felt the thick, hardened skin loosen under his fingers, then sat back and opened his eyes. “I can do more later. Do you think you can ride some more?”
Micum stood and tried the leg. “Hell, I think I can run! Now, is our friend Notis still there?”
Thero took the tooth from a pouch at his belt and pressed it between his palms. “Yes, and he’s ashore, too. I think I can find him now that we’re closer.”
They reached the outskirts of Virésse that afternoon. The sprawling white city embraced a deep, broad port, and was protected at its back by mountains. Pausing on a hill overlooking the harbor, Micum sat on a stone fai’thast marker and counted well over a hundred ships of all sizes moored there, and not a few of them carrying the striped sails of Plenimar.
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