Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

  “I will, sir, and a good evening to you.”

  Alec heard the servant leave, and a moment later the light was extinguished. Climbing down, he hurried back to the street in time to see a man galloping out the front gate on a white horse.

  “We’re losing him!” he exclaimed as Micum appeared out of the shadows beside him. “I think he’s off to deliver the forged letters!”

  “Deliver them where?” Micum asked, scanning the neighborhood for quickly obtainable horses. There were none.

  “I don’t know,” Alec replied in an agony of impatience. The rider had already disappeared around a corner and the sound of hooves was fading rapidly. “Damn it, now we’ve lost him!”

  “Can’t be helped. At least we’ve got a connection to work with and that’s a start. And you’ll never guess who else came riding out of that gate a short while ago.”

  “Who?”

  “Only the Lord Vicegerent himself. You should have seen him! I didn’t know the old fellow could ride like that.”

  “Barien?” Alec’s eyes widened as a memory snapped into place. “Maker’s Mercy, that’s it! This is Lord Teukros’ house. The Vicegerent’s nephew! I knew I’d seen him before, that day I rode around the Ring.”

  “The nephew, eh? By the Flame, that looks bad—though I can’t imagine Barien mixed up in anything disloyal to the Queen!”

  “He was cursing Teukros when I first got there,” Alec told him. “He called him a viper and disowned him.”

  “Well, that’s a strike in the old man’s favor. Come on, we’d better go let the others know.”

  Still smarting over the loss of Teukros, Alec was in a dour mood by the time he and Micum reached Nysander’s door.

  “Good hunting?” the wizard inquired, letting them into the workroom.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Micum replied. “Is Seregil back?”

  “No, he was up to something in the vicinity of the Palace when I last checked. Come downstairs and warm yourselves. You both look quite damp.”

  Standing before the sitting room fire, Alec carefully recounted their evening’s work. Nysander made no effort to hide his dismay over what they’d learned and sat silently for some moments after he’d finished.

  “What do you think?” Alec ventured. “Could Barien be mixed up in something like this?”

  “It is difficult to imagine. Young Teukros is another matter, however. In spite of his obvious wealth, Teukros í Kallas is not known for his perspicacity. Whatever his involvement in this, I would wager that he is acting at the direction of another.”

  “We’d have found out if we could have followed him tonight,” grumbled Alec.

  “Patience, dear boy. It should not be difficult to obtain that information. You said Lord Teukros’ pretty wife is at home tonight?”

  “Yes, but we can’t just knock on the door and ask her.”

  “Of course we can! What do you say, Micum? An urgent message carried by a servant of the Orëska House, one which must be delivered into Lord Teukros’ hands at all costs this very night?”

  Micum grinned wolfishly. “That should do the trick.”

  Going to his desk, Nysander quickly penned a cordial dinner invitation for the following evening.

  “What happens when he shows up for dinner?” asked Alec, peering over the wizard’s shoulder.

  Nysander chuckled darkly. “Assuming that he does, I shall be afforded an opportunity to give closer attention to this enterprising young spy.” Sealing the missive with an impressive array of ribbons and wax seals, Nysander sent Wethis off to deliver it.

  Seregil arrived soon after. He was smeared with mud, and sported torn breeches and a ragged scrape across the back of one hand.

  “Illior’s Eyes, Seregil, what have you been doing with poor Thero’s body?” asked Nysander, handing him a clean robe.

  “You’d think he could at least climb a garden wall!” Seregil said in disgust, shucking the filthy breeches off to show them an angry bruise on one of Thero’s pale, hairy knees. “Never mind that, though. Micum, Alec, you’ll never guess where our little serving maid led me! Straight to the house of the Vicegerent.”

  He paused. “What? What is it? Neither of you look very surprised.”

  “That’s because our man led us to Teukros’ villa,” Micum informed him. “Alec overheard him and his uncle having quite an argument.”

  “The man we followed tonight was Teukros’ servant, by the name of Marsin. He brought the forged documents to Teukros,” said Alec. “Then Teukros took off on horseback to deliver them, but we don’t know where. Nysander’s sent Wethis off to find out.”

  “I hope he does,” said Seregil. “That prat Teukros certainly can’t be at the bottom of anything like this! Incidentally, Barien came home after you saw him. I hung around to make certain the girl wasn’t coming out again and saw him arrive. Anyway, a few minutes later a messenger goes across to the Queen’s Park gate and tells the guards there he has a message for the Princess Royal. This same messenger is out again a few minutes later with someone wrapped up in a dark cloak and hood. I couldn’t see her face, but it was Phoria; I know that stiff-legged stride of hers. I went over the wall to see what was up—that’s when I fell—but I couldn’t get a look at them.”

  He was interrupted by Wethis, who’d returned from his errand.

  “Lord Teukros wasn’t home to receive the message,” the young servant reported. “Lady Althia says he’s gone out to Lady Kassarie’s estate and isn’t expected home until tomorrow afternoon. Shall I ride out?”

  “That is not necessary, Wethis, thank you. I shall not be needing you again tonight.”

  Micum raised a skeptical eyebrow as Wethis went out. “Kassarie? What would she want with a strutting cowbird like Teukros?”

  “They have some common shipping interests, I believe,” said Nysander.

  “How interesting if Kassarie was mixed up in all this,” Seregil speculated, looking pensive. “She’s rich, powerful, and fairly influential among the more conservative nobles. To my knowledge she’s not part of the Queen’s inner circle, but—”

  “Who’s Kassarie?” asked Alec.

  Seregil steepled his fingers before him in a manner that generally presaged one of his encyclopedic recitations. “Lady Kassarie ä Moirian is the head of another of Skala’s oldest families. Like Barien, she can trace her lineage back to the Hierophantic migration. And, I should add, without a drop of foreign blood sullying her august veins. Her ancestors made their fortunes in stonework at Ero, and prospered again providing Queen Tamír with stone and masons to build her new capital. Her estate lies up in the mountains about ten miles or so southeast of the city.”

  Nysander rose to pace the small room. “Be that as it may, I find it inconceivable that Barien should be involved with such a plan. Illior’s Eyes, I have known that man for fifty years! And Phoria? That makes no sense whatsoever.”

  “I can’t imagine what she and the Lerans would have to gain from each other,” Micum concurred. “In their eyes, her blood is as tainted as her mother’s.”

  “She wouldn’t be the first noble to be duped into a betrayal of some sort without realizing it,” warned Seregil. “And if her dear close friend Lord Barien was in with the Lerans, he’d be just the man to do it.”

  “But why would he betray her?” snorted Nysander.

  “Who knows? Alec and I could probably slip in and—”

  “Absolutely not!” Nysander paused, rubbing his eyes. “I agree, dear boy, that we must examine this matter closely, but you must leave Barien and the Princess Royal to me. For the time being, you three are to confine your investigation to Teukros and Kassarie. It is not yet midnight; could you begin tonight?”

  “Oh, I suppose we could drag ourselves out again, if we have to,” Seregil drawled, exchanging a wink with the others.

  “Excellent. I shall arrange a pass and see that your horses are saddled. Take whatever else you need from here. You must excuse me now, for I have wor
k of my own to begin. Illior’s Luck to you all!”

  Alec let out a sigh of relief. “At least I don’t have to go back to Wheel Street tonight. Runcer treats me like the master of the house, and I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do.”

  “I know how you feel,” said Seregil, stretching restlessly. “I’ll go mad myself if I have to be cooped up in here much longer.”

  Watching his friend scratch irritably at Thero’s bearded cheek, Alec wasn’t certain if “in here” meant Nysander’s tower or the assistant wizard’s body.

  31

  KASSARIE

  Red Orëska livery for Alec and Micum, together with a pass presented by “Thero,” got the three of them through the Sea Gate without challenge. Once outside the walls, they followed the highroad south along the cliffs below the city. A few miles farther on, they turned aside onto another route that climbed into the hills.

  Just like old times. Everybody knows the way but me, Alec thought resignedly.

  This road climbed into forest to twist along the top of a broad river gorge. The ice-laden boughs of fir trees gradually closed in on their left; the rush of the river followed them on the right.

  After several miles, Micum motioned for them to halt. Climbing down, he cast back and forth with a lightstone.

  “See anything?” inquired Seregil.

  “Not much. The mud must have stayed frozen all day up here.”

  Riding on, they caught a glimpse of watch fires ahead. Lady Kassarie’s keep stood on a high cliff overlooking a bend in the river. Sheer cliffs rose behind it, and a high bailey guarded the front. Working their way stealthily around the periphery of the wall, the three spies climbed a wooded slope and climbed into the branches of a tall fir overlooking the place.

  There seemed to be nothing amiss: an unremarkable collection of small outbuildings—sheds, wood stacks, and stables—cluttered the yard.

  The keep itself was an imposing structure. Tall, square-built, and smooth-walled, it had no windows except for arrow slits below the third level. Square, flat-topped towers stood at each of the four corners, and watch fires burned on all but the one overhanging the gorge.

  “Tight as a soaked barrel,” Seregil muttered, craning his neck for a better look.

  “Appears so,” Micum agreed, shifting restlessly on his branch. “Looks like we’ll do better tricking our way in.”

  “Too late for that now,” said Alec. “It can’t be more than a couple of hours to morning.”

  “True.” Frowning, Seregil climbed down again. “Looks like we’re spending a cozy night right here.”

  Nysander made his way to Silvermoon Street immediately upon leaving Seregil and the others. The streets were quiet at this hour and he met only one other person as he neared Barien’s house, a hasty rider whose passing tore at the stillness of the night with a clatter of harness and hooves. The sound passed away with the rider, and he could hear the annoyed grumbling of the guards at the palace gates ahead.

  He was surprised to find Barien’s gate locked for the night and the lantern over the door extinguished. The Vicegerent shared Nysander’s preference for the late hours and seldom retired so soon after midnight. Dismounting, Nysander rapped at the gate until the watchman appeared at the postern.

  “Good evening to you, Lord Nysander,” the man greeted him, accustomed to the wizard’s odd hours. “

  “Good evening, Quil. I wish to speak with the Vicegerent.”

  “Sorry, my lord, but Lord Barien’s abed already. He left instructions not to be disturbed by anyone but the Queen herself. He was quite firm about it, too. And just between you and me, sir, the chamberlain said the master didn’t look well when he retired. He’d been out to dinner but come back early looking right peaked.”

  “I see,” said Nysander. “Poor fellow, I hope it was nothing he ate. Where did he dine?”

  “Chamberlain didn’t say, my lord, only that Lord Barien wasn’t to be disturbed on any account.”

  “Then I suppose I must call again tomorrow. Please give your master my respects.”

  Continuing along Silvermoon to a nearby fountain, Nysander sat on its rim and sent a sighting back to Barien’s villa.

  The Vicegerent was indeed in bed, thumbing listlessly through a small book lying open on the counterpane. Nysander recognized the book with a pang of sadness; it was a volume of bardic poetry he himself had given to Barien some years before. He seemed to settle at last on a page and Nysander shifted his sighting to read it.

  “Break, Noble Heart. Dissolve to ashes if thy Honor impugnéd be,” Nysander quoted silently, recognizing a line. A swift, tactful brush across the surface of Barien’s mind revealed a deep, weary melancholy, nothing more.

  It would have been simple enough to translocate himself the short distance to Barien’s chamber, but a moment’s deliberation left Nysander disinclined to do so. Neither Barien’s mood nor current activity warranted such an impertinent intrusion. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

  Seregil and the others spent a cheerless night beneath the trees, awakening at dawn to find one of Nysander’s blue spheres hovering in the air just over Seregil’s head. Passing his hand through it, he released the message.

  “Learn whatever you can there, but return to the city as quickly as possible. Come directly to me.”

  Despite the muted affect inherent in the spell, there was an unmistakable hint of distress in the wizard’s disembodied voice.

  “What do you suppose that’s all about?” yawned Micum, brushing damp leaves from his cloak.

  “He must have gotten something out of Barien,” said Seregil. “Let’s see what there is to uncover here and get back.”

  A quick reconnaissance up the fir tree showed little change in the keep yard, though by daylight they learned the reason for the one dark tower.

  The tower overlooking the gorge was in ruins. One side of its flat top had been struck by lightning and stood open to the sky. Judging by the weathered look of the broken stone, together with an overgrowth of branching, winter-browned tendrils of some creeping vine, it must have been in this condition for some years. It stood out against the solid symmetry of the surrounding structure like a rotten tooth in a sound mouth.

  Waiting for a plausible hour of the morning, they proceeded with their first plan. Changing his Orëska tunic for a workman’s smock, Alec set off with another fictitious summons for Teukros. Leading his horse back through the trees, he reappeared far enough down the road to give the appearance of having just ridden up the hill.

  “I’ve a message for Lord Teukros,” he told the gatekeeper, holding up the letter Seregil had prepared.

  “You’ve wasted a long ride, lad,” the man informed him. “Lord Teukros ain’t here.”

  “But I was told he was spending the night here,” Alec pressed, trying to act like a servant who’d just learned he’d ridden a long, hard way for nothing.

  “Don’t know about that,” the man grunted, starting to swing the gate closed again.

  “Wait,” called Alec, dismounting before the heavy door could slam in his face. “I’ve got to take some answer back.”

  “That’s nothing to me,” said the gatekeeper, eyeing Alec’s purse meaningfully.

  A discreet coin rendered the man instantly more agreeable.

  “Perhaps you’d be wanting to speak with our lady?” he suggested.

  “I probably should.”

  Alec followed the man across the yard, taking in as many details as he could along the way. Three fine horses stood saddled and ready near the front door. Two of them had panniers tied behind the saddles. The third was caparisoned for a lady’s hunting.

  At the keep door, an elderly house servant eyed Alec disdainfully, asked his business, and left him standing in the middle of the hall with a look that said as clearly as words, Don’t steal anything while I’m gone.

  The furnishings of the vaulted hall were costly and in excellent condition. Silver urns and bowls gleamed on the mantelpiece without a h
int of tarnish, and the rushes strewn over the floor were crisp and fragrant.

  Splendid old tapestries covered the stone walls and these, too, had been lovingly maintained. Alec turned slowly, admiring as he always did the Skalans’ taste for fantastic landscapes and creatures. One in particular caught his eye; it was designed to look like a window casement, out of which one could see a pride of griffins prowling an orchard against a mountainous backdrop. The piece was over twenty feet wide and bordered with elaborate designs. Scanning it with admiration, Alec was surprised to find one discordant element embroidered in the lower right-hand corner, the stylized figure of a curled lizard. Looking around, he saw that many of the other hangings had some sort of device in one corner, like a maker’s mark—a rose, a crown, an eagle, a tiny unicorn, the curled lizard—a number of the larger ones had several marks together in a row. He was just bending down to study these more closely when he sensed movement behind him and turned, steeling himself to face the old manservant’s renewed disapproval.

  There was no one there.

  It might have been a draft, Alec reasoned, taking a second glance around. Then again, any of the larger tapestries could easily conceal a passageway. Whatever the case, he suddenly had an uncomfortable sense of being observed. Unsure if it was instinct or fancy, he nonetheless did his best to appear as innocuous as possible, just in case.

  The old man soon shuffled back in to announce his mistress, the Lady Kassarie ä Moirian. Kassarie swept in behind him, pulling on a hawking gauntlet as she entered. She was somewhere over forty years of age, with a broad, stern face and a manner to match. Alec stooped forward at once in a halting bow.

  “What’s all this about Lord Teukros?” she demanded impatiently.

  “I’ve a message for him, my lady—” Alec began, showing the packet again.

  “Yes, yes,” she snapped. “But what possessed you to seek him here?”

  “Well, my lady, I called at his house first thing this mornin’ and was told by Lady Althia that he’d meant to ride out here last night. That’s as much as I know of it.”