Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

  • • •

  As Seregil moved through the details of the morning, the nightmare did begin to fade, but in its wake came a strong sense of unease. His headache had returned, too, shortening his patience and unsettling his stomach. By noon he was so out of sorts that he retreated to his place by the cutwater, hoping to be left alone. Alec seemed to sense that he would do well to make himself useful elsewhere, but the captain was not so easily put off.

  Traveling in disguise always posed complications, but Seregil was finding his current role more restrictive than usual. Rhal’s inopportune attentions were more than he felt up to dealing with in his present state. The captain found frequent opportunities to make himself available to Lady Gwethelyn, noting points of interest along the shore, inquiring after her comfort, suggesting innumerable diversions for her young squire. He accepted her apologies graciously enough, but was firm in his intention to entertain them at supper that evening.

  Soon after the midday meal, Seregil excused himself and spent the remainder of the afternoon dozing in the cabin. By the time Alec roused him to prepare for dinner he was feeling considerably better.

  “Sorry to leave you on your own up there,” he apologized as Alec worked at a knotted lacing on his gown. “Tomorrow we’ll find a way to get in some training. Lady Gwethelyn can keep to her cabin with her squire in attendance. Swordplay would be rather awkward down here, but I’m sure we can come up with something. More signing and palming tricks, maybe. That’s something you have to keep at or you’ll lose it.”

  Wriggling out of the wrinkled garment, he lifted a fresh gown from the trunk and dropped it over his head. When Alec had pulled the lacings snug, he carefully draped a gauzy wimple over his hair, binding it with a silk cord and arranging the folds to spread gracefully over his shoulders. In addition to the garnet ring, he added a heavy chain of twisted gold and large pearl earrings.

  “Illior’s Fingers, I’m famished,” he said as he finished. “I hope I can manage to eat in a ladylike fashion. What’s for supper? Alec?”

  The boy was regarding him with a perplexed expression. Blushing a bit, he blinked and replied, “We’re having stewed fowl. I dressed out the birds for the cook while you were asleep.” He paused, then added with a grin, “And from what I heard from the sailors today, this disguise of yours is working.”

  “Oh? What did they have to say?”

  “The cook claims he’s never seen the captain so taken with a woman. Some of the others are taking bets on whether he’ll have his way with you before we reach Nanta.”

  “Highly unlikely. I trust you to see to your duty, Squire Ciris, until we’re safely ashore.”

  Rhal opened the door at their knock. He’d donned a fusty velvet coat for the occasion and had given his beard a proper trimming as well. With an inward groan, Seregil presented his hand and allowed himself to be escorted in.

  “Welcome, dear lady!” Rhal exclaimed, pointedly ignoring Alec as he drew Seregil’s arm through his own. “I hope you’ll find everything to your liking.”

  A small table stood neatly set for three, the wine already poured, fine wax candles alight in place of the malodorous oil lanterns.

  “Why, you look fresh as a spring rose at dawn,” he went on, seating Seregil with practiced courtesy. “It pained me to see you looking so peaked this afternoon.”

  “I’m much better, thank you,” Seregil murmured. Alec gave him a quick wink behind Rhal’s back.

  Both fowl and wine proved to be excellent. Conversation during the meal was somewhat strained, however. Rhal made little effort to include Alec, and replied somewhat stiffly when the boy made several pointed allusions to Lady Gwethelyn’s fictitious husband. Having grown accustomed to his part, Alec was clearly beginning to revel in it.

  “You must give us news from the south, Captain,” Seregil interjected when a particularly grim pause threatened.

  “Well, I suppose you’ve heard about the Plenimarans?” Rhal took a large, blackened pipe from a nearby rack. “With your permission, my lady? Thank you. Before we sailed from Nanta the week before last, news came through that the old Overlord, Petasárian, was ailing again and not expected to last long. That bodes ill for the rest of us, if you ask me. Being Skalan born, I don’t care much for the Plenimarans, but Petasárian has held to the treaties these last five years. That heir of his, young Klystis, is another matter. They say he’s been ruling in all but name this last year, and it looks to most like he’s sharpening up the swords again. Rumor has it that he may even have a hand in the old man’s illness, if you take my meaning. What I pick up along the coast is that there’s a good many in Plenimar who think the Twelfth Treaty of Kouros should never have been signed, and that those who say so are anxious to get Petasárian out of the way so his son can set things to rights.”

  “Do you think there could be a war?” Seregil effortlessly counterfeited feminine alarm.

  Rhal puffed sagely at his pipe. “Skala and Plenimar hardly know what to do with themselves when they’re not killing each other off, though I hold the Plenimarans are generally the ones to kick the beehive. Yes, I think they’re getting ready to go at it again, and mark my words, this time it’ll be a bad one. Those that have business over that way say that there’s an uncommon amount of ship building going on in Plenimaran ports. The press gangs are out in force, too. Sailors are getting shy of taking shore leave there.”

  This was fresh news to Seregil, but before he could pursue it further they were interrupted by the cabin boy who’d been sent in to clear the table. While the cloth was being changed, Rhal unlocked a small cabinet over his bunk and brought out a dusty decanter and three small pewter cups.

  “Aged Zengati brandy. Quite rare,” he confided as he poured. “My trade connections in Nanta give me access to a good many luxuries of this sort. Come, Squire Ciris, let’s drink the health of our most excellent lady. May she continue to delight the eye and gladden the heart of those privileged to look upon her.”

  Though he spoke to Alec, his gaze never left Seregil’s face as he raised his cup to his lips.

  Seregil lowered his eyes modestly, sipping at the fiery spirit.

  Alec lifted his cup again, adding with apparently ingenuous gallantry, “And to the fair child she carries, my next cousin!”

  Rhal choked on his brandy, going into a brief coughing fit. Seregil looked up in startled amusement, but managed to compose himself by the time Rhal recovered.

  “I would not have spoken of it had not my dear cousin, in his youthful enthusiasm, broached the indelicate subject,” Seregil murmured, setting his cup aside. Mycenian ladies of quality were noted for their modesty and discretion.

  But Rhal was clearly less put off than Alec had intended. Seregil could guess at the new train of thought behind those dark eyes. After all, if a woman’s already plowed and planted and still has a pleasing shape, what harm can be done?

  “My lady, I had no idea!” he said, patting her hand with renewed warmth.

  The cook entered with a tray of covered bowls and Rhal set one in front of him. “No wonder you’ve been off your feet. Perhaps the dessert will be more to your liking.”

  “Indeed?” Seregil lifted the lid from his dish with a small expectant smile, then froze, the color draining from his face. Inside maggots writhed over severed ears, eyes, and tongues. A hot wave of nausea and panic rolled over him. Dropping the lid with a clatter, he rushed from the room.

  “Don’t be alarmed, boy!” he heard Rhal say behind him. “It’s quite common in her condition—”

  Reaching the rail, he sagged over it and vomited up his supper, dimly aware that Alec was at his side.

  “What’s wrong?” the boy demanded in an urgent whisper when he’d finished.

  “Get me below,” groaned Seregil. “Get me below now!”

  Alec half carried him down the companionway to their cabin, where Seregil collapsed on the bunk and buried his face in his hands.

  “What happened?” Alec pleaded, hoverin
g anxiously over him. “Should I go for the captain, or fetch some brandy?”

  Seregil shook his head violently, then raised his head to look up at the boy. “What did you see?”

  “You ran out!”

  “No! In the bowls. What did you see?”

  “The dessert, you mean?” Alec asked in confusion. “Baked apples.”

  Striding to the cabin’s single small window, Seregil threw it open and inhaled deeply. Fear, keen as a dagger’s point, coursed through him; every instinct screamed for him to arm himself, watch his back, run somewhere, anywhere. His head was pounding again, too, twisting his empty belly into a painful knot.

  Turning to face Alec again, he said softly, “That’s not what I saw. The dishes were full of a steaming mess of—” He stopped, wondering at the terrible, inexplicable anxiety that had overwhelmed him at the sight. “Never mind. It’s not important. But it wasn’t baked apples.”

  A convulsive shudder racked him and he sagged against the cabin wall.

  More alarmed than ever, Alec drew him to the bunk and made him sit down again. Seregil curled into the corner at the head of the bunk, back pressed to the wall. But he was still master of himself enough to send Alec to Captain Rhal with Lady Gwethelyn’s apologies; it seemed that in her present state, she could not bear the odor of certain foods.

  When Alec returned, he found Seregil pacing restlessly in the narrow confines of the cabin.

  “Bolt the door and help me out of this damned dress!” Seregil hissed, but could scarcely stand still for the unlacing. When Alec had finished, he pulled on his leather breeches beneath his nightdress, wrapped a mantle about his shoulders, and returned to his corner of the bunk, sword hidden between the pallet and the wall behind him.

  “Come here,” he whispered, motioning for Alec to sit beside him.

  Pressed shoulder to shoulder with Seregil, Alec could feel the occasional fits of trembling that still seized him, and the feverish heat of his body.

  But Seregil’s voice was steady, though barely audible. “Something’s happening to me, Alec. I’m not sure what, but you should know about it because I don’t know how I’m going to end up.”

  With that said, he told Alec of his latest nightmare, and of the unreasoning dread that had come over him before.

  “It’s either magic or madness,” he concluded grimly. “I’m not sure which would be worse. I’ve never felt anything like this. The—things in the bowls? I’ve seen sights a hundred times worse and scarcely given it a second thought. I may be a lot of things, Alec, but I’m no coward! Whatever this is, I imagine things are going to get worse before they get better—if they get better.” He tugged distractedly at the wooden disk hanging around his neck. “If you want to move on without me, I’ll understand. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Maybe not,” Alec replied, trying not to think about how frightened he suddenly felt, “but I wouldn’t feel right about it. I’ll stay on.”

  “Well, I won’t hold you to that, but thank you.” Drawing up his knees, Seregil cradled his head on his arms.

  Alec was about to retreat to his alcove when he felt another shiver rock through Seregil. Leaning back against the wall, he stayed silently by him well into the night.

  10

  SEREGIL DESCENDING

  Seregil struggled free of another nightmare just before dawn. Throwing open the window, he dressed quickly, then sat watching the sky brighten. The anxiety of the dream gradually faded, but the first hint of a renewed headache seemed to grow with the light. Before long he heard Alec moving around in the alcove.

  “You’ve had another bad night,” the boy said, not bothering to make it a question.

  “Come hold the mirror for me, will you?” Seregil opened a pouch of cosmetics and set to work. Dark circles stood out like bruises under his eyes; the hand holding out the mirror was not as steady as it had been a week before.

  “I think Lady Gwethelyn will keep mostly to her cabin today. I’m not up to lengthy dissemblements,” he said, inspecting his handiwork when he’d finished. “Besides, it will give us a chance to get on with your training. It’s high time you learned to read. In fact, you can hardly manage our trade without it.”

  “Is it difficult?”

  “You’ve caught on to everything else I’ve thrown at you,” Seregil assured him. “There’s a lot to it, but once you know the letters and their sounds, it comes quickly. Let’s take a short walk on deck first, though. I could use the air before attempting breakfast. Let the captain see how ill I look and perhaps he’ll leave us alone.”

  It was snowing in earnest this morning; wet, heavy flakes draped into a heavy curtain about the ship, deadening sound and making it impossible to see much farther than the end of the bow. Every rope and surface was outlined in white, and the deck was a mass of slush. Captain Rhal stood by the mast, giving orders to several men at once.

  “Tell Skywake to keep her in the middle of the channel if he can figure out where it is!” he called to one sailor, jerking a thumb in the direction of the helmsman. “Keep dropping that lead until this clears. We’re less likely to get hung up so long as we stay well out in the channel. By the Old Sailor, there’s not enough breeze to fill a virgin’s—Well, good morning to you, my lady. Feeling better, I trust?”

  “The motion of the ship is most unsettling,” Seregil answered, leaning on Alec’s arm for good effect. “I fear I shall have to spend the remainder of our journey below.”

  “Aye, it’s filthy weather, and damned early for it this far south. At this rate we’ll be lucky to reach Torburn by dark tomorrow. It’s going to make for a long day, so if you’ll excuse me—Ciris, why don’t you fetch your mistress some hot wine from the galley?”

  With this, he strode off toward the helm.

  “I don’t know whether to be relieved or insulted!” Seregil chuckled under his breath. “Go fetch us some breakfast. I’ll meet you below.”

  Despite the strange visions of the previous night, Seregil wasn’t prepared for what he saw in the porridge Alec brought back. Pushing his bowl away, he retreated to the bunk.

  Alec frowned. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

  Seregil nodded, not caring to describe the slithering mass he saw in the bowl, or the stench that wafted up out of the teapot. Gathering up the dishes, Alec carried them away and returned with a mug of water and a bit of bread.

  “You’ve got to get at least this into you,” he urged, pressing the cup into Seregil’s hand.

  Seregil nodded and downed it quickly, doing his best to ignore the disturbing sensations that skittered across his tongue.

  “You won’t last long on that,” Alec fretted. “Can’t you manage a little bread? Look, it’s fresh from the ship’s oven.”

  Alec unwrapped a napkin and showed him the thick slice. Sweet, yeasty steam curled up in the sunlight and Seregil’s empty belly stirred at the fragrance. As he reached for it, however, maggots erupted out of the bread, tumbling through the boy’s fingers onto the table.

  Seregil averted his eyes with a grimace. “No, and I think it might be better if you took your meals elsewhere until this is over.

  They commenced the writing lesson later that morning. Seregil’s battered leather pack yielded up several small rolls of parchment, quills, and a pot of ink. Crowded together over the small table, Alec watched Seregil draw the letters.

  “Now you try,” he said, handing Alec the quill. “Copy each letter underneath mine and I’ll tell you its sound.”

  Alec knew as little about handling a quill as he did about swordplay, so they paused for a brief lesson in penmanship. He was soon inked to the wrists, but Seregil saw progress being made and held his tongue. After he’d mastered the characters, Seregil took the quill and swiftly spelled out their names, then the words for bow, sword, ship, and horse. His script flowed graceful and elegant next to Alec’s smudgy scrawls.

  Alec watched all this with growing interest. “That word there; that means me?”

/>   “It means anyone named Alec.”

  “And this is ‘bow.’ It’s as if these little marks have power. I look at them and the things they stand for just pop into my head, like magic. That one there doesn’t look anything like a bow, yet now that I know the sounds of the letters, I can’t look at it without seeing a bow in my head.”

  “Try this.” Seregil wrote out ‘Alec’s Black Radly bow’ and read it aloud, pointing to each word in turn.

  Alec followed along, grinning. “Now I picture my own bow. Is it magic?”

  “Not in the sense you mean. Ordinary words simply preserve ideas. Still, you have to be careful. Words can lie, or be misunderstood. Words don’t have magic, but they have power.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, the mayor of Wolde wrote a letter to the mayor of Boersby and it said something like ‘Aren Windover and his apprentice stole my money. Capture them and I’ll reward you.’ Because the mayor of Boersby knows the mayor of Wolde, he reads and believes. Did we steal the money?”

  “No, we just went through those rooms and you—”

  “Yes, yes,” Seregil snapped, cutting him short. “But the point is that a few words on a piece of paper were all it took to convince the mayor of Boersby that we did!”

  Seregil stopped suddenly, realizing he was practically shouting. Alec shrank back, looking as if he expected a blow. Seregil pressed his palms down on his knees and took a deep breath. The headache was back from wherever it had been lurking, and with the pain came an extraordinary surge of anger.

  “I’m not feeling very well, Alec. Why don’t you go above for awhile?” It was an effort to speak calmly.

  Jaw set in a stubborn line, Alec strode out without a word.

  Sinking his head into his hands, Seregil wrestled with the sudden, inexplicable surge of conflicting emotions. He wanted to go after him, try to explain and apologize, but what was he going to say?

  Sorry, Alec, but for just a moment there I really wanted to throttle you?

  “Damn!” He stalked around the confines of the tiny cabin. The pain in his head swelled to a blinding ache. Beneath the pain, a vague urge began to resolve itself into an almost sensual feeling of need. It flowed through him, drawing his lips back from his teeth in a terrible, vulpine smile, filling every fiber of him with the desire to lash out. He wanted to grasp. He wanted to strike. He wanted to rend and tear—