Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

  Micum scowled. “It had better be a short fury. I don’t fancy sitting in Rhíminee with home so close. I haven’t seen my wife in four months.”

  “Your what?” Alec asked in surprise.

  Micum gave a wry shrug. “In the midst of all the running and fighting we did up north, I guess the subject never came up. You’ll have to come out to Watermead. In fact, if I let slip that you’re an orphan, Kari may just come get you herself.”

  “Out to where?”

  “Our holding,” Micum explained. “It lies up in the hills to the west of the city. During my early days with Seregil we uncovered a plot against the Queen. The leader of it was executed and Idrilain offered us part of his holdings as reward. Seregil never cared much for property, so it fell to me. It’s really been more Kari’s than mine, what with me being gone so much. She and the girls run it.”

  “Girls?”

  Nysander gave Alec a mischievous wink. “This rogue has three daughters, as well.”

  “Any grandchildren?” Alec inquired dryly.

  “I hope not! The oldest, Beka, is only a year or two older than you and she’s set her heart on a soldiering life. Seregil’s promised to get her a commission in the Queen’s Horse Guard, damn him. The other two, Elsbet and Illia, are too young yet to be thinking of husbands.”

  Yawning suddenly, Micum stretched back in his chair until the seams of his jerkin creaked. “By the Flame, I’m tired. After the riding I did to get here, I could sleep in the middle of the Sea Market and not know the difference. I’d better go after Seregil before I doze off. Before I go, though, there’s one thing you must answer me, Nysander.”

  He fixed the wizard with a serious eye. “I’ll accept your conditions of secrecy for now. You know you can always trust me—and Seregil, too, for all his bluster. But if this business is half as serious as you make it out to be, are we in danger? I haven’t been easy in my mind since I left the Fens. All the way down here I kept seeing Alec and Seregil stretched back over that stone with their chests torn open. And now you tell me he got hit with bad magic. Could Mardus’ people have tracked us here from Wolde? And will they follow me home tomorrow?”

  Nysander sighed deeply. “I have had no sign of such pursuit yet. As much as I would like to tell you that there is no danger, that Seregil and Alec eluded their pursuers completely, I cannot be certain of it. But you may believe me, both of you, when I say that—no matter what my vow—I will never endanger any of you with false assurances. I shall continue to keep watch over you all as best I can, but you must also be cautious.”

  Micum stroked the corners of his mustache, frowning. “I don’t like it, Nysander. I don’t like it at all, but I trust you. Come on, Alec, let’s go find Seregil. If he won’t cool off on his own, you can help me dunk him in the horse trough.”

  They made a quick check of the bedchamber first. Seregil’s old pack lay open on the clothes chest, along with an untidy pile of maps and parchment scraps. His traveling cloak lay in a heap next to a chair, along with several tunics and a crumpled hat. The tip of one old boot protruded from beneath the coverlet of the bed like a dog’s nose. Combs, a ball of twine, a tankard, and fragments of a broken flint lay along the windowsill as if set out for a ceremony.

  “He hasn’t stormed off just yet,” Micum observed, looking the mess over. “Before we go on, I’d like to hear what happened to you two.”

  Once again Alec went over the details of their journey and Seregil’s strange malady. When he’d finished, Micum rubbed a hand wearily over the coppery stubble on his chin.

  “That’s not the sort of thing a person just walks away from, I grant you. Still, he ought to know that Nysander wouldn’t put him off without good reason. I swear, Seregil is one of the smartest people I’ve ever known, and the bravest, but he’s worse than a child when he comes up against something he can’t twist around to suit himself.” He yawned again heartily. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Where do we look?” Alec asked, following him out. “He could be anywhere.”

  “I know where to start.”

  Micum led the way out to the Orëska stables. Seregil was in a stall halfway down the mews, currying Micum’s exhausted horse.

  “You nearly spavined the poor beast,” he said, not bothering to look up as they approached. His boots were soiled with barn muck; dust and horse hair clung to his clothing. A piece of sweat-soaked sacking swung from one shoulder as he worked down the animal’s flank. A streak of mud down one wan cheek gave him a decidedly mournful look.

  Micum slouched against the newel post at the end of the stall. “You acted like a fool back there, you know. I should think you’d want to set a better example for Alec.”

  Seregil gave him a sour glance across the horse’s back, then went back to work.

  Micum watched the motion of the curry comb for a moment. “You’ll speak with Nysander before you leave?”

  “Soon as I finish this.”

  “Looks like we won’t have to toss him in the trough after all, eh?” Micum grinned at Alec. “And I was looking forward to it.”

  Seregil scrubbed at a patch of dry mud, sending up a cloud of dust. “You off to Watermead tomorrow?”

  Micum heard the thinly veiled challenge the question often carried. “At first light. Kari will skin me if I stay away any longer. Why don’t you two come out with me? The hunting should be good just now, and we could work on Alec’s swordplay. Beka’s a perfect match for him.”

  “I want to get settled at the Cockerel first,” Seregil replied.

  “Suit yourself. You’re no use to anyone when you’re like this.”

  Micum yawned again, then clasped hands with Seregil for a long moment, holding his friend’s gaze until Seregil managed a tight, grudging smile. Satisfied, Micum released him and clapped Alec on the shoulder. “I’ll be asleep before you get upstairs, so it’s farewell for now. Luck to you in the shadows.”

  “And to you,” Alec called after him.

  Upending a bucket, Alec sat down to watch Seregil finish with the horse. “He doesn’t stay around long, does he?”

  Seregil shrugged. “Micum? Sometimes. Not like he used to.”

  Something in Seregil’s voice warned Alec that this, too, was a subject not to be pursued.

  “What’s this Cockerel place we’re going to?”

  “Home, Alec. And home is where we’re bound tonight.” Seregil hung the curry comb on a nail. “Give me a minute to square things with Nysander, then come say good-bye.”

  Thero answered Seregil’s knock. Exchanging their usual terse nods, they strode back through the stacks of manuscripts to the workroom. Walking behind the assistant wizard, Seregil read tension in the set of Thero’s shoulders and smiled to himself. There had never been any specific basis for their strong mutual dislike, yet it had sprung up full-blown the first time they’d laid eyes on each other. Out of regard for Nysander’s feelings, a grudging truce had developed between them. Nonetheless, they’d never been at ease in the other’s presence, though either one would have eaten fire before they’d admit it aloud.

  Seregil considered himself to be above such petty emotions as jealousy or envy; so what if Thero had taken his place at Nysander’s side, filling it better, in some respects, than he ever had? Seregil had no reason to doubt Nysander’s personal regard for him, or the importance of their professional association. His continuing dislike of Thero, he’d long since concluded, must be on a purely instinctual level, and thus irreconcilable and probably justified.

  “He’s downstairs,” Thero informed him, returning to his work at one of the tables.

  Nysander was still sitting pensively by the fire.

  Leaning against the door frame, Seregil cleared his throat. “I was an idiot just now.”

  Nysander waved his apology aside. “Come in, please, and sit with me. Do you know, I was just trying to think how long it has been since you spent so many nights under this roof.”

  “Too long, I’m afraid.”
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  Nysander regarded him with a sad smile. “Too long indeed, if you could imagine that I would keep anything from you out of distrust.”

  Seregil shifted unhappily in his chair. “I know. But don’t expect me to just nod and smile about it.”

  “Actually, I think you are taking it all rather well. Do you still plan to leave tonight?”

  “I need to get back to work, and Alec’s feeling a bit lost. The sooner we get busy, the better we’ll both feel.”

  “Mind you pace him in his training,” Nysander cautioned. “I should not like to see either of you with your hands on the executioner’s block.”

  Seregil regarded his old friend knowingly. “You like him.”

  “Certainly,” Nysander replied. “He possesses a keen mind and a noble heart.”

  “Surprised?”

  “Only that you would take on such a responsibility at all. You have been solitary for so long.”

  “It was nothing I planned, believe me. But as I get to know him better, well—I don’t know. I guess I’m getting used to having him around.”

  Nysander studied his friend’s face for a moment, then said gently, “He is very young, Seregil, and obviously has great respect and fondness for you. I trust you are aware of that?”

  “My intentions toward Alec are perfectly honorable! You, of all people, ought to—”

  “That is not what I was alluding to,” Nysander replied calmly. “What I am saying is that you must consider more than his mere education. You should be a friend to him as well as a teacher. The time will come when the master must accept his pupil as an equal.”

  “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

  “I am glad to hear you say so. But you must be honest with him, too.” Nysander regarded him with sudden seriousness. “I know of at least one thing that he is not aware of. Why have you not told him of his true—?”

  “I will!” Seregil whispered quickly, hearing Alec’s step on the stairs. “I wasn’t certain at first, and then things went to pieces. I just haven’t found the right moment yet. He’s had enough to contend with these last few weeks.”

  “Perhaps so, yet I confess I do not understand your reluctance. I wonder how he will react?”

  “So do I,” murmured Seregil. “So do I.”

  20

  HOMECOMING

  Tattered clouds were scudding across the face of the moon when Seregil and Alec set out for the Cockerel. A bitter wind off the sea clattered through the trees along Golden Helm Street. The night lanterns grated on their hooks, making the shadows dance.

  Intent on savoring his first night of freedom, Seregil had turned down Nysander’s offer of horses, although he did concede to letting Alec carry the pack. As the wind whipped their hair and cloaks about, he was chilled but cheerful.

  Rhíminee after dark. Beyond ornate walls and down shadowed alleys lay a thousand dangers, a thousand delights. Passing beneath a lantern, he saw a glimmer of familiar eagerness in Alec’s eyes; perhaps, at last, he’d chosen well?

  By the time they reached the Circle of Astellus, however, Seregil was forced to admit that his body had not recovered as fully as his spirit.

  “I could do with a drink,” he said, stepping into the shelter of the colonnade.

  The lily-shaped capitals of the marble columns supported a carved pediment and dome. Inside the colonnade, concentric circles of marble formed a series of steps leading down to the clear water welling up from a deep cleft in the rock below.

  Kneeling, they pulled off their gloves and dipped up handfuls of sweet, icy water.

  “You’re shivering,” Alec noted with concern. “We should’ve ridden.”

  “Walking’s the best thing for me.” Seregil sat back on the step and wrapped his cloak around him. “Remember this night, Alec. Drink it in and commit it to memory! Your first night on the streets of Rhíminee!”

  Settling beside him, Alec looked out at the wild beauty of the night and let out a happy sigh. “It feels like the beginning of something, all right, even though we’ve been here a week.”

  He paused, and Seregil saw that he was staring toward the Street of Lights. Across the circle, the dark outline of the archway and the colorful twinkle of lights beyond shone invitingly.

  “I meant to ask you about something the other day,” Alec said. “I’d forgotten about it until just now.”

  Seregil grinned at him in the darkness. “Regarding what lies beyond that arch, I presume? The Street of Lights, it’s called. I guess you can see why.”

  Alec nodded. “A man told me the name the other day. Then he made some joke when I asked what the different colors mean.”

  “Said if you had to ask you were too young to know?”

  “Something like that. What did he mean?”

  “Beyond those walls, Alec, lie the finest brothels and gambling establishments in Skala.”

  “Oh.” There was enough light for him to see the boy’s eyes widen a little as he noted the number of riders and carriages passing under the arch.

  “Oh, indeed.”

  “But why are the lights different colors? I can’t make out any pattern.”

  “They aren’t meant for decoration. The color of the lanterns at each gate indicates the sort of pleasures the house purveys. A man wanting a woman would look for a house with a rose-colored light. If it’s male company he craves, then he’d choose one showing the green lamp. It’s the same for women: amber for male companionship, white for female.”

  “Really?” Alec stood up and walked to the far side of the fountain for a better view. When he turned back to Seregil he looked rather perplexed. “There are almost as many of the green and white ones as there are the others.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it’s just that—” Alec faltered. “I mean, I’ve heard of such things, but I didn’t think they could be so—so common. Things are a lot different here than in the north.”

  “Not so much as you might think,” Seregil replied, heading off again in the direction of the Street of the Sheaf. “Your Dalnan priests frown on such couplings, I understand, claiming they’re unproductive—”

  Alec shrugged uncomfortably, falling into step beside him. “They would be that.”

  “That depends on what one intends to produce,” Seregil remarked with a cryptic smile. “Illior instructs us to take advantage of any situation; I’ve always found that to be a most productive philosophy.”

  When Alec still looked dubious, Seregil clapped him on the shoulder in mock exasperation. “By the Four, haven’t you heard the saying, ‘Never spurn the dish untasted’? And here you haven’t even had a smell of the kitchen yet! We’ve got to get you back there, and soon.”

  Alec didn’t reply, but Seregil noticed him glance back over his shoulder several times before they were out of sight of the lights.

  Though they kept their hoods drawn, the occasional glimpses Alec got of his companion’s face showed that Seregil was delighted to be back in his own element.

  At the Harvest Market, Seregil ducked briefly into a potter’s shop. A moment later he was out again without explanation, leading the way into a neighborhood of modest shops and taverns crowded together along the edge of the square. Turning several corners in quick succession, they came out on a small lane marked with a fish painted some dark color.

  “There it is,” Seregil whispered, pointing to a large inn across the way. “We move quietly from here.”

  A low wall enclosed the inn’s small yard and Alec saw that bronze statues of the inn’s namesake, a cockerel, were set on either side of the front gate, each clutching a glowing lantern in one upraised claw.

  The Cockerel was a prosperous, well-kept establishment, square built of stone and wood, and three stories high. The small windows on the upper levels were shuttered, but the two large windows overlooking the front court let out a welcoming flood of light through their leaded bull’s-eye panes.

  “Looks like a busy night,” Seregil noted quietly, keeping t
o the shadows as he led the way into the stable that ran along the left wall of the courtyard.

  A young man with a disheveled mop of coarse red hair looked up from the harness he was mending as they came in. Smiling, he raised a hand in greeting. Seregil returned the gesture and continued on between the stalls.

  “Who is that?” Alec asked, puzzled by the man’s silence.

  “That’s Rhiri. He’s deaf, mute, and absolutely loyal. Best servant I ever found.” Stopping at a back stall, Seregil paused to inspect a rough-coated bay with a white snip.

  “Hello, Scrub!” he said, patting the animal’s shaggy flank. The horse nickered, craning his neck around to nuzzle at Seregil’s chest.

  “Where is it?” Seregil teased, throwing his cloak open.

  Scrub sniffed at the pouches at his belt and butted at one on the right. Seregil produced the prize, an apple, and the horse munched contentedly, occasionally rubbing his head against his master’s shoulder. A restless shuffling of hooves came from the next stall.

  “I haven’t forgotten you, Cynril,” Seregil said, pulling another apple from the pouch as he stepped around. A large black mare tossed her head and pinned him against the side of the stall as he entered.

  “Get over, you nag!” Seregil wheezed, whacking her on the haunch to shift her. “She’s half Aurënfaie, but her disposition certainly doesn’t give it away.” Despite this, he rubbed the horse’s head and nose with obvious affection.

  At the back of the stable, a wide door let out into a larger yard behind the inn. A smaller wing at the back of the building housed the kitchen; bright light from an open doorway shone across the paving flags, and with it came the inviting smells and din of a busy kitchen. To the left of this door was a second, much broader one where casks and barrels of provender were delivered. The remainder of the ground level, and the stories above, were windowless. A lean- to sheltered a well and a wood stack at the angle of the building. The courtyard walls were much higher here, and the broad gateway was stoutly barred for the night.

  Slipping inside, Seregil pointed across the crowded kitchen to a stooped old woman leaning on a stick in front of the enormous hearth.