“Hold on.” He went to the boy and bent over him for a closer look. The child was an emaciated little thing. His eyes were open and Alec thought he was dead until he saw the boy’s chest rise and fall. Alec patted his cheek lightly. “Hey boy, what’s wrong?”
But apart from breathing, the child showed no more life
than a doll. His eyes were dry and dull, and there were specks of dirt caught in the corners of his lids.
Alec looked around at the blank walls and empty windows. “Someone left him here to die.” Life was cheap in this part of the city, especially the lives of children.
Seregil nodded. “There’s a Dalnan temple a few streets over. They’ll care for him there.”
Alec passed his pack to Seregil and gathered the boy in his arms, then almost wished he hadn’t.
There was no resemblance, of course, but the slight weight of that spindly little body reminded Alec far too much of Sebrahn, his alchemically begotten “child of no mother” he’d lost so recently. But he swallowed the sudden swell of pain and said nothing.
The temple was little more than a shrine cramped between two taller buildings, and its sacred grove consisted of nothing but a pair of apple trees. A few sleepy brown doves cooed softly from the shelter of their branches when Seregil pulled the string of the small iron bell beside the gate.
Two brown-robed young women wearing the drysian’s bronze lemniscate came out to greet them. Their welcoming smiles turned to concern when they saw the boy.
“Maker’s Mercy, another one!” the taller of the two exclaimed softly.
“We just found him lying in an alley,” Alec explained. “I didn’t feel any broken bones, and there’s no blood.”
The other woman held out her arms, and Alec passed the child to her. “We’ll see that he doesn’t suffer,” she promised.
“You’ve seen this before?” asked Seregil.
“A few. Some new summer fever, I think.”
“Thank you, Sister.” Alec, raised a Dalnan, gave her a silver sester.
“Maker’s Mercy on you both, for helping a child of poverty.”
Alec knew a thing or two about poverty, himself.
Emerging from the slum, they hired horses—which took a bit of fast talking, given their attire—and rode up the Harbor
Way to the great Sea Market. This square was three times the size of the harbor market. In better days one could find fish, cloth, sugar, spices, and silverwork from Aurënen, the wines of Zengat. In short, a bit of everything that came up from the port below. But here, too, the privations of war were all too evident. Cloth, metals, and horses were hard to come by, and prices were high.
Thankfully there was a night breeze up here and this part of the city smelled considerably better, thanks to a proper sewer system. Crossing the city, they skirted the Harvest Market and entered the warren of twisting streets beside it, making their way to their real home, a respectable inn on Blue Fish Street.
Three stories tall, the Stag and Otter was built of stone and timber, with a steeply pitched roof and several stone chimneys, its yards surrounded by a stone wall. Lamps were lit in the tavern room at the front, and they could hear the night’s guests laughing and singing.
“Sounds like Ema’s having a good evening,” Seregil said as they circled to a narrow lane behind the inn. Finding it deserted, they led their horses in. Seregil produced a large iron key and unlocked the gate at the far end.
The stable yard was empty, too, except for a lone horse drinking at the long stone trough. The stable boy heard them come in, and emerged from his little room to take their hired horses.
Seregil took off his hat and shook out his long hair, combing it back from his face with his fingers. “Ah, that’s better!”
Continuing on around the corner, they walked between the towering woodpile and the stone well, and past Ema’s kitchen garden. As they reached the kitchen door, Seregil’s large cat Ruetha bounded over to them with a dead rat in her jaws so large that both head and tail dragged on the ground. She dropped it at their feet and wound around their ankles, purring loudly as they scratched her tufted ears and white ruff, and stroked her long mackerel-striped fur.
“What a good girl!” Seregil nudged the dead rat away with the toe of his boot. “Come on, puss.”
But Ruetha had further business with her rat and disappeared with it into the weeds by the far wall of the yard, striped tail crooked over her back.
The lamps were lit in the kitchen. The remains of the day’s roast meats, pies, and breads were set out on the long tables and a young scullery maid stood fanning away the flies, while others went in and out with trenchers and flagons for the patrons in the tavern.
Mistress Ema sat at the end of the table, nursing her baby girl. Little Tamia was nearly a year old, now. Ema looked up as they came in. She and her husband, Tomin, ran the inn for them. Tomin was some kin of their friend Magyana, and the couple was utterly trustworthy. Ema was the cook and ran the household.
She greeted them with a smile, not bothering to disturb her babe. “Welcome home.”
It had been only a few weeks since their last visit—sometimes it was months—but she was accustomed to their unannounced comings and goings and never asked any questions except the inevitable, “Are you hungry? It’s only lentil soup, but there’s boiled leeks out of the garden to go with it.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. We’re going out again,” Alec told her.
Hopefully Thero would offer them something to eat later; Ema was a good soul, but they liked her more for her discretion than her cooking, which was worse than usual with the shortages. At least she hadn’t boiled salt cod and onions today, or pickled any more beets, the smells of which made Seregil queasy.
Alec fetched a bucket of water from the cistern while Seregil lit a candle to light their way up the staircase that led from the lading room to the box room on the second floor. A hidden panel in the far wall concealed the narrow staircase that led up to their chambers. Thero frequently changed the passwords on the hidden glyphs that guarded the stairs for them.
“Scera,”
Seregil said at the first one—Aurënfaie for “cold.” He always used ’faie words, figuring any Skalan who blundered in here was less likely to guess in that language.
Only once, when the Cockerel Inn had stood on this site, had anyone gotten past them, with tragic results. The current ones were wishful thinking in the summer heat.
“Por.”
Snow.
“Taka.”
Cool water.
“Ura teshil.”
Miserable bastard.
Reaching the landing, he spoke the last.
“Temi.”
Ice.
The large sitting room was hot and stale. There were, in fact, windows, but obscured with Thero’s magic, which rendered them invisible from the outside even when Alec opened the shutters to catch what breeze he could. Seregil lit several lamps with the candle and carried the bucket into the bedchamber across the room.
They’d used the place sporadically since the spring. A layer of dust had settled over the workbench under the east window, the old sheets covering the couch and dining table, and the clutter of letters, locks, jewel caskets, and oddities on the marble mantelpiece, including three Plenimaran slave collars propped up there, one sized for a child.
Pain closed around Alec’s heart again. Two reminders in one day, and this one his own doing. He had no doubt that the little
rhekaro
was better off among the Hâzadriëlfaie—safe from harm and from causing it—but the loss was still a raw, throbbing wound in Alec’s heart. The sight of the collar, and the tiny braid of silver-white hair with it, kept the wound bloody, but he couldn’t bring himself to part with either.
“Alec?” Bare to the waist already, Seregil leaned out the bedroom doorway, framed in golden lamplight. Alec’s expression must have given away his thoughts. “
Talí
, shouldn’t we at least pack them away?”
“No.” Forcing a smile, he went to the bedroom, pulling his sweat-soaked shirt over his head as he went, then sat on the wide, velvet-hung bed to pull off his shoes and rank socks.
Seregil filled the washbasin from the bucket and gave himself a quick but thorough scrub.
As he waited, Alec absently counted Seregil’s various scars; he knew them by heart. The imprint of the cursed disk just over his breastbone—an object that had nearly cost them both their lives—was obscured by magic. Alec carried the mark of that same disk, burned into the palm of his left hand.
Of the wounds that had killed him and nearly taken Seregil’s life as well, there were no traces—thanks to Sebrahn.
Seregil turned and caught his eye. “What’s wrong, talí?”
Alec just shook his head.
Seregil rinsed the flannel and wrung it out, then gently washed the day’s grime from Alec’s face and neck. “Come on now,” he said, kissing him on the top of the head and draping the wet cloth over Alec’s shoulder.
When they were both reasonably presentable, they set off for the Orëska House.
The stars were out and it was cool enough now that light cloaks and drawn hoods didn’t attract much notice as they made their way through the Harvest Market and on into the Noble Quarter to the Orëska House.
“My lords!” Thero’s man, Wethis, waved to them from one of the mezzanines and hurried down the stairs to greet them as they crossed the atrium. “He’s upstairs.” He halted at a respectful distance and Seregil saw the man’s nostrils quiver just a bit, though he was far too polite to say anything.
Seregil gave him a knowing grin. “The baths first, I think.”
“I’ll inform Master Thero that you are here.” Wethis bowed and returned the way he’d come, knowing Seregil needed no guide.
Bath chamber
would be an understatement. The vaulted room was larger than the entire Stag and Otter. A broad octagonal pool lined with red and gold tiles lay at the center of the room, with four gilded marble griffins spitting arching streams of water into it. This was surrounded by individual tubs sunk into the floor, each with its own accoutrements and servant. Nymphs and sea creatures glowed in rich colors on the frescoed walls.
They made use of the individual tubs first, Alec with a flannel cinched modestly around his waist, then went to the griffin pool to swim. Seregil was floating happily on his back, hair spread around his head like a dark halo, when he opened his eyes and found Thero looking down at him with a wry smile. “I half expect to find you taking up residence here.”
“I’m considering it.”
“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“But I know you’re glad to see us,” Seregil said.
“Especially since we brought you a present,” said Alec, swimming over to join them.
“Really? How nice. Will you join me for supper?”
Seregil grinned. “Have you ever known us to turn down a free meal?”
“When you’re done, then.”
They left the pool reluctantly, and when they were dry and dressed climbed the five flights of stairs to the east tower. Wethis let them in and directed them downstairs, where a light repast of cold sorrel soup, cheese—a rare delicacy these days—and sweet spice bread awaited in the sitting room. With a snap of his fingers, the young wizard summoned a snow-crusted jug of wine from his store on Mount Apos. Some things didn’t change, even with the war.
“First things first,” he told them as they settled down to eat. “I have a letter for you, from Beka Cavish.”
“From Beka!” Alec exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Thero raised an eyebrow. “I just did. It came in a letter Klia sent me.”
“She’s sending you reports from the front now?” Alec exchanged a knowing grin with Seregil.
Thero ignored the comment and did not choose to share the contents of his letter with them, except Klia’s news that the war was being hard fought, and that they’d captured a significant gold shipment on the Folcwine. Going to a cabinet across the room, he took out a sealed square of parchment with their names scrawled across the front and gave it to Alec. “There was one for her family, as well. I sent a servant out to Watermead with it.”
Seregil looked over Alec’s shoulder as he unfolded the letter and read in Beka’s slanting script about the battles she’d fought so far this summer, and the raids she and her celebrated Urghazi Turma had made into enemy territory. Her Aurënfaie husband, Nyal, had proven himself among them and served as a scout.
“It’s dated nearly a month ago,” Alec pointed out. “A lot can happen in a month. I don’t suppose you’ve cast a wizard eye for her?”
“You know how unfeasible that is if I don’t have some idea of where she is,” the wizard replied. “But what about you two? Did you have good hunting?”
“Very good,” said Seregil. “Though we were interrupted while we were at it.”
“Interrupted? As in almost caught?” asked Thero.
“A pair of servants snuck in to have a quick go of it,” Alec explained.
“Go of what?”
“Fucking,” Seregil clarified.
“Ah. Well, the duke is probably on his way back to the city now. Duchess Palmani gave birth earlier than expected—a son. So, what did you find?”
Seregil gave him the copies of the letters from Alaya first.
“The princess royal’s dowager lady-in-waiting?” asked Thero, surprised. “Don’t tell me you suspect the archduchess of some kind of disloyalty to Princess Elani?”
“She never struck me as the type for intrigue of that sort,” said Seregil.
“You know her?”
“I met her when I was at court. She pinched my cheek and gave me sweetmeats whenever she saw me, but I doubt she remembers me after all these years.”
Thero perused the letters. “Hmmm. Not anything treasonous, at least.”
“I saved the best for last, though.” Seregil handed him Elani’s letter.
Thero gave him a questioning look, then began to read. His eyes widened when he realized what it was.
“We thought it was a bit odd, the duke having a personal letter between the princess royal and the queen hidden in a compartment under the carpet in his study,” said Alec.
“Indeed,” Thero replied, frowning. “What could he want with it?”
“Hard to tell yet. But what we saw appeared to be a copy,” Seregil told him.
“So it had to come from someone who has access to her inner apartments. Alaya herself would be in the best position to see Elani’s correspondence, and from what you found, it’s clear she’s in touch with the duke.”