Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

Engrossed as he was in mastering the differing hands, he nearly lay aside one with the smudged entry: White Hart.

  “Here, I found it!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

  Seregil sneezed again and wiped his nose inelegantly on his sleeve. “I’ve got one, too. The Hart was a short hauler, working the northern coasts on either side of the Canal. That means there are likely to be a number of manifests around that date. Keep looking until we’re well past the time she was lost. We don’t want to miss any.”

  They found eight in all, and spread them out side by side according to date.

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” muttered Seregil, reading them over. “For the most part the Hart had a series of regular runs. Let’s see—miscellaneous provisions to these three little towns to the west, with trade cargo back—leather goods, horn, some silver work. The eastern runs seem to have been mostly to mines on the north coast of the Inner Sea: tools and supplies, oil, cloth, medicines. Same here, and here.”

  “What about odd runs?” asked Alec, hunkered down beside him.

  “Good point. There are a few. Poultry to Myl, wine to Nakros, silk, and a load of scented wax. Three large tapestries to a Lady Vera at Areus, one hundred bales of woolen yarn—”

  “It would be hard to mistake any of that for a couple hundred weight of gold baps.”

  “Quite right, and I suspect our Leran friends were wise enough to stick their gold in where something heavy wouldn’t attract any attention. Here are iron goods, tools, lumber—”

  “That’s not much help,” said Alec. “After three years, how can we guess which one it was? It’s impossible!”

  “Probably.” Walking to the window, Seregil gazed out over the darkening harbor, then sneezed again. “Bilairy’s Balls! No wonder we can’t think straight! Pocket those papers, Alec. It’s fresh air we need. We’ll take a walk to clear our heads, then rinse our dusty gullets with a good deep mug of Cirna ale!”

  Night fell quickly in the shadow of the cliffs, but a three-quarter moon lit their way as they meandered through the streets behind the docks. Lost in thought, Seregil was for once disinclined to talk, so they wandered on for nearly an hour in silence. At last they found themselves in an open square with a fine view of the harbor below.

  The great signal fires atop the Canal pillars were blazing, and their reflections mixed glints of ruddy light with the pure sparkle of the moonlight like a giant’s handful of silver and red gold cast across the dark face of the sea.

  “That’s the place we want,” Seregil announced, steering Alec into a nearby alehouse.

  The place was comfortably dim and crowded. Working their way across the smoky room, they settled in a corner with their mugs. Seregil read through the manifests again, then sat back with a frustrated sigh.

  “This one has me flummoxed, Alec.” Taking a long sip from his mug, he rolled it pensively between his palms. “Of course, we didn’t really expect to turn up anything. But to have the damn things right in our hands and not be able to wring the truth out of them— It’s worse than finding nothing at all!”

  Alec leaned over the sheets. “You really think there’s a clue in here, don’t you?”

  “I hate the thought of missing something if it is there.” Seregil took another disgruntled gulp, then sat staring into the mug’s depleted depths as if waiting for some oracular answer to float to the surface. “Let’s have one more look. No, better yet—you read them out to me.”

  “That’ll take forever,” Alec protested. “You know I’m terrible at it.”

  “That’s all right, I think differently when I listen and it’s better if you go slowly. Just read the ‘Outgoing’ columns.”

  Tilting the parchments to catch the scant light of the nearby hearth, Alec bent dubiously to his task.

  Seregil leaned back against the wall, eyes half closed. Aside from helping with a few troublesome words, he showed little sign of interest until Alec was in the midst of the fourth manifest.

  “ ‘Three cases parchment, ten crates tallow candles,’ ” he read, ticking off each entry with a finger. “ ‘Sixty-five sacks barely, forty casks cider, thirty coils two-inch rope, fifty iron chisels, two hundred wedges, three score mallets, two crates statuary marble, twenty rolls of leather—”

  Seregil’s eyes flickered open. “That can’t be right. You’ve wandered into the ‘Goods Received’ column.”

  “No I haven’t.” Alec pushed the manifest across to him. “Says right here, ‘Goods Out of Port’ and below it ‘parchment, candles, barley—’ ”

  Seregil sat forward, squinting where he pointed. “ ‘Two-inch rope, chisels—’ You’re right, it does say marble. But this shipment is docketed for a mine on the Osiat coast.” His voice sank to a low whisper. “No, a quarry! It’s listed here as bound for the Ilendri pits.”

  “So?”

  Laying a hand heavily on the boy’s shoulder, Seregil raised a meaningful eyebrow. “So why would anyone pay to ship two heavy blocks of fine carving stone to a stone quarry?”

  “Bilairy’s Codpiece! That’s it!”

  “Perhaps, unless it really was marble in those crates, shipped back for some reason we have no way of determining. Still, it is suspicious.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “At the moment?” Grinning, Seregil gathered up the manifests and rose to leave. “It leaves us in a cheap alehouse with six-to-a-bed accommodations upstairs. I believe we’ve earned a tidier hostel and a good supper. Tomorrow we’ll see what we can turn up at the docks.”

  “What about the quarry, that Ilendri pit? Shouldn’t we go there?”

  “As a last recourse, maybe, but it’s a week’s journey there and back, and it’s certain they won’t have the gold there now. I doubt they ever knew they had it. No, I suspect we can find our answers a good deal closer to home.”

  36

  TROUBLE ON THE HIGHROAD

  They spent the next few days on the windswept quays, tracking down ships running the White Hart’s old routes. Though they located several vessels, none of their inquiries resulted in much useful information. On their fourth day there, however, a stout little coaster with the unlikely name of Dragonfly wallowed into port with a load of stone.

  Alec and Seregil lounged against a stack of crates as they watched the dockhands hoisting blocks of various sorts onto the quayside. Rough slabs of building stone were encased in heavy rope nets to prevent them from grinding against one another during the voyage. Finer, more fragile blocks were protected by wood and canvas framing.

  “She must have stopped at several quarries on her run,” murmured Seregil.

  “Let’s hope Ilendri was one of them,” Alec whispered back.

  Strolling up to the quay, they began looking over the various pieces as if considering a purchase. They were still dressed as gentlemen merchants and their respectable coats soon drew the interest of the Dragonfly’s captain.

  “Are you in the market for stone, sirs? I’ve got some lovely blocks today,” he called from the rail.

  “So I see,” Seregil replied, smoothing his palm over a slab of glittering black granite. “I’m looking for marble, statuary grade.”

  “You’re in luck there, sir!” The man clumped down the gangway and led them over to a group of crates. “I’ve got a good selection today: pink, black, grey, and a lovely white pure as a dove’s breast. Let’s see now, where was that Corvinar piece? That’s an especially good one.”

  Consulting various emblems branded into the sides of the crates, he pried up lids here and there. “Here’s a fine black, sir, and some of the white. Did you have something special in mind?”

  “Well,” Seregil drawled, peering down into a crate, “I don’t know a lot about it, to tell you the truth, but I’ve heard that Ilendri marble is particularly fine.”

  “That may have been true in your father’s day, sir, but precious little comes out of there now,” the captain told him with a hint of condescension. “The Ilendri’s mostly played out, thoug
h they do still cut some smaller blocks. I’ve a few pieces back here, as it happens, but I think you’d be better pleased with this other.”

  “Perhaps,” said Seregil, cupping his chin in one hand, “but I’d like to see the Ilendri—if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Suit yourself.” The captain hunted through the crates until he found a small box half hidden behind several others. Opening it, he showed them a small block of greyish marble shot through with rusty streaks. “As you can see, the grade’s inferior.”

  “The quarry’s owned by Lord Tomas, isn’t it?” Seregil asked ingenuously, inspecting the stone with apparent interest.

  “No, sir, an old fellow by the name of Emmer. He and his nephews make a small living out of it, cutting blocks like this. It goes mostly for road markers and such like.”

  It was a small crate and Alec had to step around the captain to get a look inside. Doing so, he saw for the first time the emblems burned into the side of it; one of them was very familiar—a small, curled lizard.

  “What do these stand for?” he asked, trying to mask his sudden excitement.

  “Those are shipping marks, sir. We use them to keep track of the cargo. The dragonfly mark is mine, put on when I took the box aboard. The next is from the quarry foreman—”

  “And that little lizard?”

  Seregil stole a quick glance at Alec, sensing more than casual curiosity.

  “That’s the quarry’s mark, sir. The Ilendri newt, we call it.”

  “It’s an interesting design—stone, I mean.” He had to get Seregil away from the captain without attracting undue attention. “I think it would do nicely, don’t you, brother?”

  “In the garden, perhaps,” Seregil said, playing along. Chin in hand, he narrowed his eyes appraisingly. “Though I know Mother had something larger in mind for the niche in the great hall. And you know how she favors the white these days. Suppose we take this piece and the white one the captain recommends?”

  Alec hovered impatiently as Seregil paid for the stone and arranged for delivery, then drew him off down the quay.

  “What was that all about?” Seregil whispered. “Ilendri or not, that rock isn’t worth—”

  “I didn’t mean for you to buy it!” Alec said, cutting him short. “It was the mark—that Ilendri newt—I’ve seen it before!”

  Seregil slowed to a halt. “Where?”

  “At Kassarie’s keep. It was on some of the old tapestries in the main hall, like a maker’s mark. I don’t know why it caught my eye particularly, except that I liked the look of it.”

  “And you’re certain the tapestries were old? Perhaps several generations back?”

  “The tapestries?” Alec asked in disbelief, this was no time for one of Seregil’s artistic tangents. “Well, I think so. They were like the old ones you showed me at the Orëska, with the fancy patterns around the edges. I remembered you saying you liked that style better than the new ones.”

  Seregil threw an arm around Alec’s shoulders with a delighted chuckle. “Illior’s Fingers, you’ve got the same rat’s nest of a memory I do! You’re certain this lizard thing was just the same?”

  “Yes, but why do the tapestries have to be old?” Alec asked, still puzzled.

  “Because new tapestries might have been purchased and the mark would be pure coincidence. Very old ones are more likely to have been made by someone in Kassarie’s family, someone who lived in the keep and wove them there and used the newt as her signature. Care to place a wager on who owned this Ilendri quarry before it was clapped out?”

  “I’ll bet you a block of ugly marble it was Lady Kassarie ä Moirian!”

  • • •

  A quick word with the Dragonfly’s captain proved Alec right. According to him, Lady Kassarie had awarded the failing enterprise to an aging retainer five years ago in appreciation of his long service. The old fellow still used the “newt” out of respect for his former mistress.

  “Looks like we’re headed south again,” Seregil said, rubbing his gloved hands together with a satisfied air as they went back to the inn to collect their horses.

  “We don’t need to go to the quarry?”

  “No. Thanks to your everlasting curiosity, I think we’ve found the key to our little problem. We can make Watermead before midnight, then it’s Rhíminee tomorrow, and on to Kassarie’s. Looks like that warmhearted little kitchen maid of yours is going to prove useful after all.”

  “You’re looking forward to this, aren’t you?” Alec asked with a grin.

  Seregil tilted him a dark smile. “Clearing my name was a relief; giving the Lerans a good kick in the slats is going to be a pleasure!”

  In their haste and elation, neither noticed the pair of laborers who detached themselves from a work gang to trail after them through the midday crowd.

  Crossing the isthmus again, they retraced their route along the coast. There was little trade on the highroad that afternoon, and in several hours’ riding they met nothing but a few wagons and a garrison patrol.

  Shortly before sunset they came around a sharp bend in the road to find their way blocked by fallen rocks. It was passable, but it meant riding precariously close to the edge of the cliffs. The way was especially narrow here, with sheer rock face to the landward side and a nasty drop to the sea on the other.

  “This slide must have just happened.” Frowning, Seregil reined in to inspect the rubble. “That patrol we met would have cleared it, or warned us.”

  Alec eyed the few yards of open ground between the tumbled rocks and the cliff edge. “We’d better walk the horses.”

  “Good idea. Throw your cloak over Patch’s eyes so she doesn’t shy. You take the lead.”

  Wrapping the reins more securely around his fist, Alec coaxed the nervous mare along with soothing words as her hooves struck loose stones. From behind he could hear Seregil doing the same in Aurënfaie. He was within ten feet of safety when he heard the first telltale rattle of stone against stone overhead.

  “Look out!” he shouted, but it was already too late. Rocks came crashing down all around them. Patch let out a frantic whinny, pulling back against the reins.

  “Come on!” he cried, wincing as a shard of rock cut his cheek. He could hear Scrub rearing behind him, and Seregil shouting some unintelligible warning.

  With a sudden toss of her head, Patch threw off the cloak and bolted. Unable to free his hand from the reins, Alec was jerked off balance and swung out over the cliff edge.

  For a sickening instant he hung in space, looking down at the waves crashing against the cliffs a thousand feet below; at the same moment he glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye as something—man, beast, or boulder—plunged down into the abyss.

  Before he had time to do more than register the movement, Patch reared again, snapping him against her neck like a hooked fish against the side of a boat. He grabbed wildly for purchase, found her mane with his free hand, and clung on in numbed terror as she plunged away down the road, miraculously dragging him to safety. He managed to get astride her at last and reined her in.

  They’d ridden out of sight of the slide. Heart hammering in his throat, Alec turned Patch and galloped back to find Seregil.

  The road was completely blocked now; this last slide had left a great heap of broken rock that slanted down to the very edge of the cliff. Neither Seregil nor his horse were anywhere in sight.

  “Seregil! Seregil, are you there?” yelled Alec, praying for some answer from beyond the crest of the heap. He couldn’t yet bring himself to look in the more probable direction.

  As he cast around in rising desperation, a bit of color caught his eye in the slide where the jumbled rock pile met the cliff face. It appeared to be a scrap of cloth, red cloth, the same as the coat Seregil had been wearing.

  Scrambling up, he found Seregil curled on his side, half buried in skree and dust. Blood seeped slowly down over his forehead from a scalp cut; another trickle oozed at the corner of his mouth.

&
nbsp; “Maker’s Mercy!” Alec gasped, pushing at the rocks on Seregil’s chest. “Don’t be dead! Don’t you be dead!”

  Seregil’s right hand twitched and one grey eye flickered open.

  “Thank the Four!” cried Alec, nearly weeping with relief. “How bad are you hurt?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Seregil rasped, closing his eyes again. “I thought you went over—”

  “I thought you did!”

  Seregil let out a shaky breath. “Scrub, poor Scrub—”

  With a queasy shudder Alec recalled the falling object he’d glimpsed as he swung out over the edge of the cliff.

  “Had that horse eight years,” Seregil groaned softly, a hint of moisture darkening the dust beneath his eyes. “Bastards! Ambushers killed my best horse.”

  “Ambushers?” Alec asked, wondering if Seregil was fully conscious after all.

  But the grey eyes were open now, and alert. “When the rocks started falling, I looked up and saw a man silhouetted against the sky.”

  Alec risked an uneasy glance of his own but saw nothing. “When I rode back just now, I noticed a little switchback trail leading up the rocks. It’s just around that next bend. He could have gotten up that way, I bet.”

  “That would explain a lot.”

  “But if they’re still up there they’ll have seen me come back! We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “No, wait.” Seregil lay quiet a moment, thinking. “Whoever they are, they seem to know their business. If we run they’ll just track us and finish the job.”

  “What about the highroad garrisons? We must be within five miles of one by now.”

  “More than that, I think. With only one horse and night coming on, I doubt we’d make it.”

  “Then we’re trapped!”

  “Quiet, Alec, quiet. With a little luck, we can lay a trap of our own right here. It’s going to take a bit of acting on your part, though.” He shifted slightly, feeling under his left thigh, then gave a soft, anguished groan. “Oh, hell. I’ve lost my sword. It must’ve torn loose as I scrambled up here.”

  “I’ve still got mine,” Alec assured him, fearful that Seregil was in serious pain after all. “I had it strapped behind my saddle.”