Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

  Whatever the case, she was one of the few nobles in whose discretion he had any faith. If Alec should falter in his role to-night, she would not broadcast the fact. And Alec did appear to be enjoying her company.

  Keeping up his side of the agreement, he turned his full attention on Ysmay and flirted outrageously with her until she quivered in his arms.

  Alec was midway through his second dance with Kylith when Micum laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Forgive me, lady, I must borrow your partner for a moment,” he said, bowing to Kylith. “Alec, a word?”

  Trouble? Alec signed as Micum walked him toward the front entrance of the hall. The big man’s grim sidelong glance was answer enough.

  In the small entrance chamber at the front of the house they found Seregil boxed in by four bluecoats. Another was binding his hands in front of him. Seregil’s old manservant, Runcer, stood wringing his hands and weeping nearby.

  An officer wearing the chain of a Queen’s Bailiff rolled up a black-ribboned scroll as Micum and Alec approached. Seregil’s stony expression revealed nothing.

  “What’s going on here?” Micum demanded.

  “And who might you be, sir?” replied the bailiff.

  “Sir Micum Cavish of Watermead, friend of Lord Seregil. This boy is his ward, Sir Alec of Ivywell. Why are you arresting this man?”

  The bailiff consulted another scroll and took a second look at the two of them. “Lord Seregil of Rhíminee stands accused of treason. I am also charged to instruct Sir Alec not to attempt to leave the city.”

  Eyeing the man with chilly dignity, Micum asked quietly, “Am I to understand he is under suspicion as well?”

  “Not at present, Sir Micum. But those are my instructions.”

  “Seregil, what’s happening?” asked Alec, finding his voice at last.

  Seregil gave a grim shrug. “Some sort of misunderstanding, apparently. Make my apologies to the guests, would you?”

  Alec nodded numbly. Glancing down at Seregil’s bound hands, he saw him give the sign of Nysander’s. name, one long forefinger curled tightly over his thumb.

  “Come along, my lord,” said the bailiff, grasping Seregil’s elbow.

  “Where are you taking him?” Alec demanded, following as the guards led Seregil out to an enclosed black cart.

  “That’s not for me to say, sir. Good evening.” Climbing in behind Seregil, the bailiff motioned to the driver and the cart rumbled off down the cobbled street.

  “Seregil said to go to Nysander,” Alec whispered, feeling Micum beside him.

  “I saw. We’d better go.”

  “But what about the guests?”

  “I’ll have a quick word with Kylith. She’ll manage things.”

  Alec watched miserably as the cart disappeared into the night. “Where do you think they’re taking him?”

  “It’s a Queen’s Warrant arrest, so it’ll be Red Tower Prison,” Micum said, looking bleak. “And that’s one place not even Seregil can get out of on his own.”

  26

  PLANS AT THE COCKEREL

  Alec and Micum were halfway to the Orëska House when a tiny message sphere winked into being in front of them.

  “Alec, Micum, come to the Cockerel at once!”

  Alec blinked in surprise. “That was Thero.”

  “Bilairy’s Balls!” muttered Micum, changing direction.

  At the Cockerel they found Thero waiting for them, but not his master.

  “Where’s Nysander?” Alec asked, somewhat taken aback that Thero also knew how to enter Seregil’s closely warded rooms.

  “With the Queen,” the young wizard replied, looking stiffly out of place in the midst of Seregil’s mess. “He sent me to meet you. He’ll join us here as soon as he’s able.”

  “I take it he was as surprised by the arrest as we were?” asked Micum, tossing Seregil’s sword belt onto the table.

  “Events have moved more rapidly than any of us anticipated. Nysander is quite worried over the fact that Idrilain did not consult with him before ordering the arrest.”

  “But what happened?” fretted Alec, pacing in frustration. “Nysander stopped the letter! Seregil said they’d never dare to send another without knowing what happened to the first.”

  “I have no idea. The Queen sent word that he’d been taken to the Red Tower, nothing more. Was the arrest carried out discreetly?”

  “If it hadn’t been for Runcer, we might have missed it altogether,” glowered Micum.

  Thero rubbed his chin pensively. “That’s a hopeful sign, anyway.”

  For the first time in their brief acquaintance, it occurred to Alec that Thero must be a Watcher, too. With this revelation came the certainty that it was this fact, rather than any personal feelings for Seregil, which engaged his interest now.

  “Do you think they’ll—” Memories tightened coldly in Alec’s chest. “Do you think they’d torture him?”

  Thero arched an eyebrow, considering. “That would depend on the severity of the charge, I suppose.”

  “The bailiff said treason.”

  “Ah. Yes, I’d say it was quite likely.”

  “Damn it, Thero, show some sense!” Micum growled, catching at Alec’s arm as the boy went pale. “Steady now, there’s no use thinking like that. Nysander would never allow it.”

  “I doubt Nysander could interfere,” Thero countered, oblivious to Alec’s distress. “The Red Tower is protected by magic as well as bars; Nysander and I did some work in there ourselves. Not only that, but given Nysander’s close association with Seregil, he can’t afford any suggestion of interference with the law.”

  “What are we going to do?” asked Alec.

  “We’re going to sit here and wait for Nysander, as ordered,” Micum said calmly. Giving Thero a dark look, he added, “Meanwhile, there’s no use wasting time in idle speculation.”

  Nysander felt a certain relief when the royal messenger led him to the Queen’s private audience chamber rather than the Great Hall. There had always been little need for ceremony between them; he had known Idrilain since infancy, and though he had always afforded her the respect due her station, their ties of mutual affection generally allowed them to drop formality in private. Something in her cool greeting, however, conveyed a warning.

  Even in her evening robe, greying hair free over her shoulders, Idrilain looked like the warrior she was. Joining her at the small wine table, Nysander did his best to mask his rising uneasiness. Neither spoke until they had saluted each other with their wine cups and taken the ritual sip, signifying their pledge to speak honestly.

  “You have arrested Seregil,” Nysander said, getting directly to the point. “On what charge?”

  “Treason.”

  The wizard’s heart sank; somehow, their enemies had outflanked them. He must proceed with caution and respect. “Upon what evidence is he being charged?”

  “Lord Barien received this earlier today.” Idrilain pushed a rolled document across to him.

  He recognized the opening lines; it was based on one of the half-finished letters Seregil had sold to Ghemella. Like the last, it had every mark of being authentic except its contents. Handwriting, signature, ink—all were consistent.

  “It appears genuine, I admit,” Nysander said at last. “And yet I do not believe that it was composed by Seregil. May I inquire as to your opinion?”

  “My opinion is irrelevant. It’s my duty to deal in facts,” she replied. “So far no evidence of tampering, magical or otherwise, has been discovered on that parchment.”

  “And yet you must have doubts or I would not be sitting here with you now,” Nysander suggested gently.

  The regal mask slipped just a bit at that. “I don’t know Seregil well, Nysander, but I know you. I know that you’ve been worthy of my trust, and that of the three queens before me. It’s difficult for me to believe that anyone you hold in such esteem could be a traitor. If you know anything about this, you’d better tell me now.”

 
; Nysander drew the forged letter he’d intercepted from his coat and handed it to her. “I came into possession of this a week ago. Believe me when I tell you that I would have spoken to you at once if I had the slightest doubt as to Seregil’s innocence. The initial content is based on a letter Seregil did in fact write, but the damning lines were added by the forger. I have spoken with Seregil about it and have every reason to believe that he speaks the truth.”

  Idrilain’s face darkened again as she compared the two letters. “I don’t understand. If these are false, then they’re masterpieces of forgery. Who would go to such lengths to discredit a person of such small importance? Forgive the bluntness of an old soldier, Nysander, but aside from his friendship with you and my children, what is Seregil but an exiled wastrel noble with a bit of trader’s sense? He has no power at my court, no influence.”

  “True. Which leaves nothing of significance except his rather tenuous connection to you, or perhaps even to me. And who but the Lerans would find this of value?”

  “The Lerans?” Idrilain said derisively. “A bunch of narrow-minded malcontents mouthing the empty threats even their great-grandparents didn’t believe! By the Four, Nysander, the Lerans have been nothing more than a political bugbear since the time of Elani the Fair.”

  “So it is generally believed, my lady. Yet you must remember that I was a boy at the wedding of your ancestor and namesake, Idrilain the First, when she took the Aurënfaie, Corruth, as her consort. Seven generations later, who but a handful of old wizards recall the shouts of anger outside the temple during the ceremony? Yet I tell you, my Queen, that at this moment I hear them as clearly as I did then. ‘A Skalan lord for the Skalan people!’ they screamed as the Queen’s Horse rode out with swords and clubs. And it was not only the rabble who protested, but nobles, as well, who felt their honor usurped by foreign blood. I saw these same nobles stand by Queen Lera through her oppressive reign. I watched the public protests when her half sister Corruthesthera took the throne after Lera’s death.”

  “And yet my ancestor Corruthesthera reigned unchallenged by any revolution, and her descendants after her.”

  “And two of those queens died under questionable circumstances.”

  “Rumors! Elani died in the Great Plague, and Klia was poisoned by Plenimaran assassins.”

  “So history has decided, my Queen. Yet there was talk to the contrary at the time.”

  “Nothing was proven in either case. And without proof to the contrary, you’re left standing on smoke,” Idrilain asserted stubbornly. “Which brings us back to Seregil. Perhaps it would be to the Lerans’ advantage to embarrass me through him. Sakor knows, I can’t afford division among my own people with the threat of war hanging over us. Still, you realize that by giving me this second letter, you have doubly damned him unless you can produce proof that they’re not genuine?”

  “I do,” replied Nysander. “And I give it to you as a pledge of my good faith, knowing I must prove him innocent or watch a man I love as my own son executed in the most horrible fashion. You have him in custody. Word will spread, just as the Lerans intend. All I ask of you is time to produce proof of his innocence.”

  Pressing her palms together, Idrilain rested her forehead against her fingertips. “I can afford no show of leniency. Barien is planning to pursue the matter personally.”

  “And his loyalty to you is unclouded by any regard for Seregil?”

  “Precisely.”

  Nysander hesitated an instant, then reached across the table and clasped her hands in his. “Grant me two days, Idrilain, I beseech you. Tell Barien whatever you wish, but give me time to save a man more loyal and valuable than you know.”

  Astonishment dawned on Idrilain’s face as the implication struck home. “Seregil, a Watcher? Sakor’s Flame, can I be that blind?”

  “He is a master of his craft, my dear,” Nysander said rather sadly. “Regardless of what I would have wished for him, Illior has set him a path all his own. With your permission, I would prefer to say no more, except that I gladly stake my own honor on his loyalty to Skala and to you.”

  Idrilain shook her head doubtfully. “I hope you never have cause to regret those words, my friend. He was a traitor once; we both know that. What you’ve just told me—that could be a double-edged thing.”

  “I stand by him, nonetheless.”

  “Very well, then. Two days. But I can’t give you any longer, and your evidence must be irrefutable! I don’t suppose I need to warn you that any interference in the due process of the law would be most unwise?”

  Nysander rose and bowed deeply. “I understand perfectly, my lady.”

  Riding at once to the Cockerel, Nysander made no effort to hide his concern from the others waiting there.

  “It is as we feared,” he told them. “A second forged letter has been delivered to the Vicegerent, this one dated the sixth of Erasin. Ironically, the original was one that Seregil handed over to Ghemella as part of his scheme to entrap the forger.”

  “The sixth of Erasin?” Alec counted back. “That’s just after we met. We were still out on the Downs then.”

  “Bloody hell!” growled Micum. “Either the bastards know about Seregil’s work or they struck lucky in the dark. Either way, they’ve fixed it so he either has to rig up some lie or reveal himself. And that could prove a death sentence in itself.”

  “I could say he was at Ivywell,” Alec offered. “We’ve already set up the story that he brought me down from there. He was telling everyone at the party about it.”

  “I fear not,” said Nysander. “That tale serves well enough in some circles, but would not bear up under the scrutiny of the Queen’s inquisitors. At the very least, witnesses would be sent for from Mycena. When none appeared, you would find yourself as deeply implicated as Seregil. Besides, there is no time. Idrilain has given us just two days’ grace. I fear our best recourse is to pursue Seregil’s original plan regarding Hind Street.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” mused Micum. “It took Seregil a week to find Alben, and he’s not even certain he’s the right one. Assuming that we do find a cache—that there is one—what if he’s not our man after all? It could take us weeks to run down information that Seregil could come up with in a few days’ time.”

  Nysander spread his hands resignedly. “True. Yet at the moment I can think of no other option.”

  “If only he’d had another day,” Alec exclaimed bitterly. “He was all smiles about it tonight, as if he had all the time in the world.”

  “It occurs to me,” said Thero, who’d been quiet for some time, “that Alec’s absence at Wheel Street this evening will surely have been remarked upon. Perhaps an appearance at the prison would not be out of place—expressions of outrage, bewilderment, and the like? While it would not be politic for Nysander to be seen there, who would question Lord Seregil’s young ward bringing his protector a few necessities for the night? A blanket, perhaps, and some clean linen—”

  “A lock pick!”

  Thero spared Alec a withering glance. “Only if you want to guarantee your place on the gibbet beside him. My thought was that if they allowed you to see him, he might be able to pass along some helpful information. If not, what have we lost?”

  “You’ve a bit of the spy in you after all,” said Micum.

  Thero looked slightly offended. “It’s simple logic. My thinking is unclouded by emotion in this matter.”

  “Nonetheless, it is a fine idea,” said Nysander, giving the young wizard an approving look. “Well done, Thero.”

  Alec rose and reached for his cloak. “I’ll go right now! Are you coming, Micum?”

  Nysander raised a warning hand. “A moment first, both of you. It is imperative that you recognize the magnitude of our actions. Should anything go awry, we will have forfeited any credibility we have left with the Queen. We could all find ourselves in the Red Tower, or worse.”

  Having said what was necessary, he was proud to see no signs of waverin
g in the others. “Very good. I must add that any misstep will reflect most disastrously on the Queen; that must be the final consideration in any decision. If this does stem back to the Lerans, any cock-up on our part would play right into their hands. Nothing would please them more, I am certain, than the appearance of a widespread conspiracy that includes myself. With that in mind, I pray for Illior’s favor to grant us all luck in the shadows.”

  “I’ll second that,” said Micum. “Come on, Sir Alec. We’ve got work to do.”

  A dank wind whipped up from the harbor as Alec and Micum rode up to the prison near the southern wall of the city. The main tower was a squat, ugly structure ringed by a bailey wall. Dismounting in the outer yard, Alec wrinkled his nose at the dismal stench of urine and burning tallow that hung over the place.

  “It’s hard to believe I woke up at Watermead this morning,” he whispered, clutching the little bundle he’d thrown together.

  “More like yesterday morning now,” sighed Micum.

  “What if they don’t let us in?”

  “Just be as persuasive as possible and have some gold ready. Throw back your cloak so they can see you’re a gentleman.”

  Following Micum’s advice, Alec pounded at the gate.

  A bearded face appeared at the door grille. “What’s your business at this hour?”

  “A man was brought in tonight,” said Alec. “His name is Lord Seregil. He’s my protector and I’ve brought some clothing and blankets for him. May I see him, please, just for a moment?”

  “That dark-haired blade?”

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “It’s damned late, you know.”

  “Inconvenience has its price.” Alec held up a gold half sester. “We’d be very grateful.”

  Micum stepped closer behind him. “They haven’t given an order against visitors, have they?”

  The guard eyed Alec’s coin, then turned to confer with someone else. The gate soon swung open.

  “I suppose there’s no harm in the lad going up,” the guard said, taking the coin and leading them into the warder’s room. “But just him and only for a minute. You can wait here by the fire if you like, sir, while he goes. And I’ll have a look through that bundle first.”