Ahmol pulled on the ropes that operated the skylights and bright morning sunshine filled the large room. The cold air was dusty and stale with the mingled scents of the dead coals on the forge, and the herbs and roots filling the simples chest and hanging from the rafters in their faded cloth bags among the dried carcasses of frogs and lizards and dragonlings.
To Ilar’s considerable relief, the little painted pavilion still stood at the far end of the room. The flap was tied down with black ribbon, as always. If Ahmol hadn’t been there watching them, he’d have gone to it immediately. Instead, he looked around the workshop, feeling empty and sad inside. Until that last terrible night, Ilban had treated him kindly, and made him feel valued and useful as Ilar crushed bits of ore for him, or tended the cylindrical brick furnace that dominated the center of the room. The small windows near the top that had looked like glowing golden eyes when it was stoked were just black circles now.
The tall bookcases and cabinets looked just the same, too, orderly and carefully arranged. Calipers and tongs lay forgotten on the forge; the worktables were littered with instruments, stacks of precious metals, and books left open next to stained crucibles, as if Ilban had only just stepped out for a turn in the garden. The glass distillation vessels sat gathering dust on their iron stands, the largest coated inside with the dregs of the rhekaro blood concoction Ilban had been working on when he died. The thin copper tubes sticking out of the pear-shaped retort were already going green with tarnish.
Chains that had once bound Alec to the large anvil near the forge lay where they had last fallen, still attached to the big iron ring on its base. The leather funnel they had used to force the purifying tinctures down Alec’s throat had rolled into a corner to gather dust. Ilar wondered if Ahmol or Ilbana knew of the secret tunnel hidden under the trapdoor to which the anvil was bolted. He hadn’t even told Ulan about that. Now he wondered why.
Ahmol led Ulan downstairs, past the holding room at the landing, and on to the small, dirt-floored cellar under the far end of the workshop where the rhekaros had been made. The flat metal cage hung from the ceiling joists, and the hole in the earth that the last rhekaro had been birthed from had not been filled in. It was damp here, and smelled faintly of blood and metal.
Under the watchful eye of the servant, Ulan looked his fill, then thanked the man and left.
That night at supper he spoke enthusiastically of what he’d seen, in particular praising Ilban’s library.
“If it would not be asking too much, dear lady, might I go there and read tonight? There are so many fascinating titles, and I must soon leave you.”
She hesitated, then nodded graciously. “I ask only that you put them back exactly as they were when you are done.”
“But of course!”
After that it was a simple enough matter to request the key and a pot of tea. Ahmol escorted them, as before, but took his leave when he was finished lighting the lamps. They’d worn cloaks against the chill, since Ilbana had asked that they not build a fire.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Ulan went to the pavilion. “Come, now. You must open it for me. My knees are too painful to bend that much today.”
Poor Ulan, thought Ilar as he pulled the black ribbons loose and threw back the flap. The villa did not have the elaborate bathing chamber that Ulan enjoyed at home, and the old man had missed his daily soaks.
Inside he found a few leather pouches, a golden cup he’d seen Ilban use a few times for special concoctions, and a large brass-bound casket.
“This must hold the books,” he said, dragging it out. He tried the lid, but it was locked.
Ulan bent and touched a fingertip to the brass faceplate of the large lock, and Ilar heard the click of the tumblers falling. Ulan smiled as he opened the lid and had Ilar lift out the three large tomes it held.
“Now, are these the one you saw?”
“Yes. This one with the red leather cover is the one he used most often.” Ilar opened it and they saw that it was indeed written with normal letters, but arranged in such as fashion as to be total gibberish without the key to the code.
Ilar carried the books over to the chair under the lamp, and Ulan sat and paged through the red one to the picture of the rhekaro. In fact, there were several in what appeared to be a chapter devoted to their making. Other sections were illustrated with other creatures and objects, and intricate designs that Ilar could make no sense of.
“Well done, my dear fellow,” Ulan exclaimed softly. “And now, for the others.” He opened the slimmest of the three and nodded. “Ah yes. This is the one he showed me, when I last was here. It must be the least important, as it is written in plain Plenimaran. It speaks of the powers of the elixirs to be made from the rhekaro’s essences, but no doubt it does not say how they are made. All the same, it should be most useful.”
The last book appeared to be a journal. It, too, was written in code, but the script was haphazard and strayed across the pages at odd angles in places, interspersed with drawings of equipment and more of the incomprehensible designs.
“Now what?” Ilar looked nervously toward the door. What if Ahmol returned? Or Ilbana herself?
“We shall spend some hours here, enjoying the library while we wait for the house to settle,” Ulan explained. “Then we shall hide these books beneath our cloaks and hope the guards do not decide to search us. Tomorrow we will take our leave and retire for a few days in my house by the sea.”
“But what about Seregil?”
Ulan smiled. “I’m sure he can find me there.” He patted the books. “And these shall be the bait for our trap.”
“And then?”
“He was your prize once before. He will be again. Now, why don’t you pour us some tea before it gets cold?”
Heart ablaze with hope, Ilar did not notice the old man regarding him with a mix of pity and disgust.
CHAPTER 25
Mixed Emotions
THE SUMPTUOUSLY DECORATED ship’s cabin was the best accommodation Alec had seen since they’d left Bôkthersa. Seregil, who had a taste for luxuries of any sort, sprawled across the bed at all hours like a big contented cat, and for the first time in a very long time it was just the two of them at night. No Sebrahn. No Rieser, who looked vaguely uncomfortable whenever they so much as clasped hands. Seregil was like a man dying of thirst, and Alec was the spring. After the tension of the past weeks, lovemaking was as much relief as pleasure for both of them.
On their second morning at sea, Rhal took one look at them over breakfast and burst out laughing, as did Nettles, who was eating with them in the captain’s cabin. Alec had been amused to see that this one was decorated even more garishly than their own, but he wasn’t amused now, sensing that the laughter was at his expense.
Seregil looked up from the runny grey porridge Tarmin had served up. “What’s funny?”
“Look in the mirror, both of you,” Rhal told him. “You’ve got matching love bruises on your necks.”
“And you’ve been so quiet, too,” said Micum. “We could hardly hear you in the forecastle.”
Alec’s face went hot to the roots of his hair as he pulled up the collar of his coat. That just made the others laugh harder, of course, all of them except Rieser, who kept his attention on his breakfast, expression carefully neutral. Seregil was clearly controlling himself with an effort; he couldn’t care less what anyone thought, but he also knew how Alec hated it when things like this happened. Not that Alec was ashamed of their relationship—far from it—but his father had been a modest man, and their lonely wandering life had left Alec ill at ease in personal matters around other people. He kept hoping he’d at least grow out of blushing, but so far he hadn’t been that lucky.
As much as he valued having Seregil to himself again, though, Alec missed Sebrahn badly. He’d grown used to the little rhekaro’s constant presence, even if Seregil hadn’t, and felt bereft without him. More than once he caught himself looking around for him, purely out of habit. Sebr
ahn crept into his dreams, always being carried out of reach by the Ebrados and their tall rhekaro. But he kept all that to himself, and busied himself helping Seregil prepare for the task ahead.
Seregil and the other “slaves” were leaving most of their gear behind, but he and Alec kept their tool rolls, in spite of the danger of being caught with them. For now they were stored at the bottom of their small traveling packs, but Seregil and Alec both had a medium-sized lock pick sewn into a seam of their tunics. Weapons presented another challenge, and they had a heated discussion about that with Rieser behind closed doors in their cabin.
“Even if you’re only presenting yourself as a horse trader, wouldn’t you have armed men to protect the string?” Rieser demanded.
“You have to play every role to the last detail,” Seregil explained. “Slaves caught carrying weapons will get their master into some serious trouble, not to mention what would happen to them. If we get backed into a corner, we’ll either steal some or use whatever comes to hand.”
“Or run very fast,” added Alec.
“It’s usually better to avoid a fight altogether,” said Micum.
Rieser raised an eyebrow at that. “You’re afraid to fight?”
“No,” said Seregil, “but fighting attracts attention, and that’s something we want to avoid at all costs. Still, we won’t go in without any protection. Micum has his sword, and no one will question him carrying Alec’s bow. If he can’t get it to Alec in time, Micum’s a very good archer. Does that satisfy you? Or are you afraid?”
“I fear nothing, but dying won’t accomplish our purpose.”
“None of us plans to die. Just follow our lead when the time comes. This is what we’re good at.”
“I caught you easily enough,” Rieser reminded them.
“And we escaped just as easily.”
“The first time.”
“That’s enough!” said Micum. “It’s settled: no swords or knives. We each play our role. That should be protection enough.”
For clothing, the ship’s sailmaker was able to alter some of their clothing and some loose trousers traded from the crew into outfits befitting a well-to-do northlander’s slaves. They would wear shirts under the usual sleeveless tunic, but with sleeves loose enough to readily display the slave brands. Seregil sewed plain veils for each of them out of some of the ribbon and fine lady’s handkerchiefs Rhal had plundered from a Plenimaran ship.
When it was all fixed, Alec modeled it for them.
Seregil frowned. “It’s not perfect.”
“It’s good enough for a foreigner’s slaves,” said Micum. “The brands and collars should be enough to convince anyone.”
That night Seregil and Alec sat down to map out all that they recalled of the alchemist’s villa. Alec had seen only a bit of the cellar under the house where his cell had been, and the way from there to the workshop with its two gardens. Seregil had been kept in an upper room overlooking the inner garden, and then in the same cell that Alec had been in, but he had been unconscious for the transitions. The night he’d escaped with the Khatme nurse, it had been dark and she’d been in the lead, but he had some sense of the direction she’d taken, leading him down through the dining room into the central courtyard. The workshop garden lay just beyond. He’d also spent a night in an attic overlooking that same garden.
Alec knew the workshop best, and sketched it, marking the forge and athanor, tables and other structures, including a small ornate tent at the far end. “And here’s where the tunnel begins, under the anvil nearest the door,” Alec said, showing Rieser.
“And you can’t just go in that way?”
“I considered that, but I don’t think we could lift the trapdoor with that anvil bolted on top of it,” Seregil explained. “I almost killed myself getting it closed last time.”
“Perhaps with my help—” Rieser began.
“You won’t be there.”
“You are not going to get the book without me.”
“Oh, yes, we are. We know what we’re doing and don’t need you there, bumping around and knocking things over in the dark. If you want the book, then you damn well better leave it to us.”
“He’s right,” Micum told Rieser. “You and I will have our own task.”
“And I’ll find out what that is later, I suppose?”
“The night I got out and hid in that attic, I overheard the guards talking about a gully behind the workshop’s garden wall,” Seregil told them. “That might be a good route in, if the workshop backs up to it.”
“What about the tunnel?”
“Repeating ourselves would be dangerous. Unless something better presents itself, I think a straightforward burglary by way of the gully is the best plan for now. If all else fails, then we can use the tunnel, but I’d rather not.”
“You seem to be leaving a lot to chance,” Rieser noted.
Seregil grinned. “We don’t know how else to operate.”
They reached a small wooded island on the afternoon of the third day out. Alec and the others went ashore while the sails were changed for the black-and-white-striped ones and the figurehead was removed and stowed away. The sails were a bit of a risk, since meeting a Skalan ship was a very real possibility in these waters.
“I’ve done this before,” Rhal had assured them. “And I haven’t encountered the warship, Skalan or Plenimaran, that my Lady can’t outrun.”
It was peaceful here. No one lived on the island. There was only the sound of the waves, the wind, and the cries of gulls and ospreys. Alec drank it all in, knowing this was likely to be their last respite for a long time.
Seregil picked up a flat stone from the beach and sent it skipping across the surface of the cove toward the Lady with a practiced snap of his wrist.
“How much longer until we reach Plenimar?” asked Rieser, watching the progress with the sails.
“Three or four more days, according to Captain Rhal.” Micum sent a stone skimming after Seregil’s. It went a few skips farther.
Alec watched the two of them compete, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The Skalan coast had dropped below the horizon yesterday. He was feeling very far from home—and from that waterfall where Rieser’s Ebrados were supposedly waiting for them. “Sebrahn could be halfway to Cirna by now.”
“I gave you my word,” Rieser replied calmly. “My riders will not disobey my orders, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
And to Alec’s surprise, the man picked up a flat stone half the size of his palm and sent it skipping farther than any of the others.
The striped sails went up quickly, and they were under way again before sundown.
Alec stood by himself at the rail as the coast of Plenimar came into view on the horizon, distracted by old memories. Gazing north, he pulled absently at the collar he now wore and wondered how far they were from that distant stretch of ledges where they’d battled Duke Mardus for possession of the Helm. His eyes stung a little as he said a silent prayer for Nysander.
Micum joined him and must have read his thoughts on his face, for he rested a hand on Alec’s shoulder and said, “Seems like it wasn’t that long ago, doesn’t it?”
“Sometimes. I haven’t dreamed about it for a while, but Seregil still does.”
“I doubt he’ll ever quite get over it. How could he?”
Alec sighed and went back to studying the distant shore. It was open country here, similar to what they had trekked through after their escape from Yhakobin. At least it wasn’t raining this time.
Rhal put in at a deserted inlet south of Riga, and Alec and the others readied to disembark.
“I figure it will take us at least four days to find the book and get back here, if all goes well,” Seregil estimated.
“I’ll sail back in then. But what if you’re not there?”
Seregil thought a moment. “Come back again in two days, and then again until we either show up or a few weeks go by.”
They changed into their slave clothing
and stout sandals, and let the carpenter fix the collars around their necks with lead rivets that could be cut with a knife if necessary. Rieser’s collar was made of bronze; the slaves Rhal had liberated had belonged to wealthier men than Micum.
Rhal chuckled as he looked the four of them over. “Well, you certainly look the part, from what I’ve seen of such things. And you’ve got all you need?”
“I think so,” said Seregil, ticking items off on his fingers. “Rope, grappling hook, lightstones, our tools, veils, food … Yes, I think that’s everything.”
“What about the documents?”
“What documents?”
“The warrants of ownership,” Rhal explained, surprised. “One of the Plenimaran merchants we captured tried to sell me his slaves and showed me the documents for them. I figured you knew about that.”
“No, damn it! I never had any occasion to. Alec, did you see anything like that change hands when Yhakobin bought us?”
“No, I was busy looking for you.”
“Shit! Rhal, can you describe them?”
Rhal gave him a wink. “I can do better than that. I saved them as a curiosity. I’d say it’s all the more important for Micum to have something like them, being a foreigner, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s a good thing you mentioned it,” said Micum. “It might have been a short adventure if you hadn’t.”
They followed Rhal below to his cabin and waited impatiently while he rummaged through several cabinets. At last he pulled out a leather packet containing several sheets of parchment folded in thirds. “Here they are.”
Seregil opened one and studied it for a moment. “Let’s see. This translates as ‘To all who meet this man Rhasha Ishandi of Vostir, know by this letter of ownership that this slave, Arengil by name, is his rightful property, as shown …’ Hmm. Yes … yes …” He tapped his lower lip with one long forefinger. “And here’s a description of the poor wretch, right down to a birthmark on his chest, whip scars, and a missing front tooth. Very detailed, but easily copied. I suspect forgers are well employed in Plenimar, if this is all it takes to claim a slave. Look here, Alec. This design at the bottom must be the owner’s mark. I’ll need you to draw that out when I’m done.”
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