Luck in the Shadows (59 page)

“The secret of his fortune, I suspect,” said Nysander. “I should hardly have given him credit for such ability, yet it seems we may have underestimated the wretch after all. General Phoria, do you think Barien arranged to have Teukros killed the night of his own death?”

“He said nothing of the kind to me.”

“Did you arrange to have Teukros killed?”

“No.” For the first time in some minutes Phoria locked eyes with him and Nysander found no reason to doubt her words.

“Is there anything else you can tell me of this business with the
Hart
?”

“Nothing beyond the fact that Barien could never ascertain exactly what happened to the gold. Herleus ceased his demands for money, and a few months later he was dead. Nothing was mentioned of it during the disposition of his estate, but that’s hardly surprising. I suppose his heirs have lived rather well off their secret reserve.”

“Perhaps,” said Nysander, unconvinced that the answer would be that simple.

Armed with Nysander’s report from the Palace, Seregil and Alec disappeared for the rest of the day. They returned to the tower before dark, however, still dressed in the hooded robes of professional scholars and smudged with fine bookish dust.

Micum, who’d spent the afternoon with Nysander, exchanged a grin with the old wizard; Seregil and the boy both had the happy look of hounds on a warm scent. It was the most cheerful either of them had looked in days.

“Herleus
had
no heirs!” Seregil cackled happily, warming his hands at the workroom fire.

“None at all?” Nysander raised a shaggy eyebrow in surprise.

“Not only that,” the boy added excitedly, “but his entire estate was impounded for debt right after he died. There was no sign of any gold.”

“You have been to the city archives, then?”

“And down to the lower city again,” said Seregil. “Oh, we’ve had a busy afternoon, Alec and I. We’re off to Cirna tomorrow.”

“Hold on now, you’ve lost me,” Micum broke in. “What were you looking for in the lower city?”

“Shipping records,” Seregil replied. “The
White Hart
is listed as belonging to a shipping line owned by the Tyremian family of Rhíminee, but it turns out she was based out of Cirna, so that’s where all her manifests would be kept.
If
they’ve been kept.”

Micum nodded slowly. “Then you believe there’s some connection between that stolen gold and the plot against you?”

“It appears that the same people were involved in both plots, and that they’re probably Lerans. If I’m wrong, then we’ve damn-all to go on.”

Micum narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “This is another one of your ‘instinct’ things, isn’t it?”

“Even so, I believe he may be correct,” Nysander said. “Teukros’ falling into debt with a suspected Leran smacks of a conspiracy. What greater coup for them than to ensnare Barien’s compliance through his beloved nephew? We must, at all costs, try to determine the ultimate destination of that gold. Assuming, as Seregil has noted, that the evidence still exists.”

“There’s always a chance,” said Seregil. “You coming north with us, Micum?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like you need me, and I imagine Kari’s eager to get me back. I’ll ride as far as Watermead with you, though. You can break your journey with us, if you like.”

“I’d rather push on, thanks all the same. Depending on what we learn, I may stop by for you on the way back, though.”

“I’d better not mention that to Kari.” Micum gave a comic grimace. “If you just come calling for me out of the blue, I can lay the blame off on you. How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

“Depends on what we find. The
Hart
was a coastal trader working both sides of the isthmus. If we have to go off to some distant port, it could be weeks.”

Pausing, he turned to Nysander. “There was one other thing. How many Queen’s Warrants would it have taken to reroute that gold?”

“Only one, I suppose. Is there some significance in that?”

“Perhaps,” mused Seregil. “As I recall, you said that Alben confessed to forging
two
Queen’s Warrants, but nothing of the sort was recovered from Teukros’ house. That leaves one very powerful document, probably complete with seals, unaccounted for.”

Nysander frowned as he considered the myriad implications of this revelation. “Oh dear!”

A
lec fought his way out of yet another nightmare, the stench of the charnel house strong in his nostrils. Throwing back the bed curtains, he found the first light of dawn brightening his window. What he’d smelled was nothing more than the scent of sausages frying downstairs.

“Thank the Maker!” he whispered, running a hand over his sweaty face.

He’d slept badly again that night, tossing fitfully through frantic dreams in which a threatening black figure stalked him through the charnel houses. The oppressive feel of the dream dogged him as he dressed and headed downstairs.

Seregil and Runcer were in the main salon discussing the disposal of a collection of traveling cases. “Lord Seregil” was leaving the city on a journey to recover from the shock of his ordeal, taking Sir Alec with him. Luggage sufficient for a lengthy undertaking had to be seen leaving with them.

“We’ll leave all this off at Watermead,” Seregil was saying as Alec joined them.

“And how shall I respond to those inquiring after you and Sir Alec, my lord?” asked Runcer.

“Tell them that I was too shaken to predict
my return. Oh, good morning, Alec. We’ll leave as soon as you get some breakfast. Eat fast.”

“And Sir Micum is returning home?” asked Runcer.

“Yes, I am.” Micum appeared at the dining-room doorway in his shirtsleeves. “You can tell any callers that I’ve gone home to the loveliest woman in Skala, and that I’ll set the dogs on anyone who disturbs us for the next week!”

Runcer bowed gravely. “I shall convey the sentiment, sir.”

Seregil paced restlessly around the dining room as Alec wolfed down his sausage and tea. “We’ll set up back at the Cockerel when we come back.”

“Suits me,” Alec said happily. He’d had quite enough of fussy manners and overly attentive servants. Finishing hastily, he followed Seregil and Micum out to the street where their mounts and small baggage train stood ready under Runcer’s watchful eye.

They’d dressed as gentlemen to be seen leaving the city, and the groom had saddled Cynril and Windrunner, but Patch and Scrub were ready among the pack horses.

It was a brisk, fine day for riding, and they arrived at the byway leading up to Watermead just after midday.

Crossing the bridge, Alec and Seregil dismounted and ducked into a thicket to change clothes. From here they would travel as merchants.

“You’re heading for the Pony tonight?” asked Micum as they emerged again.

Seregil glanced up at the sun. “We should be able to make it if we push on.”

“Say hello to Kari and the girls for me,” said Alec. Looking up the valley, he saw a pale ribbon of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney at Watermead and imagined the warm scents of hot bread, roasting meats, and drying herbs there.

Changing mounts, Seregil roped the Aurënen horses in with the pack animals.

“Expect us when you see us,” he told Micum, handing him the lead rein.

“Good hunting to you,” said Micum, clasping hands with them both. “And take care on those damned goat paths they call
streets up there in Cirna. One wrong step and it’s ass over tippet into the bay before you know what happened!”

Riding back across the little bridge, they turned their horses north and set off along the highroad again at a gallop.

The rolling hills soon gave way to steeper country. Jagged cliffs fell away to the sea on their left, and they could see the dark expanse of the Osiat stretching out past the coastal islands to the horizon.

They reined in at last to rest the horses. Pushing back the hood of his cloak, Seregil let out a happy whoop. “By the Four, it’s good to be free of Wheel Street again!”

“You, too?” Alec turned to him in surprise.

“I can scarcely breathe there anymore!” exclaimed Seregil, shaking his head. “I hate to admit it, but I’ve felt pretty trapped there these past few years. It’s a disguise that’s taken on a life of its own. Once you’ve seen how far it all goes, you’ll understand.”

“Is that why you never told me about it?” Alec asked. The residual mood left by the nightmare, together with some lingering irritation over his first introduction to the place, lent an unexpectedly sharp edge to the words.

Seregil glanced over at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I mean all those weeks we were in the city and you never once mentioned it. Not until you could spring it on me as another of your little tests.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still mad about that?”

“I guess I am,” muttered Alec. “You do it all the time, you know—not telling me things.”

“Illior’s Fingers, Alec, all I’ve done for the last two months is tell you things. I don’t think I’ve ever talked so much in my life! What haven’t I been telling you?”

“About Wheel Street, to begin with,” Alec shot back. “Having me break in like a thief and then throwing me into the middle of that party—”

“But I explained all that! You’re not going to tell me now you weren’t proud of yourself once the shock wore off?”

“It’s not that.” Alec struggled to put his warring emotions into words. At last he blurted out, “I’d just like to have had some say in the matter. Now that I think of it, I haven’t had much of a say in anything since we met. After all we’ve been through? Bilairy’s Guts, Seregil, I saved your life!”

Seregil opened his mouth as if to answer, then silently nudged Scrub into a walk.

Alec followed, still angry but aghast at his outburst. Why was it that strong emotions always seemed to take him by surprise?

“I suppose you’re justified in thinking that,” Seregil said at last.

“Seregil, I—”

“No, it’s all right. Don’t apologize for speaking the truth.” Staring down at Scrub’s neck, Seregil let out an exasperated sigh. “It was different when we first met. You were just someone who needed help and might prove momentarily useful. It wasn’t until after Wolde that I was sure about bringing you south with me.”

“
After
Wolde!” Alec turned to face him, anger rising again. “You lied to me? All that talk out there on the Downs of Skala, and me being a bard?”

Seregil shrugged, still not looking up. “I don’t know, I guess so. I mean, it sounded good to me at the time, too. But I didn’t really know how suitable you were until that burglary in Wolde.”

“What would you have done if I wasn’t ‘suitable’?”

“Left you somewhere safe with money in your pocket, and then disappeared. I’ve done that often enough, with people I’ve helped. But you were different, and so I didn’t do that.”

Alec was surprised by an eerie sense of connection as their eyes met; heat like a gulp of brandy sprang up in his belly and spread out from there.

“So yes, I lied to you a little at first,” Seregil was saying. “Think of how many strangers you’ve lied to since you hooked up with me. It’s the nature of our work. Since Wolde, though, I swear I’ve been as honest with you as I could be. I wanted to tell you more, prepare you, but then the sickness came on.” He paused. “In your place, I doubt I’d have been as faithful. Anyway, after Wolde and the ambush in the Folcwine Forest I began to think of you as a friend, the first I’d made in a long time. I’d assumed you understood that, and for that assumption I beg your kind forgiveness.”

“There’s no need,” muttered Alec, embarrassed.

“Oh, I think there is. Damn it, Alec, you’re as much of a mystery to me as I probably am to you. I keep forgetting how young you are, how different we are. Micum and I were almost of an age when we met. We saw the world with the same eyes. And Nysander! He always seemed to know my thoughts before I did
myself. It’s so—so different with you! Blundering around the way I do, I seem to end up hurting you without even realizing it.”

“Not so much,” Alec mumbled, overcome by this unexpected openness. “It’s just that sometimes it seems as if—as if you don’t trust me.”

Seregil gave a rueful laugh. “Ah, Alec!
Rei phöril tös tókun meh brithir, vrí sh’ruit’ya.”

“What’s that?”

Seregil held out his poniard hilt first to Alec. “ ‘Though you thrust a knife at my eyes, I will not flinch,’ ” he translated. “It’s a solemn pledge of trust and I give it to you with all my heart. You can take a stab at me if you want.”

“Do you just make those things up?”

“No, it’s genuine, and I’ll swear ten others just as dire if it will convince you I’m sorry.”

“Maker’s Mercy, Seregil, just tell me about Wheel Street!”

“All right, Wheel Street.” Seregil slipped the knife back into his boot. “It all started after I’d failed with Nysander. I ran off and lived rough for a few years. That’s when I learned thieving and all that. When I came back, I saw at once how I could keep myself nicely employed with the intrigues of the Skalan nobility. I had to establish myself somehow, but that didn’t prove too difficult. My checkered past, together with my status as Queen’s Kin, the novelty of being Aurënfaie, and my new skills as a thief and general busybody—” He spread his hands comically. “That all pretty much guaranteed success in Rhíminee society. Posing as the reformed exile, Lord Seregil soon established a reputation as a sympathetic listener, a reliable buyer of drinks, a willing roisterer, and a holder of no strong opinions on any subject. Altogether, a person of little consequence and therefore the man everyone talks to.

“I got to be quite a favorite among the younger nobles, and through them I managed to pick up valuable information. After that it wasn’t hard to spread the rumor that Lord Seregil, charming as he was, didn’t always keep the best company. Word soon trickled out into the right circles that I could sometimes aid in the hiring of a certain discreet but shady character who would carry out any sort of silly undertaking for the right price.”

“The Rhíminee Cat?”

“Exactly. Nysander was the only one who knew my secret. I’ve been more use to him as a spy than I ever was as an apprentice.
Even back then, though, I liked my freedom too much to play the noble role all the time. So I bought the Cockerel and fixed up some rooms there. Nysander found Thryis for me. Cilla couldn’t have been much older than Illia—”