Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

  “You’re certain of the name? The White Hart?” asked Phoria.

  “Yes, Highness. I don’t recall the other vessels, but I know that one. I watched the port lists for months, hoping she’d turn up and the boy with her. My neighbor’s never spoken to me since over it. Anyway, this man who came to me? He wanted a few other things over the years, manifests mostly, until last spring. Late one night in Nythin he came saying he had a letter he wanted altered and could I do it? The very letter you have there, Majesty, belonging to Lord Vardarus. For one hundred gold sesters I made him two copies with the changes. Ghemella did the seals, like always.”

  “And you made copies for yourself,” interjected Nysander. “In case you might use them yourself for future gain?”

  Alben nodded silent admission.

  “And did this man provide you with the letters of Lord Seregil?”

  Alben hesitated. “Only the first one my lord. The rest came to me from Ghemella just recently and I sold them to that same man.”

  “I bought them off chars,” the gem cutter put in hastily.

  “What’s she saying?” asked Phoria.

  “ ‘Char’ is the street parlance for a dealer in stolen papers,” explained Nysander.

  “That’s so, your lordship,” Ghemella said, determined not to leave out any detail. “I got them from an old cripple named Dakus.”

  Ah, Seregil, you outfoxed yourself that time! Nysander thought resignedly, knowing well enough who this “Dakus” was and where the second damning letter had originated.

  “This fellow doing all the buying, he was pleased with the work I did,” Alben continued. “He said he’d pay well for any letters from nobles whose lineage went outside Skala.”

  “Lord Vardarus’ great-grandfather was a Plenimaran baron.” Idrilain frowned, tapping the hilt of her sword. “And Seregil—well, that was certainly no secret!”

  “And so you made the forgeries for him and once again kept copies for yourself,” Barien said. “What was his purpose in securing these documents?”

  “He never said, my lord, and I never asked,” Alben replied with a hint of skewed dignity. “You’ll pardon me for putting it so, but a forger doesn’t last long without discretion.”

  “That is all you can tell us, then?” Barien looked to the wizard still standing over the accused pair.

  “It’s as much as I know of the matter, my lord,” Alben assured him.

  Imaneus nodded again but Nysander forestalled him. “A few salient points remain to be established, the first being when the latest forgery was to be delivered and to whom. The second is whether or not the prisoners know of any Leran connection with this whole affair.”

  “Lerans!” Barien grasped angrily at his heavy chain of office. “What have the Lerans to do with this?”

  “I don’t know anything about Lerans,” Alben cried out, looking imploringly up at Idrilain. “I’m loyal to the throne no matter what your blood is, great lady! I wouldn’t have anything to do with that sort of thing.”

  “Nor I, your ladyship, nor I!” Ghemella sobbed.

  “They speak the truth,” said Imaneus.

  “Their loyalty is so noted,” Idrilain observed sarcastically. “But what of Nysander’s first question? When are these new forgeries to be delivered, and to whom?”

  “Tomorrow night, my Queen,” said Alben. “There were three this time, those you have there done up in the yellow ribbon. There’s a letter of Lord Seregil’s, one from a Lady Bisma, and another from Lord Derian.”

  “All with foreign connections,” noted Phoria.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Alben maintained. “The gentleman only said I was to give them to no one but himself, just as before. He always comes alone at night. That’s the end of it, my Queen, and by the Hand of Dalna, I can’t think of a thing I’ve left out now!”

  Idrilain turned her icy gaze on the jeweler. “Have you anything to add?”

  “I bought the papers and made the seals,” Ghemella whined, tears dripping down over her quivering jowls. “I swear by the Four, my Queen, I knew nothing more than that of the whole business!”

  When the prisoners and officials had been dismissed, Barien rounded on Nysander.

  “What’s all this about Lerans?” he demanded. “If you have any evidence of such activity in the city you must share it with me at once!”

  “I should certainly have done so,” Nysander replied. “At this point it is simply a theory which makes a great deal of sense.”

  “Poor old Vardarus,” Idrilain said sadly, pulling a letter from the box. “If only he’d spoken up—”

  “You had no choice, given the evidence,” Phoria insisted staunchly. “It all seemed irrefutable. At least Lord Seregil’s come to no harm.”

  “Ah yes, Seregil. And what of him, Nysander? By rights I can’t hold him. Yet if I release him the traitorous bastards who’ve concocted all this will surely bolt.”

  “That is certain,” the wizard agreed. “He must remain where he is for now and we must hasten to allay suspicion at the apothecary’s house. The neighbors will be gossiping of the night’s events, and word travels all too quickly to evil ears. Our only hope lies in tracking this buyer of forged papers when he comes for the next packet. Alben could be put back in place—with all suitable restraints, of course—for the time it takes to apprehend our man.”

  “It must be done quietly,” cautioned Barien. “If word of this business should get out to the people, especially about Vardarus, I shudder to think of the reaction.”

  Idrilain waved a hand impatiently. “It’s the tracking I’m concerned with. There’s no room for failure. Barien, Phoria, leave us.”

  Accustomed to such peremptory dismissals, the Princess Royal and Vicegerent withdrew at once. Nysander watched them go, troubled by something in Barien’s manner.

  “He’s been terribly upset by this whole business,” said Idrilain. “I wish you’d mentioned your concerns about the Lerans to him before. He’s always found the whole idea so upsetting.”

  “My apologies,” Nysander replied. “It was simply a stab in the dark.”

  “But a good one, the more evidence I see. Damn it, Nysander, if those traitors have grown strong enough for something like this, then I want them destroyed! This delivery has to be handled perfectly, and anyone who can get their hands on a Queen’s Warrant may well know the faces of my spies. Your people are another matter; even I don’t know who most of them are.”

  Nysander bowed deeply, relieved that she’d reached the desired conclusion on her own. “The Watchers are at your command, as always. Have I your permission to pursue the matter in my own fashion?”

  Idrilain clenched a fist around the hilt of her sword. “Use whatever means you see fit. Whoever this traitor is, I want his head on a pike by week’s end!”

  “As do I, my Queen,” replied Nysander, “though I will be surprised if there is only one.”

  29

  AN ABRUPT CHANGE OF SCENERY

  Caught in midpace, Seregil ran headlong into something in the darkness. Backing up hastily, he could just make out two tall forms that had somehow materialized in the cell. For a chilling instant, his mind skipped back to the lonely Mycenian inn and the dark presence he’d grappled with there; then he caught the familiar smell of parchment and candle smoke.

  “Nysander?”

  “Yes, dear boy, and Thero.” Drawing Seregil to the back of the cell, he spoke close to his ear. “Thero has come to take your place.”

  “How?”

  “No time for explanations. Join hands with him.”

  Biting back a flood of questions, Seregil did as Nysander asked. Thero’s hands were cold but steady in his as Nysander took them firmly by the shoulders and began a silent incantation.

  The transformation happened with dizzying swiftness. For an instant the shadows of the cell seemed to brighten, swirl, engulf them all—and when Seregil’s vision cleared, he found himself on the wrong side of the room facing a slim,
all-too-familiar figure.

  Raising a hand to his face, he felt a coarse mat of beard covering a gaunt cheek.

  “Bilairy’s Balls and Kidneys—”

  “Quiet!” hissed Nysander.

  “Take care with my body,” Thero warned, touching his own new face.

  “I’m more anxious to trade back than you, believe me!” Seregil shuddered, swaying a little in his new, taller frame. He could guess what was next and dreaded it.

  Nysander slipped a firm hand beneath his arm and led him to the back wall of the cell. Reluctantly, Seregil took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward into the aperture that yawned, blacker than darkness—

  —and staggered out again, blinking and gagging, into the sudden brightness of Nysander’s casting room.

  “Steady now, I’ve got you,” Micum said, catching him as his knees gave way. “Alec, the brandy. And the basin, too, by the looks of him.”

  Seregil crouched over the brass basin for a moment, fighting down the intense nausea brought on by the spell; translocation spells had by far the worst aftereffect. Settling back on his heels, he gratefully accepted a cup of brandy.

  Alec stared at him, goggle-eyed. “Seregil, is that really you in there?”

  Seregil examined the pale, bony fingers wrapped around the cup, then knocked back the fiery liquor in a single gulp. “Gruesome, isn’t it?”

  “Thero was no more pleased than you by the prospect,” sighed Nysander. “He was, however, a good deal more gracious.”

  “Forgive me,” Seregil retorted. “I’m just not myself tonight.”

  Alec was still staring. “You’ve got Thero’s voice, but somehow—I don’t know, it still sounds more like you. Is it different than when you changed into an otter?”

  “Decidedly.” Seregil looked down at his new body warily. “It’s like wearing an ill-fitting suit of clothes you can’t take off. He wears his linen rather tight, too. I didn’t know you could do this, Nysander!”

  “It is not a practice of which the Orëska particularly approves,” replied the wizard with a meaningful wink. “As it was successful, however, I should like to undertake a brief experiment. Do you recall the spell for lighting a candle?”

  “You want me to try it while I’m in this body?”

  “If you would.”

  Nysander placed a candlestick on the casting table. Getting to his feet, Seregil held his hand over the candle.

  Micum gave Alec’s sleeve a surreptitious tug, whispering, “You might want to stand back a bit, just in case.”

  “I heard that,” Seregil muttered. Centering his concentration on the blackened wick, he spoke the command word.

  The results were instantaneous. With a rending groan, the polished table split down the middle and fell apart in two neat halves. The candle, still unlit, clattered to the floor.

  They all regarded the wreckage in silence for a moment, then Nysander bent to finger the splintered wood.

  Seregil sighed. “Well, I hope that answered your question.”

  “It has answered several, the most significant being that the transformation of magical power was complete. Thero should be fairly safe, providing we proceed with all possible haste. There is a great deal to discuss before Alec returns to Wheel Street.”

  “I have to go back tonight?” Alec asked, clearly crestfallen at the prospect. “But Seregil only just got—”

  Seregil gave him a playful cuff. “Appearances, Alec, appearances! You’re the master of the house in my absence, as well as a possible suspect by the sound of things. We can’t have you dropping out of sight with no explanation.”

  “Quite right,” Nysander agreed. “But we shall lay our plans before you go. Come down to the sitting room, all of you. I expect Seregil would like a decent supper. Thero ate almost nothing tonight.”

  “I can feel that!” Seregil patted his lean belly wryly. Following the others downstairs, he touched his face again. An unruly hair on his upper lip tickled a nostril and he smoothed it impatiently.

  “Amazing,” he muttered. “I’ve never cared much for all this hair you people have sprouting out of your faces anyway, but now that I’ve got it myself—it’s absolutely revolting!”

  Micum proudly stroked his heavy red mustache. “For your information, we consider it a sign of virility.”

  “Oh?” Seregil snorted. “And how many times have I sat waiting in the middle of nowhere while you scraped away at your chin with a knife and cold water?”

  “It’s my fashion,” Micum said, giving Alec a wink. “Kari likes it this way—smooth cheeks with a bit of tickle thrown in.”

  “It itches,” Seregil complained, scratching under his nose again. “Teach me to shave, will you?”

  “You most certainly will not!” Nysander said sternly.

  During supper the others outlined their recent activities for Seregil. He chuckled appreciatively over their adventures in Hind Street but grew serious at Nysander’s report.

  “Forging a Queen’s Warrant? No wonder Barien was upset. Except for the Queen and Phoria, he’s the only person with access to the necessary seals.”

  “Rightful access,” Micum amended. “What do you suppose this ship, the White Hart, ended up with in her hold?”

  Seregil looked to Nysander. “I could probably find out. Three years is a long time, but records would be kept in the shipping master’s offices at her port of call. It won’t show us her real cargo, I’m certain, but it would be a start.”

  “It will probably prove unrelated to the business at hand, yet I should prefer to leave no avenue untried,” mused Nysander. “And now let us lay our plans for tomorrow.”

  Dawn was only a few hours away when they’d finished, and Alec suddenly gave in to a cavernous yawn.

  “Sorry,” he said, yawning again.

  Seregil grinned. “No wonder you’re tired. You’ve been busy!”

  Thero would be a lot better-looking if he’d smile more, Alec thought, surprised at the difference it made. What must Seregil’s face look like now, with Thero’s mind behind it?

  “I’m done in myself,” Micum said. “If we’re all in agreement on tomorrow’s work, Alec and I had better go find our beds before the sun comes up.”

  “You’re getting old,” Seregil scoffed, following them upstairs. “Used to be we’d be up for two or three days before you’d begin to flag.”

  “By the Flame, you’ve got that right! Another few years and I’ll be happy to spend my days in a sunny corner of Kari’s garden spinning lies for the servants’ children.”

  At the workroom door, Alec turned for a last look at Seregil in Thero’s body. He couldn’t imagine a more unlikely combination. Shaking his head, he said, “It’s good to have you back—sort of.”

  “Sort of good or sort of back?” Seregil countered, managing a semblance of his familiar lopsided grin in spite of the beard.

  “Sort of both,” said Alec.

  “And I sort of thank you, all of you, for your good work tonight on my behalf,” Seregil said, clasping hands with them. “Things were beginning to look a bit grim in that cell. Between the four of us, we should be able to sort things out soon enough.”

  A crushing weariness settled over Seregil as he went back downstairs. Collapsing gratefully on Thero’s clean, narrow bed, he hadn’t the strength left to pull off his shoes.

  It’s the magic, he thought, drifting off to sleep. Damn stuff always wears me out.

  Exhausted as he was, the night was not a peaceful one. Tossing restlessly, he fought his way through a parade of uneasy dreams. At first they were only fragmented glimpses of the past few days—a distorted event, repetitious snippets of conversation, faces of no consequence looming again and again. Gradually, however, the images began to coalesce.

  He was still in Thero’s body, riding on horseback through the city. It was dark and he was lost. The street markers were gone, the lamps unlit on their hooks. Frustrated and a little frightened, he pushed on at a gallop.
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  His horse had no head; the reins passed over a smooth, glossy hump and disappeared somewhere underneath the animal’s chest.

  I can’t stop it anyway, he thought. Letting go of the reins, he clung to the saddlebow.

  Flecked with sweat, the strange creature thundered for hours, carrying him down one unfamiliar street after another until an owl flew up beneath its feet. Startled, the horse reared and threw him, then disappeared into the surrounding darkness.

  Looking up, he found himself at the gate of Red Tower Prison.

  Enough! I’m getting my own body back right now! he thought angrily, floating up from the ground and soaring to the roof of the prison.

  It felt wonderful to fly, and he circled the Tower a few times, savoring it. The ships in the harbor were all on fire, however, and this disturbed him greatly. Diving like a swallow, he darted in through a hole in the prison roof.

  It was dark here, too. Stumbling through the blackness, he spied a glimmer of light ahead. It came through the grille of a cell door. The door was locked but the wood turned to red butterflies at his touch. Passing through their gentle resistance, he stepped into a fiery brightness and threw his arm up to shield his eyes.

  His true body stood in the center of the room, naked except for the crawling mass of tiny, spider-shaped flames that encased it from the neck down.

  They should be gone! he thought, repulsed by the sight.

  His body raised a hand to its chest, saying with Thero’s voice, “They’re coming from here.”

  “I’ll stop them.”

  Approaching cautiously, Seregil brushed at the flame creatures on the chest. They fell away at his touch, revealing a bright blue eye glaring balefully from a bloody hole in the chest just over the breastbone. Recoiling, Seregil watched in mounting horror as the skin around the eye began to twitch and stretch. The flame creatures crumpled and fell away and he could see the writhing motions beneath the skin of his body’s chest and belly, as if something hideous was clawing its way out from inside.