Luck in the Shadows
Page 1
DEADLY MISSION
“Looks like you’ll have to climb,” Seregil whispered, squinting up. “Be careful going over; most of these places have the walls topped with spikes or sharp flints.”
“Hold on!” Alec tried to make out Seregil’s expression through the darkness. “Aren’t you coming with me?”
“It’s a one-man job; the fewer the better,” Seregil assured him. “Would I send you in alone if I didn’t think you could handle it? Best leave your sword, though.”
“What if someone sees me?”
“Honestly, Alec! You can’t just go hacking your way out of every difficult situation that arises. It’s uncivilized.”
Alec unbuckled his sword and started up the garden wall. He was halfway to the top when Micum called softly, “We’ll meet you back here when you’ve finished. Oh, and look out for the dogs.”
“Dogs?” Alec dropped down again. “What dogs? You didn’t say anything about dogs!”
Seregil tapped himself sharply between the eyes. “Illior’s Fingers, what am I thinking of tonight? There’s a pair of Zengati hounds, snow-white and big as bears.”
“That’s a fine detail to forget,” growled Micum.
“Anything else I should know?”
“Let’s see, the spikes, the dogs, the servants—No, I think we covered it. Luck in the shadows, Alec.”
“And to you,” Alec muttered, starting up the wall again.
Praise for Luck in the Shadows
by Lynn Flewelling
“Part high fantasy and part political intrigue, Luck in the Shadows makes a nice change from the usual ruck of contemporary sword-and-sorcery. I especially enjoyed Lynn Flewelling’s obvious affection for her characters. And at unexpected moments she reveals a well-honed gift for the macabre.”
—Stephen R. Donaldson, author of This Day All Gods Die
“Memorable characters, an enthralling plot, and truly daunting evil. The magic is refreshingly difficult, mysterious, and unpredictable. Lynn Flewelling has eschewed the easy shortcuts of clichéd minor characters and cookie-cutter backdrops to present a unique world peopled by characters who are truly of that world. I commend this one to your attention.”
—Robin Hobb, author of Royal Assassin
“A splendid read, filled with magic, mystery, adventure, and taut suspense. Lynn Flewelling, bravo! Nicely done.”
—Dennis L. McKiernan, author of The Dragonstone
“An engrossing and entertaining debut novel. It opens up a new fantasy world that is ripe for exploration—full of magic, intrigues, and fascinating characters … the kind of book you settle down with when you want a long, satisfying read.”
—Michael A. Stackpole,
author of Star Wars X-Wing: Rogue Squadron
LUCK IN THE SHADOWS
A Bantam Spectra Book/September 1996
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books,
a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1996 by Lynn Flewelling.
Map by Virginia Norey.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-77499-6
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
v3.1_r2
This one’s for you, Doug,
for all the best reasons.
LBF
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Like many first novels, this one wouldn’t be complete without acknowledgments. Those of you who don’t know me can skip this part, if you like. Really. I don’t mind.
With deepest gratitude to those hardy early readers who believed in this project long before I did myself: Mom, Fran, and kid sister Sue, God love ’em; Gram, God rest her; Jeffs K. & A.; sisters of the heart Darby, Laurie, the Other Lynn, and Nancy; Bonnie; Cheryl; Marc and the whole BookMarc’s gang; Cathie Pelletier, for her guidance and support; Greta, Sandy F., Gary, Bill & Dorothy, Maria, Sabine, Scott & Julie, Marc & Lisa, Todd, Jen, Gail N.; Suzannes K. & C.; and Pete “The Organmeister” K. and Debbie C., who materialized out of the electronic ether at the nicest possible time. Apologies to anyone I missed.
Love also to Matt and Tim, who’ve heard, “Not now, Mom’s writing,” far too often; and to my dad, who’s probably bragging me up in Heaven, because he always did.
And finally, special thanks to my literary midwives, Lucienne Diver, Eleanor Wood, and Anne Groell, who made it all come real.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1: Luck in the Shadows
Chapter 2: Across the Downs
Chapter 3: Seregil Makes an Offer
Chapter 4: Wolde
Chapter 5: Friends Met, Enemies Made
Chapter 6: Alec Earns His Bow
Chapter 7: South to Boersby
Chapter 8: The Captain and the Lady
Chapter 9: The Lady Is Indisposed
Chapter 10: Seregil Descending
Chapter 11: Dark Pursuit
Chapter 12: Alone
Chapter 13: Inquiries Are Made
Chapter 14: Sailing South
Chapter 15: Rhíminee at Last
Chapter 16: Dinner With Nysander
Chapter 17: Watcher Business
Chapter 18: Around the Ring
Chapter 19: Uneasy Secrets
Chapter 20: Homecoming
Chapter 21: Swords and Etiquette
Chapter 22: One Horse, Two Swans, and Three Daughters
Chapter 23: A Little Night Work
Chapter 24: Watermead
Chapter 25: Return to Rhíminee
Chapter 26: Plans at the Cockerel
Chapter 27: Hind Street
Chapter 28: A Midnight Inquisition
Chapter 29: An Abrupt Change of Scenery
Chapter 30: Down to Business at Last
Chapter 31: Kassarie
Chapter 32: Nasty Surprises
Chapter 33: Among the Scavengers
Chapter 34: Phoria’s Confession
Chapter 35: Cirna
Chapter 36: Trouble on the Highroad
Chapter 37: Backtracking
Chapter 38: The Key to a Poor Girl’s Heart
Chapter 39: The Tower
Chapter 40: Flight
Chapter 41: Scars
About the Author
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The ancient Hierophantic calendar is based on a lunar year divided into twelve 29-day months and four seasonal festivals, which account for an additional twelve days.
Winter Solstice—observance of the longest night and celebration of the lengthening of days to come. (Mourning Night and Festival of Sakor in Skala.) Followed by:
Sarisin
Dostin
Klesin
Spring Festival—preparation for planting, celebration of fertility of Dalna. (Festival of the Flowers in Mycena.) Followed by:
Lithion
Nythin
Gorathin
Summer Solstice—celebration of the longest day, followed by:
Shemin
Lenthin
Rhythin
Harvest Home—finish of ha
rvest, time of thankfulness. (Great Festival of Dalna in Mycena.) Followed by:
Erasin
Kemmin
Cinrin
PROLOGUE
Mouldering bone crumbled beneath their boots as Lord Mardus and Varûgl Ashnazai lowered themselves down into the tiny chamber beneath the earthen mound. Oblivious to the pervasive odor of swamp and old death, to the dank earth filtering down the back of his neck and into his hair, Mardus crunched across more bones to a rough stone slab at the back of the chamber. Brushing aside brittle ribs and skulls, he reverently lifted a small pouch from the stone. The rotted leather fell to pieces at a touch, spilling eight carved wooden disks across his palm.
“It appears you’ve accomplished your purpose, Vargûl Ashnazai.” Mardus smiled and the scar beneath his left eye tightened.
Ashnazai’s sharp, sallow face was ghostly in the uncertain light. With a nod of satisfaction, he passed a hand over the disks and for an instant their form wavered, giving hint of their true shape.
“After all these centuries, another fragment reclaimed!” he exclaimed softly. “It’s a sign, my lord. The time draws nigh.”
“A most propitious sign. Let us hope that the remainder of our quest is as successful. Captain Tildus!”
A black-bearded face appeared in the rough opening at the top of the mound. “Here, my lord.”
“Have the villagers been gathered?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. You may begin.”
“I shall make preparations for the safe conveyance of these,” Vargûl Ashnazai said, reaching to take the disks.
“And what could you do that the ancients have not already done?” Mardus inquired coldly, pocketing them as casually as if they were gaming stones. “There’s nothing so safe as that which appears to be worthless. For the time being, we will trust in the wisdom of our ancestors.”
Ashnazai quickly withdrew his hand. “As you wish, my lord.”
Mardus’ soulless black eyes met and held his as the first screams erupted above them.
Vargûl Ashnazai was the first to look away.
1
LUCK IN THE SHADOWS
Asengai’s torturers were regular in their habits—they always left off at sunset. Chained again in his corner of the drafty cell, Alec turned his face to the rough stone wall and sobbed until his chest ached.
An icy mountain wind sighed through the grating overhead, carrying with it the sweet scent of snow to come. Still weeping, the boy burrowed deeper into the sour straw. It scratched painfully against the welts and bruises that bloomed across his bare skin, but it was better than nothing and all he had.
He was alone now. They’d hanged the miller yesterday and the one called Danker had died under torture. Alec had never met either of them before his capture but they had treated him kindly. Now he wept for them, too, and for the horror of their death.
As the tears subsided, he wondered again why he’d been spared, why Lord Asengai repeatedly told the torturers, “Don’t mark the boy too badly.” So they hadn’t seared him with red-hot irons or cut off his ears or opened his skin with knotted whips as they had with the others. Instead, they’d beaten him skillfully and dunked him until he thought he was drowned. And no matter how many times he’d screamed out the truth, he couldn’t seem to convince his captors that he’d wandered onto Asengai’s remote freeholding seeking nothing more than the pelts of spotted cats.
His only remaining hope now was that they would finish him off quickly; death loomed like a welcome release from the hours of pain, the endless stream of questions that he didn’t understand and couldn’t answer. Clinging to this bitter comfort, he drifted into a fitful doze.
The familiar tread of boots jerked him awake sometime later. Moonlight slanted in through the window now, pooling in the straw beside him. Sick with dread, he pulled himself into the deeper shadow of the corner.
As the footsteps came closer a highly pitched voice suddenly burst out, shouting and cursing over the sounds of a scuffle. The cell door banged open and the dark forms of two warders and a struggling captive were framed for an instant against the torchlight from the corridor beyond.
The prisoner was a small, slightly built man but he fought like a cornered weasel.
“Unhand me, you cretinous brutes!” he cried, his furious words marred somewhat by a noticeable lisp. “I demand to see your master! How dare you arrest me! Can’t an honest bard pass unmolested through this country?”
Twisting an arm free, he swung a fist at the warder on his left. The larger man blocked the blow easily and pinned his arms sharply back again.
“Don’t fret yourself,” the guard snorted, giving the prisoner a sharp cuff on the ear. “You’ll meet our master soon enough and wish you hadn’t!”
His partner let out a nasty chuckle. “Aye, he’ll have you singing loud and long before he’s through.” With this, he struck the smaller man quick, harsh blows to the face and belly, silencing any further protests.
Dragging him to the wall opposite Alec, they manacled him hand and foot.
“What about that one?” one of them asked, jerking a thumb in Alec’s direction. “They’ll be taking him off next day or so. How ’bout a bit of sport?”
“No, you heard the master. Be worth our hides if we spoiled him for the slavers. Come on, the game’ll be starting.” The key grated in the lock behind them and their voices faded away down the corridor.
Slavers? Alec curled more tightly into the shadows. There were no slaves in the northlands but he’d heard tales enough of people carried off to distant countries and uncertain fates, never to be seen again. Throat tight with renewed panic, he tugged hopelessly at his chains.
The bard raised his head with a groan. “Who’s there?”
Alec froze, regarding the man warily. The pale wash of moonlight was bright enough for him to see that the man was dressed in the gaudy clothing common to his kind: a tunic with long, dagged tippets, the striped sash and hose. Tall, muddy traveling boots completed the garish outfit. Alec couldn’t make out his face, however; the fellow’s dark hair hung to his shoulders in foppish ringlets, partially obscuring his features.
Too exhausted and miserable to attempt idle conversation, Alec pressed into his corner without reply. The man seemed to be squinting hard in his direction, but before he could speak again they heard the guards returning. Dropping flat in the straw, the bard lay motionless as they dragged in a third prisoner, this one a squat, bull-necked laborer in homespun garments and stained leggings.
Despite his size, the man obeyed the warders in terrified silence as they chained him by the feet next to the bard.
“Here’s another bit of company for you, boy,” one of them said with a grin, setting a small clay lamp in a niche over the door. “Someone to help you pass the time ’til morning!”
The light fell across Alec. Dark bruises and welts showed darkly against his fair skin. Clad in little more than the tattered remnants of his linen clout, he returned the man’s gaze stonily.
“By the Maker, boy! What did you do that they dealt with you so?” the man exclaimed.
“Nothing,” Alec rasped. “They tortured me, and the others. They died—yesterday? What’s the day?”
“Third of Erasin, come sunrise.”
Alec’s head ached dully; had it really only been four days?
“But what did they arrest you for?” the man persisted, eyeing Alec with obvious suspicion.
“Spying. But I wasn’t! I tried to explain—”
“It’s the same with me,” the peasant sighed. “I’ve been kicked, beaten, robbed, and not a word will they hear from me. ‘I’m Morden Swiftford,’ I tell ’em. ‘Just a plowman, nothing more!’ But here I am.”
With a deep groan the bard sat up and struggled awkwardly to untangle himself from his shackles. After a considerable effort he finally managed to arrange himself with his back resting against the wall.
“Those brutes will pay dearly for this indignity
,” he snarled weakly. “Imagine, Rolan Silverleaf a spy!”
“You, too?” asked Morden.
“It’s too absurd. There I was, performing at the Harvest Fair at Rook Tor only last week. I happen to have several powerful patrons in these parts and believe me, they shall hear of the treatment I’ve endured!”
The fellow prattled on, giving an encyclopedic recital of the places he’d performed and the highly placed people to whom he looked for justice.
Alec paid him little heed. Wrapped in his own misery, he huddled morosely in his corner while Morden gaped.
The jailers returned within the hour and hauled the frightened plowman away. Soon cries of an all-too-familiar nature echoed up the hallway. Alec pressed his face against his knees and covered his ears, trying not to hear. The bard was watching him, he knew, but he was beyond caring.
Morden’s hair and jerkin were matted with blood when the guards dragged him back and chained him in his place again. He lay where they flung him, panting hoarsely.
A few moments later another guard came in and handed out meager rations of water and hard biscuit. Rolan examined his bit of biscuit with obvious distaste.
“It’s maggoty, but you should eat,” he said, tossing his portion across to Alec.
Alec ignored it and his own. Food meant dawn was close and the start of another grim day.
“Go on,” Rolan urged gently. “You’ll need your strength later.” Alec turned his face away, but he persisted. “At least take a bit of water. Can you walk?”
Alec shrugged listlessly. “What difference does it make?”
“Perhaps a great deal before long,” the other man replied with an odd half smile. There was something new in his voice, a calculating note that was decidedly out of place with his dandified appearance. The dim light of the lamp touched the side of his face, showing a longish nose and one sharp eye.
Alec took a small sip of the water, then downed the rest in a gulp as the needs of his body took over. He’d had nothing to eat or drink in more than a day.