Stalking Darkness n-2

by Lynn Flewelling

  "That wasn't exactly subtle," Alec observed, still laughing as they headed back to the Harbor Way.

  "A drunken soldier making a ruckus at the wrong house in the middle of the night on Sailmaker Street?" Seregil asked, looking pleased with himself. "What could be subtler than that? And successful, too. Now we know that this Rythel is a journeyman smith of some sort. Which leaves us still asking what he's doing with gold enough for the Street of Lights and a lord's papers in his pocket."

  "And why he had that much gold on him with the papers still in his pocket."

  "Exactly. And what does that suggest?"

  "That he's been up to whatever he's doing for a while already," replied Alec, looking back toward the waterfront. "We'll have to get into his rooms, and we'd better find out who Master Quarin is."

  "We'll start tomorrow. Hold up a minute."

  Seregil's grey was wheezing dejectedly now.

  Reining in by a lantern at the foot of the Harbor Way, he dismounted and took the animal's head between his hands. "I'd better ride double with you, Alec. This poor old fellow's at the end of his strength. I'd better change cloaks, too."

  Alec kicked a foot out of the stirrup and held his hand down. Grasping it, Seregil climbed up behind him and wrapped an arm around his waist.

  Alec felt another unexpected twinge of sensuality at his touch, faint as a bat's whisper, but unmistakable. There was certainly nothing seductive in the way Seregil gripped a handful of his tunic to keep his balance, yet suddenly he had an image of that same hand stroking the head of the young man at Azarin's brothel, and later embracing dark-eyed Eirual.

  Seregil had touched him before, but never with anything more than brotherly affection. Alec had seen tonight what sort of companions his friend chose-Wythrin and Eirual, both of them exotic, beautiful, and undoubtedly skilled beyond anything Alec could conceive of.

  What's happening to me? he wondered dejectedly. Maker's Mercy, he could still smell Myrhichia's lush scent rising from his skin. From some neglected corner of his heart, a small voice seemed to answer silently, You're waking up at last.

  "Anything wrong?" asked Seregil.

  "Thought I heard something." Alec nudged the horse into a walk.

  Seregil bunched the stolen cloak out of sight beneath his own. "I suppose we really should return this. I don't want any of Eirual's women getting into trouble on my account. I don't suppose you'd mind going back there twice in one night?"

  Alec couldn't see his friend's face, but he could tell by his voice that he was grinning.

  "Me? Where will you be?" asked Alec.

  "Oh, not too far away."

  Alec shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. "You're going back to Azarin's."

  He heard a throaty chuckle behind him. "Fowl never tastes as savory when you're hungry for venison."

  At least you know what you want, Alec thought grudgingly.

  16

  Cilia was just stirring up the fire when Seregil returned to the Cockerel the next morning. "Is Alec back?" she asked.

  "I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon. You haven't gone and lost him, have you?"

  "Let's hope not." Grabbing a few apples from a basket, he headed for the back stairway.

  "Hang on, I've got something for you," Cilia called after him. She pulled a small, sealed packet from behind the salt box on the mantel and gave it to him. "Runcer sent this over from Wheel Street. A regimental courier from the Queen's Horse delivered it there."

  Pocketing the apples, he examined the packet as he continued upstairs. The folded parchment was sealed with candle drippings and covered in smudged finger marks. Directions to Lord Seregil's house were written across the front in Beka Cavish's impatient, upright hand.

  Opening it, he read the brief letter inside.

  Dear S. and A.

  Dostin-Have reached Isil. Tomorrow we move into Mycenian territory. One of the other turmae lost a rider at bridge over the Canal at Cirna when his horse bolted and threw him over the edge. Horrible.

  The weather is foul. It's still very much winter up here.

  The worst enemy we've faced so far is boredom.

  Capt. Myrhini and some of the other officers break the monotony with their war stories. Some of the best come from the sergeants, however.

  Billeted tonight in stables of Baron of Isil's estate. The glory of a soldier's life, eh, Seregil?

  — B. Cavish

  Reaching their rooms, he found Alec asleep on his narrow cot, clothes dropped in a careless heap on the floor. Seregil sat down on the clothes chest at the end of the bed and tapped him on the foot.

  "Good morning. We've got news from Beka."

  Alec growled something into the pillow, then rolled over. He blinked sleepily at the morning light streaming in at the windows, then at Seregil. "You just getting in?"

  Seregil tossed him an apple. "Yes. Tirien asked after you, by the way, and sends his regards."

  Alec shrugged noncommittally and bit into his apple. "What's Beka say?"

  Seregil read him the letter.

  "Maker's Mercy!" Alec muttered, hearing of the man lost off the Canal bridge. He disliked heights and Seregil had to coax him across the bridge the first time he'd traveled over it.

  "Let's see," said Seregil when he'd finished, "if they were in Wyvern Dug two weeks ago and headed southeast from there, they could be across the Folcwine River by now."

  "Sounds like she's doing well with it all."

  "I wouldn't expect anything else of her. Beka's as good with people as she is with horses and swordplay. I'll bet you a sester she's wearing a captain's gorget the next time we see her."

  If we see her again, skittered at the back of his mind as he said this, but he pushed the doubt away. He thought he saw a shadow of the same thought cross Alec's face, and the same quick denial.

  "Where do we start today?" Alec asked, pushing a handful of tousled hair back from his eyes.

  Seregil went to the hearth and stirred up the remains of last night's fire. "I'd like to find this Master Smith Quarin first. Unfortunately we don't know what kind of a smith he is, do we? Goldsmith, silversmith, swordsmith, blacksmith—"

  Alec chewed thoughtfully, watching him. After a moment he said, "How about an ironsmith?"

  Seregil glanced down at the poker in his hand, then saw that Alec was looking at it, too.

  "You said Lord Zymanis is in charge of the lower city defenses, so he's more likely to need an ironsmith than a goldsmith, right? And Eirual said he had rough hands."

  "You've got a clearer head than I do this morning," Seregil said, chagrined not to have thought of it himself.

  "I imagine I got more sleep."

  Seregil glanced over at him in surprise, fancying he heard an edge of disapproval in Alec's tone. After last night's evident success with Myrhichia, he'd assumed the boy was cured of any undue scruples.

  Evidently he still retained his Dalnan attitude toward establishments like Azarin's.

  Well, that's just too damned bad for him.

  "There are ironsmiths scattered all around the city but they all belong to the same guild," he said aloud, letting the moment pass. "I'll have Thryis send one of the scullions over to ask after Quarin. In the meantime, I think I'll have a bit of a rest."

  By midday they'd learned that Master Quarin's shop lay in Ironmonger Row near the Sea Market Gate. They set off soon after, dressed as ragged cripples.

  Alec's face was half-obscured by a dirty bandage. Seregil wore an old wreck of a hat tied on with a scarf so that the brim curved down to his chin on either side. Their disguises had the desired effect. As they crossed the back court Rhiri saw them and shook a rake threateningly in their direction.

  "Ah, the ubiquitous beggar," Seregil chuckled when they'd scuttled out the gate. "No one is ever surprised or glad to see you anywhere in the city."

  Begging bowls in hand, they set off for Sheaf Street, the broad avenue that ran through the city between the Harvest and Sea Market gates.


  As expected, they attracted little attention as they made their way through the crowded streets. Carts and wagons rumbled past endlessly. Tinkers and knife grinders chanted their availability in singsong voices. Dirty children dodged through the crowds, chasing dogs or pigs or each other.

  Soldiers were everywhere, along with malodorously genuine beggars and a few early whores importuning passersby.

  Watching for their chance, they stole a ride on the back of a hay wagon and clung to the tail posts as it jolted over the cobbles.

  "Look there," said Seregil, pointing behind them.

  Alec looked and winced inwardly. Half a block back, five heads swayed on pikes set upright in the back of a rough wooden cart surrounded by a grim formation of the City Watch. He'd seen such displays before; this was the fate of traitors and spies in Rhiminee. Their decapitated bodies would be lying in the cart below, on their way to the city pit.

  "Maker's Mercy, that's getting to be a common sight," he muttered. "If we're right about our man—"

  "Then he'll come to the same end." Seregil eyed the heads impassively. "I wouldn't dwell on that, if I were you. I don't."

  Especially since you came within spitting distance of ending up that way yourself. Alec thought grimly. He still had nightmares about that sometimes, and what would have happened if he and Micum had failed to clear Seregil's name from the Leran's carefully contrived treason charges. He wondered if Seregil did, too.

  As soon as the brightly colored awnings of the Sea Market came into sight, Seregil jumped down from the cart and led the way into Ironmonger Row, a twisting side street of open-sided workshops and smoke-stained buildings. Playing his role, he doubled over into a crabbed, sidelong limp and grasped Alec's arm.

  In spite of the name, metal workers of all sorts plied their trade here, taking advantage of the proximity to both the port and the marketplace.

  Acrid fumes stung Alec's eyes as they made their way through the din. Inside the workshops he could see half-naked men silhouetted against the red glare of the forges, looking like vengeful demons as their hammers struck sparks from glowing metal.

  Apprentices ran here and there with tools and hods of coal; others sweated over the bellows, pumping until the forges glowed yellow-white. Pots, swords, tools, and bits of armor hung over doorways advertising the wares being crafted within.

  Pausing at the first they came to, Seregil limped up to an apprentice and asked after Quarin.

  "Master Quarin?" The boy pointed farther down the narrow lane. "His place is way down near the wall, biggest on the block. You can't miss it."

  "Many thanks, friend," croaked Seregil, taking Alec's arm again. "Come along, son, we're nearly there."

  For a single, disorienting instant Alec stared down at him. They hadn't discussed their roles in detail—hearing himself unexpectedly called «son» so many months after his father's death sent a sickening chill through him. Guilt followed hard on the heels of it; he hadn't thought of his father in weeks, perhaps longer.

  Seregil peered up at him from under his hat, one sharp grey eye visible. "You all right?"

  Alec stared straight ahead, surprised at the stinging behind his eyelids. "I'm fine. It's just the smoke."

  Dodging heavy wagons and wrathful shouts, they finally located Quarin's shop. It was a huge establishment, much larger than the rest, and housed in a converted warehouse.

  Seregil hung back a moment, sizing the place up through the open door. "Two forges that I can see from here," he whispered. "See those fellows with the metal studs across the top of their aprons? They're all master craftsmen. Master Quarin must be well established to have a crew like that under him. Let's go see what he knows of our friend Rythel."

  Just inside the door, they found a woman in a studded apron putting the final touches on an elaborately decorated gate. Catching sight of them, she paused, resting her hammer on one knee.

  "You want something here?" she called.

  Seregil lowered his voice to a windy growl. "Is this Master Quarin's shop?"

  "That's the master, there at the back." Hefting her hammer again, she pointed out a bluff, white-haired old man standing behind a worktable with several other smiths, metal stylus in hand.

  "It's a Master Rythel we was sent to find," Alec told her. "We've a message to deliver and we was told he works here."

  The woman sniffed scornfully. "Oh, him! He and his crew are down at the western sewer tunnel in the lower city."

  "Friend of yours, dearie?" Seregil wheedled, giving her a wink beneath the cracked brim of his hat.

  "He's nobody's friend here. Upstart nephew of the master, is all. That sort always nabs the plums, and damn all to the rest of us. Be off with you, and I hope you charge him double for the message. The bastard can well enough afford it."

  Alec gave her a respectful bob of the head. "Thanks and Maker's Mercy to you. Come on, Grandfather, we've got a long walk ahead of us."

  "Grandfather, eh?" Seregil eyed him wryly as they continued on toward the Sea Market.

  "You could be anything under there. That smith didn't seem to care much for Rythel, did she?"

  "I noticed that," said Seregil, straightening up and stretching his back. "The guild smiths are a proud, stiff-necked lot and seniority is everything to them. Sounds like Quarin put some noses out of joint giving the job to a relative."

  "Why would anyone begrudge him working in the sewers?"

  "If they're in the sewers, then they must be replacing the iron grates that guard the channels coming down from the citadel. Who do you suppose ordered that job?"

  "Lord General Zymanis."

  "By way of whatever underlings handle the details, anyway, which would make it a particularly lucrative contract, with extra pay for the smith in charge of the repairs and his crew. She said he'd "nabbed the plums," remember?"

  "That still doesn't explain why Rythel would have papers with Lord Zymanis' seal."

  "No, but it does establish the beginnings of a plausible connection. The letter he had was addressed to Admiral Nyreidian. We met him at Kylith's gathering at the Mourning Night ceremony, if you recall."

  "The lord who'd just been commissioned to oversee the privateers!" Alec exclaimed. "That has to do with the war, too."

  "Which means we're probably right about Rythel being a noser of some sort."

  They walked on in silence to the Harbor Way.

  Presently Seregil looked up again and said, "If we're right, then I may need to play with this Rythel a bit, see what I can get out of him. When we get down there, I'd better stay out of sight and let you play messenger. If he is a fellow professional, then I don't want to chance him recognizing my voice later on."

  At the harbor they made their way west beyond the last quays and warehouses to a stretch of rocky land that hugged the base of the cliffs. A freshly rutted wagon track led on out of sight among the twisted jack pines and hummocks. Following it for a quarter of a mile or so, Alec and Seregil found Rythel's crew at the head of a steep, malodorous gully.

  From where Alec and Seregil stood, the entrance to the sewer channel was about five hundred feet up the cut. The opening was the same size and shape as an arched doorway, tall enough for a man to walk through without ducking his head. A noisome grey torrent flowed out over its threshold and on down through a stone sluiceway to the sea beyond. A foul odor hung over the rocky cleft and Alec noted that the workmen wore wet rags over their noses and mouths.

  Vinegar cloths, he guessed, to protect them from the evil humours of the place.

  A forge had been set up near the opening and the black smoke from it collected sullenly on the damp air. A small wagon stood nearby and half a dozen armed bluecoats were lounging against it.

  "What are they doing there?" Alec asked as they looked out from behind the cover of a boulder.

  "Watching for gaterunners and spies. The sewers go everywhere under the city."

  "What are gaterunners?"

  "Thieves, mostly, who know how to get past all the
gates and grates and travel the tunnels. They know more about where those channels lead than anyone, even the Scavenger Guild. You'd better go have a look."

  Leaving Seregil behind the-rock, Alec hugged his rags about himself and followed the stony track up toward the forge.

  "What do you want here?" a soldier demanded, looking more bored than suspicious.

  "I've got a message for one of the smiths," Alec replied. "Man named Rythel."

  "Go on then, but be quick about it," the guard said, waving him on.

  At the forge two apprentices were doggedly pumping the bellows, while another held an iron rod in the coals with heavy tongs. Behind them, a smith was shaping a glowing spike of iron on the anvil. Short and dark-haired, he didn't match the description Eirual had given Seregil.

  Alec waited until the man paused in his hammering, then stepped up and touched his brow respectfully.

  The smith eyed his rags suspiciously. "What do you want?"

  "Begging your pardon, master, but I've got a message sent for Master Rythel," Alec replied with a beggar's unctuous civility.

  "Tell it quick and be off with you. The guards don't like anyone hanging about."

  "That I can't, sir," Alec told him plaintively, twisting the hem of his tunic in his hands. "Begging your pardon, but I was given good silver to deliver it to nobody but Rythel his self. It'd be worth me livelihood if word got around I passed on private messages to anyone as demands to know 'em."

  The smith was less than sympathetic. "Bugger your livelihood. Rythel would have my hammer if I let you go wandering around in there."

  This exchange appeared to be a welcome diversion for the sentries. "Aw, he looks harmless enough," one called over, taking Alec's side. "Let him wait out here, why don't you? The message is for Rythel, after all."

  "Aye, and one he'd be none too happy to miss, if you take my meaning." Grinning, Alec made a lewd two-fingered sign.

  "All right, then, but it's on your heads," the smith growled, finding opinion against him. "Sit on the end of that cart, you, and don't stir."

  Alec's champions lost interest in him as soon as they'd had their victory. Perched on the back of the open cart, he swung his feet idly and hunted imaginary lice among his rags.