Casket of Souls (29 page)

Seregil raised an eyebrow. “Why, Thero, I’m touched by your concern.”

“I only meant it would be inconvenient to find replacements for you,” Thero replied, but there was a hint of humor in his eyes that hadn’t been there a few years earlier.

“By the way, when are you coming to the theater with us?” Seregil asked. It was becoming a bit of a game, trying to lure the wizard out to do something he clearly had no interest in doing. “We’ll stand you a good supper and the gambling houses afterward.”

Thero gave him a long-suffering look. “Don’t you have someone to burgle?”

“We’re dining with Kylith and her niece, Ysmay, at Wheel Street first, in celebration of my name day. At least join us for supper.”

When Thero hesitated, Alec wheedled, “Grilled eel and leeks, spiced bluefish in jelly, poached pears with rosemary syrup, cakes …”

“Your cook’s grilled eel? And her cakes?” Thero grinned. “For that, I’ll come.”

Kylith and Ysmay arrived first and coaxed Alec into a show of archery while they waited for Thero. The wizard soon followed, and they sat down in the cool garden to enjoy the fragrant repast. Seregil poured the wine freely but he and Alec took little themselves, needing their wits about them for the night’s real work.

Ysmay, a very pretty blond, flirted determinedly with Thero, but the wizard appeared oblivious while the others chatted about horses and hunting.

“Do wizards hunt?” Ysmay asked.

“Some do,” Thero replied, helping himself to more eel. “I did, growing up, with my father and brothers, but since putting on robes I really haven’t had the time or inclination.”

“He’d rather putter about in his tower,” Alec teased. “We go by and dust him once a week.”

“Well, I’m glad to have the chance to see you tonight,” Ysmay said warmly. “Tell me, why are wizards celibate?”

“Not all of us are,” Thero replied, keeping his attention on cutting up his eel. “Those who are think it increases their magic to withhold from spending energy on the pleasures of the flesh.”

“Nysander certainly didn’t agree with that,” Seregil said with a chuckle. “He was quiet about it, but he had quite a string of lovers.”

“I always wondered about him and Magyana,” said Kylith.

“Friends of the heart, but not the flesh,” Seregil explained. “But I think she was his true love.”

“You believe in true love!” Ysmay exclaimed, delighted, glancing Alec’s way.

Seregil pressed a hand to his heart and declaimed with
mock-solemnity, “Dear lady, it’s the only thing that makes life worth living!”

“Oh, you should be on the stage, my lord,” said Ysmay, flirting a bit with him now.

“He had his chance,” Kylith told her. “Atre offered him a place in his company.”

“I’d like to see that! You’re every bit as handsome as he is.”

Seregil inclined his head modestly. “You flatter me. I doubt most of the women of Rhíminee would agree with you.”

“Most, indeed!” Kylith noted with a slight frown. “Since you and I established him in style, he seems to be in a different bed every night. I’m rather piqued about that, and considering withdrawing my patronage. There are certainly enough others who’d put up with him.”

“You’d do that?” asked Alec.

“I most certainly will. I told him as much the other night, when he refused my invitation to dinner. Of course, he was very apologetic about it, but I heard the next day that he’d been with Duchess Arelia. To be honest, I’m growing a bit tired of him anyway. I think Master Raneus at the Tirari is a bit more convincing—onstage and off.”

Seregil doubted that, but Kylith had her pride and had wrongly assumed she was buying a young lover as well as a theater.

Talk had turned to recent plays at both theaters when Runcer came to the door. “Master Atre is in the salon, my lord. Shall I have him join you?”

Seregil looked to Kylith. “It’s up to you.”

“Oh, please, yes!” Ysmay pleaded.

Kylith sighed. “I have no objection.”

Seregil motioned to Runcer, who escorted the actor into the garden.

“My dear Lady Kylith!” Atre exclaimed, going to her at once to kiss her hand. “How lovely to find all three of my dear patrons here at once.”

Kylith regarded him coolly. “Still only three?”

“You wound me, lady!” Atre gave her an imploring look.

“Come sit by me, you rogue,” Seregil said, laughing. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“Only a bit of mundane business, my lord. Nothing that can’t wait.”

“Then you must join us. There’s still plenty of food. You can help celebrate.”

“Celebrate?”

“His name day,” Alec told him.

“You honor me, my lords,” Atre replied, taking a seat with obvious pleasure. When Runcer had filled his cup, he lifted it to Seregil. “Long life and good fortune, my lord.”

After seeing Kylith and Ysmay into their carriage later that evening, Seregil turned to Atre with an expectant look.

“My news would be better delivered in private, my lords.”

“Ah, I see. Well, come to the library.” He led the way up and closed the door.

“Someone’s tongue has been wagging?” asked Alec.

“Indeed, my lord,” Atre replied, glancing around the well-appointed room with evident interest. “Tanni and I performed for a small party at Duke Laneus’s house a few days ago. The duke and his friends spoke very highly of Princess Klia. The first toast was to her, rather than the queen.”

“I see. What exactly was said?”

“Several people had letters from her and shared them. It was mostly salutations and details of battles.”

“Who was there?”

“The duke, Duke Malthus, Marquise Lalia, Duke Zymir, General Sarien, and Duchess Nerian.”

“Sarien? Are you certain?” asked Seregil, trying to mask his dismay. General Sarien was the protector general, in command of the City Regiment.

“Of course, my lord,” Atre replied. “A round fellow, and generous with his gifts.” He fingered an ornate silver ring on his right forefinger.

Seregil waved that aside impatiently; everybody in Rhíminee threw their jewels at the actor, it seemed. “Is that all?”

“There was some talk of Princess Klia taking the throne somehow.”

“And they said this in front of you?” asked Alec.

The actor grinned. “No, my lord. They thought I was in the
kitchen with Tanni, having supper. I stole back to the salon and listened by the door.”

Seregil raised an eyebrow. “How clever of you. Have you done that sort of thing before?”

Atre gave a modest shrug. “Now and then.”

“I assume there was also mention made of Lord Alec or myself?”

“You, Lord Seregil. Duke Malthus suggested speaking to you regarding whatever they’d been talking about before I came back, but the others …” He paused, and gave Seregil an apologetic smile. “Duke Laneus said you weren’t influential enough to be of any use, and the others agreed.”

Seregil chuckled at that. “Do you know what they were talking about?”

“Unfortunately not all of it, my lord. As I said, we were sent to the kitchen for a meal—” He made a sour face; clearly the memory of being treated like a common minstrel was distasteful. “But Duke Malthus seemed to be arguing with the others about something.”

“But you don’t know what, except that it might have involved Alec and myself?”

“No, I couldn’t hear what he said clearly.”

“Most interesting. Anything else?”

Atre seemed to hesitate for just an instant before he shook his head. “No, my lord.”

“Well, thank you, and well done.” Seregil reached for his purse without thinking.

“No, my lord. As I said before, you are generous enough with your gold.”

“Ah, that’s right. Now, do I have your word that what you’ve told me goes no farther?”

“I am as constant as the sun, my lords. You have no need for concern. The politics of Skala are no concern of mine.”

“A very wise attitude. Good night to you, Master Atre.”

For just an instant Seregil thought he saw a look of annoyance cross the actor’s face, but it was fleeting and he couldn’t be certain before Atre pressed a hand to his heart and bowed and took his leave.

“Atre definitely has a bit of nightrunner in him,” Alec noted.

“I thought he might. What do you make of what he said?”

“I’d say with all you heard yesterday and now this, the two cabals may be at war. I’ve been thinking, though. General Sarien wasn’t on that list I found.”

Seregil considered that. “He may be a recent addition to the group. Or Kyrin didn’t know about him. By the Light, Alec, if Laneus has the protector general in his pocket, that shifts everything. If Sarien could get the City Regiment to follow him, they could hold all of Rhíminee hostage.”

“Maybe the Cat should pay him a visit. Where does he live?”

“Unfortunately, he’s quartered in the Palace itself and even I’m not about to try to burgle him there. We’ll start with Malthus tonight, and see what comes of that.”

Atre smiled to himself as he rode home, pleased that he’d kept the best of the gossip to himself; perhaps he’d have a bit of fun among the nobles, after all.

As for his patrons, would they never part with so much as an earring?

Perhaps Duke Reltheus or Kyrin would be more generous. Kyrin, he decided; he already had a ring from Reltheus, from the night he’d dined at the duke’s house when Alec had disgraced himself with drink.

Perhaps he’d even inveigle one or both of them as new patrons. From Kylith’s reception tonight, it was clear he was going to need one.

I
T
was a simple matter to break into Malthus’s fine house in Rowan Street that night. Ironically, it was less than five minutes’ walk from Reltheus’s house. Seregil went inside alone, over Alec’s objections, claiming that it would be easier to explain one of them being there, rather than both, should he get caught, and that he knew the layout of the house. All the same, Alec insisted on coming as far as the garden wall and keeping watch while Seregil climbed over and into the shadows beyond.

It was a sticky night, and the black silk across the lower part of Seregil’s face was uncomfortably hot and moist before he got halfway through the extensive garden. Elegant as this house was, it was sadly lacking in balconies, so Seregil was forced to find another way upstairs, where Malthus’s library lay. The man didn’t have a study, but carried out his business from a desk there. Seregil hoped that’s where he kept anything sensitive. As conniving as the Rhíminee upper classes tended to be, they were woefully predictable to anyone who had a wide experience of them.

The narrow window of the garderobe chamber granted cramped entrance for a snake-hipped nightrunner with the wit to jigger the catch on the interior leaded pane. A lime-wood shim inserted between glass and frame soon found and lifted the latch. An earthy smell drifted out on the damp air as he swung the window inward and shimmied through. He wrinkled his nose. Someone in the household wasn’t feeling well, from the odor.

Holding his breath, Seregil stole silently to the door and inched it open. All was dark beyond. Listening intently for watchmen or wandering servants, he found the servants’ doorway behind a tapestry in the hallway near the kitchen and crept up to the second floor. Fortunately the stairs were solid and well maintained. They hardly creaked at all.

The library was at the front of the house, down a long corridor that branched off the one leading to the household sleeping quarters. An ornate Zengati carpet ran the length of the hall and muffled his footsteps nicely as he hurried along.

The simple lock on the library door was enough to keep servants and nosy guests out, but not Seregil. He pondered suggesting something more complex to Malthus the next time they met, but decided it would be an awkward topic to work into casual conversation.

Once inside he checked the locked drawers of the desk, finding little of interest, then searched the room for hidden compartments. Once again, it was all too easily found, in the wall behind a small tapestry. Dust had collected around the edges of a square of wood paneling, making it obvious to a trained eye. In Seregil’s experience, the more honest the person, the easier it was to burgle them. Feeling a little guilty, he carefully pried out the panel and found a flat wooden box hidden in the space behind it. Roughly square, the box was about a foot wide and half that thick. Seregil carried it to the desk and inspected it closely with the lightstone from his tool roll. Finally, a lock with a little spirit to it! Perhaps even a nasty device incorporated into the lock or brass plate. Smiling to himself, he took out the slender pick he’d designed for just such a situation. It was purposely bent so that it could probe the lock while keeping the hand out of range of any needles or other dangerous deterrents that might pop out.

It was a good thing, too. Malthus had been much more careful with this; a burst of white flame flared from the keyhole, melting the pick and catching the edge of Seregil’s rolled-up shirtsleeve on fire.

“Bilairy’s—!” Seregil struggled out of the shirt and hastily threw it away from him. He knew this magic. He’d seen
Thero—who had a peculiar fascination with all things flammable—place it on various objects to protect them. This sort of magical fire could consume flesh if in contact with it for more than a few seconds. For all Seregil knew, Thero had placed the magic on the box for Malthus himself. Unfortunately it set anything else it touched ablaze, too, and he’d thrown the shirt a little too close to the drapes behind the desk.