Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

  “There’s more to disguise than changing your clothing,” Seregil lectured as they sat down. “You must know the manners proper to any situation, or all the decking out in the world won’t carry off your ruse. Tonight we dine among the nobles at a fine villa on Silvermoon Street, attended by servants.”

  Cilla and Thryis bowed gravely to them from the hearth. Bluff, bearded Diomis grinned as he dandled his grandson on his knee. “Old mother here was head cook to some of the finest houses in Rhíminee before Lord Seregil stole her away. You won’t find better fare at a prince’s table. Mind you show appreciation though, young sir, or she’s like to crack you on the pate with a ladle. It’s a risky thing, I always say, eating in sight of the cook.”

  “Consider yourself duly warned.” Seregil drew Alec’s attention to the dishes. “We’ll begin with the table service.”

  The green-glazed plates and bowls seemed thin as eggshell to Alec. Each one was lightly etched with an intricate circular design at the center. Small cups of similar design stood to the right of each plate.

  “This is Ylani porcelain. Very delicate, very costly, and made only in a small town in the northern foothills near Ceshlan. Notice how translucent it is, held to the light; the green tint is in the overglaze. The simple design at the center of each piece is the traditional stylized marigold, always considered tasteful and correct. However, it also shows that your host did not spend the extra time and money to have a set made in his personal design. This could indicate several things. He is, perhaps, not as wealthy as he wishes to appear. On the other hand, he might simply be conservative or uninspired in such matters. Or it could be that he’s entertaining you on his second-best service, which is another thing altogether. You’d have to investigate further to sort out which.

  “The use of this porcelain does portend the sort of dinner you will have, however. Only fish is served on it, never meat. Please note that a table knife is provided in addition to a spoon; never eat with your own dagger. The wine is Mycenian, a very fine variety called Golden Smoke. This betokens shellfish of some sort, for nothing else would be served with such a wine. Send in the first course, my good woman!”

  Doing her best to look grave, Cilla set a broad, shallow dish before them. In it half a dozen spherical things roughly the size of a fist sat in a few inches of water. They were a dark greenish-black and bristled with nasty spines that waved slowly about.

  “This is a shell fish?” Alec asked, poking dubiously at the closest one.

  “There are many types,” Seregil replied. “These are urchins. Children pick the smaller varieties from the tide pools along the shore and sell them by the basketful in the markets. These larger ones are brought in by fishermen who lower traps for crabs and lobsters. Just about everyone in Rhíminee eats them; the trick is to do it the right way according to your surroundings. First, let’s see how you’d do it.”

  Alec looked at him in disbelief. “As they are? Seregil, those things are still moving!”

  Thryis snorted derisively from the hearth, but Seregil motioned her to silence. “Cooking spoils both the flavor and the texture. Go on! I wouldn’t give it to you if it wasn’t edible.”

  Still doubtful, Alec pulled the smallest urchin gingerly from the bowl by one of its spines. Halfway to his plate the spine pulled loose and he ended up juggling the prickly horror the rest of the way with both hands. Once he had the thing where he wanted it, he rolled it this way and that with his spoon, wondering how to proceed. Discovering an opening of sorts on the underside, he tried prying at it with the tip of his knife. The shell immediately crushed into fragments under the blade. Water, broken spines, and bits of soft grey and yellow matter splattered up the front of his robe.

  “Excellent!” Seregil laughed, tossing him a napkin. “Whenever you present yourself as an inland noble on his first visit to the coast, do it just that way. I’ve never yet seen anyone get through their first urchin without smashing it to bits. Now, if you were in some local tavern, posing as a workman or farmer in for market day, you’d do it like this.”

  Picking an urchin out of the dish with a light, sure touch, Seregil cracked it against the edge of the table and pulled back the fragments of shell to expose the contents.

  “These grey bits here are the body. You don’t eat that,” he explained, scraping them out with a finger. With them came a conical ring of white fragments that looked like tiny carved birds. “And those are the teeth. It’s the yellow parts you’re after, the roe.”

  Plucking out several slender, gelatinous lobes, Seregil ate them with apparent relish.

  “I got them at the docks early this morning,” Cilla told him. “I made the fisherman give me a bucket of seawater and kept them down the well all day.”

  “Lovely flavor!” Seregil tossed the emptied shell into the fire behind him. Wiping his hands and lips with a napkin, he said, “Those are tavern manners and they’ll serve well anywhere outside the Noble Quarter, provided you want to be taken for a common sort. However, we are dining in Silvermoon Street, as you recall, and here they will not do at all. Observe.

  “First, the hanging sleeves of a formal robe are pushed—never rolled—halfway back to the elbow, no farther. You may place your left elbow on the table, never the right, although it’s generally acceptable to rest your wrist on the edge. Food is handled with the thumb and first two fingers of each hand; fold the others under, like so. Good. Now pick up the urchin with your left hand, handling it lightly, and hold it so you can see the mouth. Now, crack the shell with a single sharp stroke of your knife. Once it’s open, clean out the waste with the tip of your knife, then use your spoon to scoop out the roe. The empty shell goes on your plate. Never speak with a full mouth. If anyone addresses you, simply curve a finger in front of your lips and finish what’s in your mouth before answering.”

  Alec managed to puncture himself badly on the spines before he mastered the art of handling the things, and his fingers kept cramping from being held back so unnaturally. The roe, when he finally managed to extract a few intact lobes, had an unpleasantly viscous texture in his mouth and it’s salty sweet flavor was revolting. Relying heavily on the pale, oak-flavored wine, he managed to get two down before his stomach rebelled. Grimacing, he pushed his plate away.

  “These are awful! I’ve found better eating under rotten logs.”

  “You don’t care for them?” Seregil deftly split his fourth urchin. “We’ll have to cultivate your tastes, I’m afraid. In Rhíminee, just about anything that comes out of the sea is considered a delicacy. Perhaps you’ll find this next course more to your liking.” He motioned to Cilla. “Have you ever tried octopus?”

  As the weeks passed, Seregil remained frustrated by Alec’s poor progress at swordplay. The situation finally came to a head during one of their morning sessions a month or so after their arrival.

  “Keep your left side back!” he chided for the fifth time in half an hour, giving the offending shoulder a sharp poke with his wooden blade. “Stepping forward like that after you block gives your opponent twice the target. Your enemy has only to do this—” Seregil slapped Alec’s blade smartly aside and feigned a cut across the boy’s belly. “And there you are, holding your guts in your hands!”

  Alec silently positioned himself again, but Seregil could see the tension in his stance. The boy turned his next feint clumsily, then brought his shoulder around again as he tried a counterattack.

  Before he could stop himself, Seregil parried and gave him a sharp tap across the neck. “You’re dead again.”

  “Sorry,” Alec mumbled, wiping the sweat out of his eyes.

  Seregil cursed himself silently. In all the time he’d known him, this was the first time he’d seen the boy look defeated. Fighting down his own impatience, he tried again. “It’s not natural to you yet, that’s all. Try imagining how you’d hold yourself pulling a bow.”

  “You hold the bow with your left hand and draw with your right,” Alec corrected. “That puts your right should
er back.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, let’s hope that you end up better at swordplay than I ever did at archery. Now, once again.”

  Alec managed to parry an overhead swing but followed it with another unsuccessful counter. Seregil’s wooden blade caught him hard at the base of the throat and drew a few drops of blood.

  “By the— Oh, damn!” Breaking his batten in two over his knee, Seregil tossed the pieces aside and inspected the jagged scratch on the boy’s neck.

  “Sorry,” Alec repeated, staring over Seregil’s shoulder. “I turned again.”

  “I’m not angry with you. As for that—” He motioned toward the fragments of the batten. “That’s just to break the bad luck. ‘Cursed be the weapon that tastes the blood of a friend.’ Let’s have a look at the rest of the damage.”

  Alec tugged the sweat-soaked jerkin off over his head and Seregil inspected the bruises scattered darkly over his chest, arms, and ribs.

  “That’s what I thought. Illior’s Fingers, we’re doing something wrong! You’ve caught on to everything else so quickly.”

  “I don’t know,” Alec sighed, dropping into a chair. “I guess I’m hopeless as a swordsman.”

  “Don’t say that,” Seregil chided. “Clean yourself up while I fetch lunch. I’ve an idea or two how we can help you.”

  Seregil returned from the kitchen with a steaming platter of tiny roasted birds stuffed with cheese and currants and some darkly mottled mushrooms that looked vile and smelled delicious.

  “Clear a spot, will you?” he puffed, resting the heavy tray on the corner of the dining table.

  “Thank the Maker, something that lived on dry land,” Alec exclaimed hungrily, pushing books and rolls of parchment aside; Thryis had served another variety of raw shellfish the night before and he’d gone to bed hungry.

  He had thrown on a clean shirt while Seregil was gone, neglecting in his haste to tuck it in or do up the lacings. The linen swirled loosely around his lean hips as he hurried to fetch cups from a shelf. His fair hair, properly trimmed at last, shone when he passed through a patch of sunlight.

  Seregil caught himself staring and hastily turned his attention to the food.

  “This isn’t going to be another lesson in manners, is it?” Alec asked, eyeing the array of eating utensils suspiciously as he reached for one of the tiny birds.

  Seregil rapped him smartly over the knuckles with a spoon. “Yes it is. Now watch.”

  “Why is all the food in Skala so hard to eat?” Alec groaned as Seregil demonstrated the tricky business of eating the tiny auroles without lifting them from the plate or disturbing the bones.

  “I admit I’ve had Thryis make us some of the more difficult dishes, but if you master those, the rest will be simple,” Seregil assured him with a grin. “You mustn’t underestimate the importance of such customs. Say you’ve managed to gain admittance to some lord’s house by posing as the son of an old comrade he knew in the wars. You’ve studied the battles, you know the names of all the pertinent generals, your accent is correct, and you’re dressed perfectly. The minute you reach out of turn into the common platter, or spear a fried eel with your knife, you’re under suspicion. Or imagine you’re trying to pass yourself off as a sailor down in the Lower City. If you mistakenly call for a wine that would cost a month’s wages, or eat your joint with fingers folded daintily back, it’s highly likely you’ll next be seen floating face down in the harbor.”

  Chastened, Alec took up his spoon again and began picking at the bird before him. “But what about my sword training?”

  “Ah, yes. Well, I suspect the problem may be more me than you.”

  Alec eyed him skeptically. “Micum said you’re one of the best swordsmen he’s ever known!”

  “That’s the problem. With me, it’s all here.” Seregil tapped a finger over his heart. “Swordplay comes as naturally to me as breathing; it always did. It’s all aggression and skill and intuition. So every time you drop your guard or turn your shoulder forward, I lunge in and exploit the mistake. All I’ve managed to do so far is make you doubt yourself. No, this is the one thing I can’t teach you. That’s why I’ve decided to send you out to Watermead.”

  Alec looked up sharply. “But we’ve hardly—”

  “I know, I know!” Seregil interrupted, hoping to forestall another argument over Alec being left out of his work. “It’s only for a week, and the rest of it can wait that long. I have to deliver Beka’s commissioning papers anyway, so we’ll ride out today.”

  Just then a brisk rap sounded at the door, startling Alec.

  “Don’t worry,” said Seregil. “Anyone who can still knock after climbing my stairs is a friend. That you, Nysander?”

  “Good day to you both.” The scent of magic clung around the wizard as he strode in, though he was dressed in the same ordinary clothing he’d worn the day Alec had first seen him on the docks. “Ah, I see I am in time for one of Thryis’ excellent meals!”

  Seregil raised a questioning eyebrow. “I thought we were to meet tonight?”

  “In truth, I have rather missed seeing Alec. You have been keeping him very busy. Unfortunately, that is not my only reason for coming. I should like your opinion on this.”

  Drawing a small scroll tube from his pocket, he handed it to Seregil. A wax seal still dangled from one of the ribbons tied around it.

  “It’s one of mine,” Seregil remarked in surprise, examining the seal. His look of puzzlement deepened as he extracted a sheet of creamy vellum from the tube and glanced over it. “This is a note I wrote to Baron Lycenias last spring, thanking him for a week’s hunting at his estate. You sent me there yourself, remember? That business about Lady Northil.”

  “I suggest you read it over carefully.”

  “Let’s see; the crest is in order, and it’s dated the third day of Lithion. That should be right. ‘My Dear Lycenias í Marron, allow me to again proffer my heartfelt thanks for a most enjoyable—’ Yes, yes, the usual rubbish; fine hunting, laudable companionship, what a—”

  He broke off with an incredulous laugh. “Bilairy’s Balls, Nysander! It appears I’m thanking him for several nights of carnal pleasure, as well. As if I’d take on that reeking tub of guts!”

  “Keep reading; it gets worse.”

  Seregil read on, eyes flashing indignantly, but an instant later he went pale. Carrying the letter to the window, he inspected it closely, then reread it.

  “What’s wrong?” Alec demanded.

  “This isn’t good.” Seregil tugged at a stray strand of hair as he studied the note. “For all intents and purposes, this is my handwriting, right down to the great flourish connecting the final word of the letter to my signature—which I always do to prevent exactly what has somehow happened here.”

  “Someone’s changed what it says?”

  “They certainly have. ‘Regarding Tarin Dhial, you may rest assured of my complete support.’ No, this isn’t good at all!”

  “I don’t understand. What’s wrong?” Alec said, turning to Nysander.

  “Tarin Dhial is an encrypted form of the name of a Plenimaran spy caught buying information from several Skalan nobles,” Nysander explained. “They were all executed as traitors two months ago.”

  “Argragil and Mortain,” said Seregil, nodding thoughtfully. “Both guests of Lycenias that same week I was there. I had no idea what they were up to at the time! I suppose you’ve checked this for magic?”

  “Not a trace. Unless you can prove forgery, this could be most damaging.”

  “But how did you come into possession of it?”

  “It was sent anonymously to Lord Barien this morning.”

  “The Vicegerent?”

  “Oh, yes. Fortunately I have several Watchers among his staff. One of them recognized your seal and waylaid the document before it was seen. There may be other copies, however. I shudder to contemplate the colossal scandal that could arise should one of these fall into the wrong hands. Such embarrassment for the Queen is unthin
kable, a perfect coup for the Lerans!”

  Unnoticed by the others, Alec looked up sharply at this last comment, then stole a quick glance at Seregil’s face. Certain suspicions he’d been nursing for some time were beginning to take clearer shape.

  “There are only three forgers capable of this quality,” Seregil mused. “Fortunately, two of them are right here in the city. It shouldn’t take long to find out if they’re involved. I’ve already tried to tie them into the Vardarus business with no success. Still, for something as large as this, I can’t imagine the Lerans going too far afield. They’re better organized than usual but probably still fiercely insular. That’s always been their undoing in the past.”

  “I shall leave it to you for the time being,” said Nysander, standing to go. “Keep me closely informed and if things should turn ugly, depend on me to remove you from harm’s way. Farewell, Alec.”

  “If things turn ugly for me, then you’ll have problems of your own!” Seregil warned, accompanying him to the door.

  “Seregil? Is all this because you’re Aurënfaie?” Alec blurted out suddenly.

  Thunderstruck, Seregil turned to stare at him. “Where did you hear that?”

  “You mean after all this time you still had not told him?” exclaimed Nysander, equally shocked.

  “Then it’s true?” Alec was grinning now.

  “Actually, I was waiting for him to figure it out for himself,” Seregil countered, shifting uncomfortably under Nysander’s displeased gaze. “Well done, Alec. I’m just surprised it took you so long.”

  “Indeed?” Nysander said, giving him a last dark look. “Then the two of you have much to discuss. I shall leave you to it. Farewell!”

  Returning to the table, Seregil sank his head in his hands. “Really, Alec. Of all the moments to choose!”

  “I’m sorry,” Alec said, coloring hotly. “It just came out.”

  “Who told you? Thryis? Cilla? Someone at the Orëska?”

  “I figured it out myself, just now,” Alec admitted. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense. The way your friends speak of you, all the stories—after a while I began to wonder how someone so young could have done so much. I mean, looking at you I’d say you were no more than twenty-five, but Micum’s older than that and he spoke once of meeting you when he was a young man, so you must be a lot older than you look. Once I figured that out, then things you’d told me or refused to tell me came back and I started wondering even more. Like why half the books here are written in Aurënfaie—”