Sweat rolled down his face and back as he tried to break it between his fingers, but the horn was too strong. After several false starts, he found that he could jam the edge of it between the bed frame and the wall, like a vise, and use the lip of the pitcher to bend it.
The cries continued intermittently, making his heart race. As he worked, he couldn’t help wondering what he’d do if he did manage to get the door open. In his current state, weakened and unarmed, he’d be no match for Yhakobin’s guards, or the man himself, probably. But then, head-on fights weren’t the nightrunner way; Seregil had done his best to instill that in Alec, who’d had more of a tendency for honest fights.
The cries grew weaker as he finally snapped off the bowl and broke the handle into two long spines.
He held them up, inspecting the taper and thickness. Still too big.
He didn’t dare try breaking them again, so he settled on the floor by the bed and burnished the rough edges against the stone flags. His hands began to shake and sweat stung his eyes. To distract himself, he concentrated on recalling Seregil’s various lessons on the subject. A bit of doggerel came to him and ran round and round inside his head.
A crafty nightrunner died of late,
And found himself at Bilairy’s Gate.
He stood outside and refused to knock
Because he meant to pick the lock.
The silly little verse took him back to their old rooms at the Cockerel, sitting knee to knee with Seregil as he took some lock to pieces and explained how it worked. They’d spent countless hours at it. Some had one pin, others had as many as five. Others had wards or poison needles to stick the unwary thief, but they all could be tickled open if you had the skill.
After a considerable amount of rubbing and burnishing, he had a crude tool. Going to the door, he inserted it into the lock and gingerly felt around.
This lock, a simple two-pinner, was hardly a challenge, even with his makeshift tools. The horn pieces made little noise as he carefully probed the works. With a little careful twiddling, he threw the tumblers and heard each satisfying click as they fell.
All had gone silent upstairs.
That doesn’t mean Yhakobin is gone, he reminded himself as he eased the door open and peered around it. The low murmur of voices came from upstairs—Yhakobin’s and someone else’s. Alec crept halfway up the stairs to hear better. They were speaking Plenimaran, so he had no idea what they were saying, but he recognized the other voice. It was Khenir. He was surprised at the tone: it sounded as if the two men were arguing about something. Khenir was using the humble “Ilban,” but his tone grew less and less respectful as the debate went on. Alec caught his own name several times. Was Khenir arguing on his behalf?
The risk wasn’t worth the toss, eavesdropping on a conversation he couldn’t understand. What mattered was that when the right moment came, he was ready and had a way out!
He crept back to his room, locked the door, and hid the picks inside the mattress again with the rest of the spoon bits. As he lay back on the bed with his head on his arms, trying to calm his racing pulse, he wondered again about the rhekaro. He hadn’t heard it making any noise. Perhaps Yhakobin would leave it alone now, having gotten whatever it was he was after from it.
Ahmol shook him awake sometime later, and the guards hustled him upstairs, where Yhakobin was waiting. Morning light streamed in through the skylights, and he could hear a mockingbird trilling somewhere nearby and the laughter of the children at play.
The slate table was bare, and scrubbed clean.
“Where is it, Ilban?” he asked without thinking.
The alchemist nodded toward a small tub by the door. It was covered with a cloth, and a single hank of silvery white hair hung out from beneath its edge.
“Oh, Illior. You killed it,” Alec gasped. One of his handlers cuffed the back of his head for such insolence, but Alec hardly felt it. He felt numb, gaze still locked on that pitiful lock of hair, remembering the pleading look he’d seen in its eyes when he’d healed it.
“It was never alive to begin with,” Yhakobin told him impatiently. “It was ill made, besides. Quite useless. We shall have to try again. Give me your hand.”
Alec tucked both under his armpits. “Why? So you can torture another one?”
Yhakobin struck him across the face, sending him sprawling. The guards were on him at once, but the alchemist reached for his bodkin rather than the whip.
“I don’t have time for this. I’ve redone my calculations, and if this proves suitable…” He jammed the bodkin into Alec’s sore finger and performed the flame spell. It burned pale lavender. “Ah, good. I haven’t lost too much ground, after all.” He paused, and Alec realized he was staring at the dragon bite on his ear.
“I know what that is now, Alec. Khenir confessed it to me. It’s such a small thing, and yet…? Well, no matter. We are where we are.” He went to the tincture shelf. “I believe we can start with silver, this time.”
“No!” Alec tried in vain to wrench free of the guards, but they knew his tricks now, and had little trouble holding him down on his back and pinching his nose shut as Yhakobin leaned over him with the funnel.
CHAPTER 26
Pride
SEREGIL HAD NO way of knowing how long Ilar had kept him drugged, but when he finally did wake up in that cold little cell, he was desperately hungry and thirsty. His ribs were sticking out again. The pallet under him was wet and reeked of urine.
Mine, no doubt, he thought wearily.
A wooden pitcher stood beside the bed. He rolled over and sniffed at it. Water. Not caring if it were drugged or not, he took several gulps. It was stale but cool, and it soothed his dry throat.
His next priority was to get away from the dirty bed. He rolled off and sorted out a few of the quilts that hadn’t been soiled, then used the corner of one dipped in water to clean himself. His skin was sore where he’d lain in his own filth.
Wrapping himself in the musty quilts, he propped himself up in the corner and stared at the door. The spot of barred light on the wall told him it was late afternoon.
Alec could be dead by now.
Seregil hugged the quilts tighter around him, pondering that reality. Whatever this rhekaro thing was, Alec’s blood was clearly an important ingredient.
It was no secret that the necromancers of Plenimar favored ’faie blood for use in their foul magics, a fact from which the slavers made a great profit. Hadn’t the alchemist said that Bôkthersan blood was used for making a dra’gorgos? He wondered whose life had been given for the one that had attacked them in Aurënen.
But the alchemist also claimed to have no intention of killing Alec. My precious alembic, brewing wonders for me.
Seregil shuddered. Not while I have breath in my body!
Gathering his strength, he used the wall to push himself upright and then leaned on it as he walked around the room to test his strength. He was light-headed and unsteady.
I couldn’t fight my way out of a rotten gourd!
He’d waited before, in the upstairs room, getting his strength back, and all the while Alec had been at the mercy of the alchemist and Ilar. Now, when he knew Alec was so close by, Seregil was right back where he’d started—limp and useless, trapped in a cell with no means of escape. He wondered if Ilar meant to starve him to death this time, but doubted it. That would end the fun too soon, and it had sounded like he meant to savor Seregil’s destruction.
I’ve been in worse spots, he told himself again, but was hard-pressed to think of many. At least he wasn’t bleeding and had no broken bones so far. That was to the good—though from what Ilar had said, he wondered how long that would last. The future looked rather bleak at the moment.
He found himself missing Zoriel. She’d taken good care of him and cared enough to send that Khatme nurse to check on him.
He tugged absently at a strand of dirty hair. To get out of this wretched prison, he was going to have to use his wits. Fighting Ilar was hopel
ess. The bastard would enjoy it. No, it was time for a new strategy, and fast.
“Rhania, come pay me another visit, won’t you, my dear?” he whispered into the gathering gloom. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d found a servant just as useful as any lock pick.
But it was not Rhania who came to him after dark, but Ilar, and he had an escort this time. Seregil didn’t stir from his corner. He’d had a long time to consider his options.
One of the men placed a stool and a lantern by the door. The other held a tray and Seregil’s mouth watered at the aroma of some soup made with onions and spices.
Ilar sat down and regarded Seregil with obvious delight. “Awake, I see. I hope fasting has improved your temper?”
“I suppose it has,” Seregil replied, purposely sounding fainter than he felt. “Please, what’s happening to Alec?”
“I believe Ilban Yhakobin is preparing him to make another rhekaro.”
“Another?” Seregil closed his eyes, fending off a wave of very real panic.
“Yes. The first one was not suitable,” Ilar told him, relishing his discomfort.
“I want to help him,” said Seregil. “Is there anything I can do that will sway you?”
“My goodness, this is a sea change,” Ilar sneered. “And why should I bargain with you?”
“No bargains,” Seregil replied. “I’ll do anything you want, take any torture you like, if you can keep that man from killing him.”
“You must think me quite a fool, Haba. I assure you, I’m not. I know the minute I turn my back on you, you’ll try to strangle me again, or run away. Probably both.”
“You think I’d leave Alec to die in this place?”
Ilar pondered that a moment. “Perhaps not, but I do find it hard to believe this sudden change of heart toward me.”
“You have my word, Ilar—Ilban. By the love I once had for you, and the love I bear for Alec now.”
“Words are worthless between us, Haba.”
Seregil gathered his will, swallowed his pride and crawled to Ilar on hands and knees, letting the quilts fall away.
“What’s this?”
Seregil crouched before him, kissed one slippered foot and then rested his forehead lightly on it. “My life for his, Ilban. Please, I beg you, my life for his.”
Ilar grabbed the back of Seregil’s head, fingers twisting painfully into his hair. “Be careful, Haba. I will not be lenient with you again when you betray me.”
“My life for his,” Seregil whispered.
“He is not mine to save, you know.”
“But your master listens to you. As long as Alec survives, I will serve you.”
“You will serve me anyway, one way or another.”
“I will serve without resistance.”
“A very interesting proposition, Haba, and one I will consider.” He released Seregil and shoved him away, then stood abruptly. “Get away from me. You stink.”
Seregil crawled backward, to all appearances a craven, broken man.
Ilar stood a moment longer, and Seregil could feel the man’s gaze traveling over him, suspicious, but intrigued. “Well, we shall see.”
Turning to the men, he spoke in their language. “Clean him up, and the room. If anything untoward happens, I’ll have your guts on a trencher.”
The men watched sullenly until Ilar was out of sight, then one growled to his partner, “That arrogant little dog’s prick! Who does he think he is, ordering us around? By Sakor, I’d like to put him in his place once and for all.”
“So you keep saying,” the other one sighed, pushing past him to roll up the soiled bedding. “Count Yhakobin would have you flogged and sold if you so much as laid a finger on his precious pet ’faie, and you know it. And the lickspittle will be free soon, too, and of better standing than either you or me. So just hold your temper and wait. He’ll be gone soon enough.”
He leaned over Seregil and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “This one doesn’t seem too high and mighty, does he?”
The other chuckled as he came over and yanked Seregil’s head up by the hair.
Seregil was getting tired of this sort of treatment, but remained limp and passive.
“Not bad, for a ’faie. Look at those eyes!”
“And that mouth,” the other rumbled, scratching suggestively at his crotch. “What do you think? Would he squeal to Khenir?”
Seregil carefully kept himself in check, not betraying that he understood every word. When one of them began to unlace his breeches, however, the meaning required no words. Neither did Seregil’s answer. He bared his teeth and snapped them together a couple of times, glaring a challenge.
The other man laughed. “Give it up. He’s not worth the beating, and I do believe he means it. Get that old bitch down here to clean him. She’s been all in a lather over him since they put him down here.”
They got their petty revenge, taking the bedding and leaving him naked and shivering on the cold floor. He chafed his arms and legs as he waited. He’d have to be careful with them. As much as they might hate Ilar, they clearly enjoyed tormenting Seregil more.
They returned in short order with Zoriel and several servants. Seregil was glad to see they were carrying a small tub and buckets of water, as well as fresh bedding.
The water was icy, but any bath was welcome and he endured it happily as Zoriel scolded him.
“I had you well again, and look at you now, young son! You’re nothing but bones and bruises.”
“My master isn’t as kind as yours,” Seregil replied with a wry grin, wincing as she scrubbed his back with a rough cloth.
“You tried to throttle him, I heard.” Leaning close, she whispered, “Some of us had a good laugh over that, and not just the slaves.” She dumped a can of cold water over his head and started on his hair with the soap, saying loudly, “Don’t you know who Khenir is? He’s the master’s favorite, and soon to be a freedman. You’ll belong to him, so you’d best learn some manners.”
Seregil sniffed and said nothing. He glanced at the guards to make sure they weren’t paying attention, then murmured, “Did you send the Khatme woman to me?”
“I did. I heard at first that you’d been killed, but she said she saw you being dragged down here. She has the run of the house, more than I do.”
“She’s your friend?”
“I suppose you could say that. It takes a Khatme a while to warm up, as they say. Cold as their mountain fai’thast, most of them, and crafty. But she soon learned she’s no better than the rest of us, when he came.”
“Khenir, you mean?”
“Who else? He’s a sly dog, that one. Smooth as silk with Ilban, and never a word to the rest of us that doesn’t suit his ends.”
“He was always like that.”
She paused in her washing and whispered, “He said he knew you in the past, but I didn’t believe him at first. So he’s dragged you into slavery with him, has he?”
“To get himself out. It’s not me your Ilban wanted, but my friend. Have you seen him?”
“The yellow-haired boy? Only a glimpse now and then when they’d take him through the house to the workshop, but not since they started keeping him there.”
“And you’ve heard nothing more of him since?”
She hesitated, then shook her head and helped him from the tub and into a large towel. He locked eyes with her. “You have heard something. Please, tell me!”
“Well, a few nights ago the most pitiful sounds came from the master’s shop.”
Seregil gripped her wrist as she tried to dry his hair. “What kind of sounds?”
“Cries,” she whispered. “Like someone was being murdered. It could have been an animal, but it sounded like…” She pursed her lips and blinked. “It sounded like a child! But no slave that young’s been brought in, or any animal of late. Not that I know of, and I don’t miss much that happens in the house. Rhania hadn’t heard of any, either.”
Seregil sank slowly to the floor and pulled the
towel around him. “A few nights? When I was brought back here?”
“Yes.”
“Bilairy’s Balls. Is that why he laughed at me?”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Thank you, old mother. I’m grateful for all your care.”
She shook her head, then bent and kissed him on the top of the head as if he were a child. “No one’s called me that but you, young one. Come and sit up so I can comb out that mess of hair of yours.”
Seregil allowed himself to relax as she worked through the tangles and helped him into a clean woolen robe. As she tucked him into bed, he even caught himself wondering fleetingly how he could take her with him when he got out. That was ridiculous, of course, but he did feel a bit guilty at the thought of deserting her.
Alec wouldn’t leave her.
Zoriel retrieved the tray that had been brought earlier and set it across his legs. It was nothing more than the same old lentil soup, bread, and a sliver of hard cheese, but he was so famished it looked like a feast to him. He ate the meal one item at a time, expecting to end up drugged sooner or later. By the time he finished, though, he was still awake and clearheaded.
Zoriel carried the tray out, and the servants cleared away the bath things and took the lantern with them.
Seregil listened to the bar fall into place, then turned on his side. The new pallet and blankets were warmer than the last, but smelled only of fresh air and herbs, with no trace of Alec. They’d left him his pillow, and he pressed his face into it, seeking the lingering traces of Alec’s scent.
The cries Zoriel had reported had sounded like a child or an animal, she’d said. He clutched the pillow closer and prayed it had been the latter.
The following day he was moved back to his upstairs room, with the view of the garden. No one came to beat or drug him, but he knew better than to get his hopes up yet.
At Ilar’s command, Seregil sat by the window that afternoon and saw him walking in the garden with Alec, arm in arm as before. Ilar was holding the chain attached to a collar around Alec’s neck, as usual, but Alec seemed completely at ease with him. Every smile Alec gave the bastard was a knife in Seregil’s heart, but at least it was proof that he was still alive and well.