Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

  “Would the two gentlemen be good enough to give an opinion?” Seregil asked in an old woman’s voice heavy with the soft accent of Mycena.

  Micum gave his nodded approval. “Well met, gramma. Where are you off to in that getup?”

  “Less said, less heard,” Seregil replied, going to the door. “I’m off to see which way the wind blows. If anyone asks, just say I had other clothes, which of course,” he added, dropping a rusty curtsy and flashing his best crooked grin, “I do!”

  • • •

  When their clothes came back, Alec and Micum returned to their room at the Frog. The candles were lit and the firepot glowed cheerfully on its tripod in the center of the room.

  “How’s your side feel now?” Alec asked.

  “Better, but I’ll rest easier on the floor,” Micum said, eyeing the sagging ropes showing beneath the bed frame. “Just be a good lad and help me make up a pallet with the cloaks here next to the door.”

  Alec laid down blankets and cloaks for him and Micum sat down gratefully, sword across his knees.

  “Bring your sword over and I’ll show you how to keep a proper edge on it,” he invited, taking out a pair of whetstones.

  They worked in silence for a while, listening to the singing of metal against stone. Bone-tired, Alec was grateful to find Micum a person easy to be quiet with. The man’s uncomplicated good nature demanded no idle chatter.

  He was rather startled, therefore, when Micum said without looking up from his task, “You’re as quiet as a stump. You might not think it, but I’m just as nosy as Seregil in my way.”

  When Alec hesitated, he continued, not unkindly, “I never imagined him taking on an apprentice at all, and certainly not a simple young woods colt like you. Not that I mean any offense, mind you. It’s just that you’ve more the look of a gamekeeper’s son than a spy. So tell me, what do you think of our friend?”

  “Well, to be honest, I’m not quite sure what to think. From the first he’s treated me like—as if—”

  He stopped in confusion; he’d seldom been consulted about his opinions, and had to search for the words to frame them. Besides, while Micum’s open, jovial manner invited candor, it was clear that he and Seregil were close friends.

  “It’s as if he knows all about me,” he managed at last. “And sometimes like he assumes I know all about him. He’s saved my life, clothed me, taught me all sorts of things. It’s just that every so often it occurs to me that I don’t know much about him. I tried asking him about his home, his family—that sort of thing—but he just smiles and changes the subject. He’s good at that.”

  Micum gave a knowing chuckle.

  “Anyway,” Alec continued, “he seems to think he can make me into whatever it is that he is, but it makes me nervous sometimes. I don’t know enough about him to know what he expects of me! You’re his friend and all, and I wouldn’t ask you to break a confidence, but isn’t there something you can tell me about him?”

  “Oh, I think so.” Micum ran a thumbnail along the edge of his sword blade. “We first met years ago up near the Gold Vein River. We got on well enough and when he went south to Rhíminee again, I went with him.

  “He has an old friend there, Nysander, and it was from him that I learned most of what I know about our closemouthed friend. Where he came from and why he left is for him to tell you. I don’t know much of it myself, except that he has some degree of noble blood that connects him to the Skalan court. He was hardly older that you are now when he came to Skala, but he’d seen some trouble already. Nysander’s a wizard, and he took Seregil on as an apprentice. It must not have worked out, though—Seregil’s no wizard, for all his tricks with animals—but they’ve stayed friends. You’ll meet him when you get there. Seregil always visits him first thing when he comes home from a jaunt.”

  “A wizard! What’s he like?”

  “Nysander? He’s a good old soul, kind as the Maker on a summer’s day. A lot of the other wizards act pretty grand and mighty, but let old Nysander get a drink or two in him and he’s likely to start conjuring green unicorns or setting the knives to dancing with the spoons, for all that he’s one of the old ones.”

  “Old ones?”

  “Wizards live as along as Aurënfaie, and Nysander’s been around a good long time. He must be pushing three hundred these days. He knew Queen Idrilain’s grandmother, and Idrilain’s a grandmother herself now. He’s a great favorite of hers. She has him to her chambers frequently, and he’s always at banquets.”

  “Seregil said there were a lot of wizards at Rhíminee.”

  “There’s a whole place full of them, called the Orëska House—though it’s more like a castle than a house. Like I was saying, a lot of them are pretty full of themselves and take him for a doddering old fool, snub him even. But you just wait until you meet him, then make up your own mind.

  “As for Seregil, don’t worry about him. He’s not the trusting type, so if he’s chosen to take you along with him, you can be sure he’s pleased with you—whatever his reasons. One thing I can tell you for certain is that he’ll lay down his life for a friend, and never leave a comrade in the lurch. Never. He may tell you different—and once you see how he lives in Rhíminee, you may wonder—but I know him and he’s as true as the sun in the sky. The one thing he can’t forgive is betrayal; you’ll do well to remember that. Somewhere, back before he came to Skala, someone betrayed him badly somehow and it’s left a mark on him for life. He’ll kill anyone who betrays him.”

  Alec mulled this over for a moment, then asked, “What’s Rhíminee like?”

  “It’s the most beautiful city in the world. It’s also rotten with intrigue. The royal family has more branches than a willow and they’re always scheming against each other for a higher place on the tree. Political plots, old feuds, secret lovers, and who knows what else. And more often than not, when one of them needs a document stolen or some token delivered in the dead of night, it’s our friend Seregil who does the job. The people who hire him never actually meet him, mind you, but those who want his services know how to contact him. You ask for the ‘Rhíminee Cat.’ He’s the best and worst kept secret in the city.”

  “It’s all so hard to imagine.” Alec shook his head ruefully. “He thinks I can do that sort of thing?”

  “I told you before, if he wasn’t certain you could, you wouldn’t be here. I wager he sees something in you that neither you nor I do. Oh, he’d have rescued you anyway, no matter what, but there must be something else that’s caused him to keep you on with him.”

  Micum caught his eye and winked. “Now there’s a mystery for you to solve, for I doubt you’ll ever hear it from Seregil. In the meantime, though, don’t worry about pleasing him. Just keep your eyes open and follow his lead.”

  Slipping back into the room, Seregil threw his shawl aside and sprawled across the bed to ease the kinks from his back. Micum and Alec looked at him expectantly.

  “There’s a price on Aren Windover’s head, and yours, too, Alec,” he informed them. “There was also mention of an unknown third man. I trust this information was furnished by the man who got away on the road the other day.”

  “Don’t start on that,” Micum warned. “Who’s offering this reward? Our good mayor of Wolde?”

  “Supposedly. The message came by pigeon yesterday, saying that we’ve carried off the guild money box or some such nonsense.”

  “How much is Aren worth this time?”

  “Twenty silver marks.”

  “Bilairy’s gateposts!” Micum gasped. “What the hell have you gotten into?”

  “Damned if I know.” Seregil scrubbed a hand wearily through his hair. “Where’s my pouch?”

  Alec tossed it to him and he took out the wooden disk, regarding it with a puzzled scowl. “This is the only thing we took. I can’t figure what would make it worth all this trouble, but I guess we’d better keep a close guard on it, just in case.”

  Threading a length of leather lacing through the sq
uare hole in its center, he stared at it again for a moment, then tied the thong around his neck. “If they want it back that badly, I’m all the more determined to get it to Skala.”

  “And how much do they want for me?” Alec asked. “It’s the first time I’ve been an outlaw.”

  “Twenty marks, same as me. Not bad for one of your tender years. They only offered half that for Micum.”

  “You’re certain there was no mention of me by name?” asked Micum.

  “None at all. Seems you got away clean.”

  “I’ve always come and gone as I pleased around there, so I won’t be missed. Are we in danger here?”

  “I don’t think so. If they had agents in Boersby, they wouldn’t have involved the locals. It sounds like they sent similar messages all over: Stook, Ballton, Ösk, even Sark. Whoever they are, they’ve lost us and they’re not pleased. Just the same, I think we’d best be very careful.”

  “If they’re looking for two men and a boy, I say we split up.” Micum stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “I believe I’d like to circle back anyway, have a look at that place you saw marked on the map, down in the Blackwater Fens. I’ll head out before first light.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “I’ll ride easy.”

  “Take our horses with you when you go and send word as soon as you can. I’ve already booked passage for Alec and myself down to Nanta. If you need to find us, we’ll be aboard a river trader called the Darter. She’s got a black hull with a red cutwater. Ask for Lady Gwethelyn of Cador Ford.”

  “Lady Gwethelyn?” Micum grinned. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard from that good lady. You’re in for a singular treat, Alec my lad!”

  8

  THE CAPTAIN AND THE LADY

  “That’s a warm-lookin’ wench, even if she is a bit past her prime, eh, Captain Rhal?” the helmsman remarked.

  The Darter’s triangular sail was bellied out in the brisk wind, and Rhal moved to the rail for a better view of his passenger, still seated in the prow.

  The captain was a stocky, dark-haired man of middling years. Though somewhat balding, he was still comely enough in a rakish, weather-beaten sort of way to attract the graces of a good many women in a good many ports—a fact he was glad to capitalize on.

  “That she is. I’ve always fancied a trim-cut wench,” he agreed, discounting Skywake’s appraisal of her age; coming from him that meant anything over the age of fourteen. Though the lady in question was clearly past the first blush of youth, she was no beldam. Perhaps twenty-five?

  Lady Gwethelyn and her young squire had come aboard at dawn. After seeing her gear stowed in the small passenger cabin, she’d asked the captain if she might sit in the prow, as she was prone to seasickness and thought that the breeze might help ward it off until she became accustomed to the motion of the ship. Her soft, low voice and gentle manner had charmed him right down to his boots. The trip downriver might not be so monotonous this time, after all.

  Studying her in the morning light, Rhal found no cause to alter his first assessment. Her carefully draped wimple framed a demure, fine-boned face. Under her mantle she wore a high-necked traveling gown that showed to advantage a slender waist and gently rounded bosom. She might be a bit thin through the hips for some, but as he’d remarked to Skywake, he liked his women trim. The chill wind off the water had brought out the roses in her pale cheeks, and her wide grey eyes seemed to sparkle as she leaned toward her traveling companion to point out some detail on the distant bank. Perhaps she was closer to twenty?

  The Darter’s primary cargo was generally furs and spices, but years ago Rhal had found it lucrative to add an extra cabin below decks, and he often ferried passengers up and down the Folcwine. The previous evening, an old servant woman had booked passage as far as Nanta for the lady and her squire. In return for a glass of ale, the old gossip was happy to extol the beauties of her mistress and bemoan the frailty of health that forced her to spend the harsh winter months with her relations in the south.

  This was common enough; many of the more well-to-do merchants in the northlands found themselves southern wives, and often these ladies preferred to migrate back to their warmer homelands before the icy grip of the northern winter brought all normal activity to a halt.

  Seeing to it that the sail was properly trimmed, Rhal went forward to con the river. The Folcwine was broad and generally forgiving, but this was the season for gravel bars.

  His new position afforded him a better view of his passengers, and he found himself distracted again. The ever-present squire—scarcely more than a raw boy for all his livery and sword—had stepped to the rail. The woman sat gazing pensively toward the shore, hands clasped in her lap.

  Her dress, her manner, the large garnet ring she wore on one gloved forefinger, all confirmed her a lady of quality, but Rhal found himself again wondering about her reasons for traveling. She’d come aboard with nothing but a large hamper and one none-too-heavy trunk. The squire had a battered old pack that weighed nearly as much; hardly the baggage of a gentlewoman. That, together with her lack of women servants and the late hour at which her passage was booked, suggested a more interesting possibility. Could it be she was a runaway wife? One could always hope, and, by Astellus, he had a week to find out!

  While Seregil would have been more than pleased with the impression he had made upon the captain, his pensive mood was no ruse.

  The previous night, he’d found suitable clothing for himself and Alec, then checked Micum’s wound and tried unsuccessfully to get him to take the bed. When all efforts had failed, Seregil had tumbled into it beside Alec and fallen asleep almost at once. Aside from the fact that he was worn out from the events of the last few days, he knew it was the only way to escape Micum’s thunderous snoring.

  Sometime later, he’d awakened with the sense of something amiss. A strong wind had come up in the night. It gusted around the corners of the building, sighing through the cracks in the walls. The firepot had died to a dim glow and he was cold except for the warmth of Alec’s naked back resting lightly against his own. This in itself was odd, he’d thought, because together with the fact that he didn’t remember disrobing, the boy’s persistent modesty would hardly have allowed him to sleep naked with anyone else.

  Yet that wasn’t it, he decided sleepily. By the faint light of the firepot, he could make out Micum’s bulk on the pallet by the door. Something wrong there, something obvious—if only his foggy brain would clear.

  Sliding out of bed, he crossed softly to where Micum lay, disliking the feel of the rough, cold boards under his bare feet. The sense of unease grew stronger as he crouched beside him; he had never known Micum to sleep so quietly.

  His friend lay curled on his side, facing away from Seregil so that he could scarcely hear the man’s breathing. In fact, he couldn’t hear any breathing at all.

  “Micum, wake up,” he whispered, but his throat was so dry that hardly a sound came. Dread—thick and palpable—pressed around him and he grasped his friend’s shoulder, suddenly desperate for him to wake up, to speak.

  Micum was as cold to the touch as the floor beneath Seregil’s feet. Jerking his hand away, he found it darkly stained with blood. Micum slumped slowly onto his back, and Seregil saw the gaping wound in his friends throat where his own poniard was still lodged. Micum’s eyes were open, his expression one of terrible surprise and sadness.

  An anguished cry welled in Seregil’s throat. He lurched back and pushed himself away from the body, snagging tender skin on the rough planking.

  The wind mounted a sudden assault on the house, slamming one of the window shutters back in a frigid blast of air. Fanned by the draft, the coals blazed up for an instant, and by their brief illumination, Seregil caught sight of a tall figure standing in the corner nearest the window. The man was closely muffled from head to knees in a dark mantle but Seregil recognized the implacable straightness of back, the slightly inclined head, the sharp thrust of a cocked elb
ow under the cloak as an unseen hand rested on belt or pommel. And, with an utterly unpleasant mingling of precognition and memory, he knew exactly how their conversation would begin.

  “Well, Seregil, this is a pretty state I find you in.”

  “Father, this isn’t how it appears,” Seregil replied, hating the pleading note he heard in his own voice—the very echo of a past self who’d uttered these same words in a situation not unlike the present one—but powerless to sound otherwise. But his older self was also uneasily aware of his empty weapon hand.

  “It appears that you have a dead friend on your floor and a catamite in your bed.” His father’s voice was just as he remembered: dry, sardonic, full of calculated disapprobation.

  “That’s only Alec—” Seregil began angrily, but the words died in his throat as the boy rose naked from the bed with a wanton grace completely unlike his usual manner. Coming to Seregil, he pressed warmly against him and exchanged an arch glance with his father.

  “Your choice of companions has not improved.”

  “Father, please!” A dizzying sense of unreality closed in on Seregil as he sank to his knees.

  “Exile has only strengthened your baser tendencies,” his father sneered. “As ever, you are a disgrace to our house. Some other punishment must be found.”

  Then, with that rare gentleness that had always taken Seregil off guard, he shook his head and sighed. “Seregil, my youngest, what am I to do with you? It has been so long! Let us at least clasp hands.”

  Seregil reached to take his father’s hand. Shameful tears burned his eyes as he peered up into the depths of the hood, hoping for a glimpse of the well-remembered face. Yet even then a tiny, sickening tendril of doubt uncurled at the back of his mind. Alec’s hands tightened on his shoulders as his father’s hand closed around his.