Rhania pointed to an arched gateway at the far end of the courtyard. “Through there. Your friend is in Ilban’s workshop.”
“Good. Stay close to me.”
Keeping to the shadows under the gallery, he started for the gate.
Suddenly someone on the gallery overhead shouted, “There they are.”
Rhania cowered back against the wall as the sound of running feet came from all directions. “That’s Ilban!”
“There!” a woman screamed, and Seregil prayed it wasn’t Zoriel.
“No!” Rhania gasped, looking around wildly. “No, I can’t…I won’t!”
Before Seregil could stop her, she clasped the carving knife in both hands and drove it deep into her breast. She fell without a cry.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Seregil bolted across the courtyard, dodged between two startled guards coming the other way, and dashed into the garden beyond. The workshop Rhania told him about was right there in front of him, but it might as well have been on the moon for all the good it did him right now.
A pursuer caught him by the shoulder. Seregil paused just long enough to plunge his poniard through that man’s throat and into the chest of the one who’d come with him, then ran across to a large, ornate fountain on what appeared to be an outer wall. Using the carvings for purchase, he scrambled up. At the top, somehow still clutching the bloody poniard, he looked over and saw a shadowed fold of ground below. Ditch or gorge, it was impossible to tell.
He kept low and ran along the top of the wall, trying to find a better place, but the declivity followed this side of the house.
If he did jump and didn’t break his neck, he still might not be able to get back inside easily for Alec. And just where exactly was he going to go if he did run—branded, dressed in stolen, ill-fitting clothes, with blood on his hands, and no knowledge of the countryside?
He followed the top of the wall past the workshop and around the smaller garden with the covered walkway and the fish pool. He caught sight of movement below just in time to flatten himself into the angle between the wall and the tiled walkway roof.
“What are you doing in here?” a man demanded.
“The master said to search everywhere,” another replied.
“Don’t be a fool. You can see where he went over the wall. There are bloody handprints all over the fountain. Get the dogs and search the gully first. He’s likely lying there with a broken leg, the damn fool.”
“That’ll be the least of his worries once the master has him again.”
The voices faded away. Thunder rolled in the distance, and a few drops of cold rain pattered down, spattering on the tiles and soaking through the back of Seregil’s thin tunic. A moment later the skies opened and rain came down in sheets.
Seregil mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. The rain would cover the fact that there were no tracks beyond the wall. He cautiously raised his head and looked around. Directly across from where he lay was the wing of the house where he’d been held in the upstairs room. Several small wooden grilles were visible just below the eaves, and most likely let into an attic. In his experience, attics of large houses could be very useful places.
He carefully crawled along the walkway roof, but the rain was so heavy now that he could barely see the fountain and guessed he was equally hidden.
It was hard work, clambering over the uneven tiles, and his palms and knees were sore by the time he finally reached the first wooden grille. It was old and a little rotten. Using the dagger, he easily pried it from its frame and wriggled in.
It was dusty and cold inside, and pitch-black at first. He crouched where he’d landed, letting his eyes adjust. A flash of lightning gave him a glimpse of jumbled trunks and broken bits of furniture. Seregil resisted the urge to explore just yet and leave telltale wet footprints in the dust.
His caution was well warranted. Servants soon appeared with lanterns and proceeded to search every corner of the rambling space. Seregil was kept busy skulking from one shadowy hiding spot to another. He eventually managed to get behind them in an already searched area and hunkered down under a large pile of moth-eaten bedclothes, clutching the bloody poniard.
It wasn’t the best hiding spot: the musty comforters were alive with beetles and mice, and he nearly ruptured his eardrums stifling several violent sneezes.
The lights finally disappeared and the attic went silent again. He stayed where he was, breathing though his mouth, for some time, but no one came back to catch him out. The storm still raged outside, with thunder treading on the lightning’s heels.
With any luck, Yhakobin would give up the search for tonight, and find the trail cold tomorrow. Safe for the moment, Seregil arranged himself more comfortably in his dusty, itchy hiding place to rest while he could.
“Take care, talí,” he murmured softly. “I’m coming for you soon.”
CHAPTER 37
Closing In
THE MILKY LIGHT of early dawn was slanting through the broken slats when Seregil cautiously emerged from his hiding place. He braced for some lurking guard to jump him, as they had last night, but it seemed he was alone with the mice for now. He brushed himself off, slapped a spider off his neck, and looked around. His pursuers had done him a favor. There were fresh footprints all over the dusty floor. No one was likely to notice a few more.
The attic ran all around the top of the house, mirroring its shape, and he soon found a small window overlooking the alchemist’s shop and garden. There was no sign of anyone there at the moment. He hoped that they hadn’t moved Alec back into the cellar. If he went back the way he’d come, he should be able to climb down onto the roof of the covered walkway around the garden and from there break into the shop.
“You did me a good turn, Rhania, giving me these knives back,” he whispered, clasping the poniard’s stained grip. “May your soul continue on in peace.”
Having satisfied himself to his position and plan for the night, he turned his attention to the contents of the attic and soon found enough old clothing to outfit a regiment, some cracked leather boots that fit, and, most useful of all, an old wicker basket containing a lady’s sewing kit. There were a few ivory needles, some rusty shears that, with the application of a little spit, could still cut, and even some serviceable thread.
He chose the two best-looking coats and breeches and tried them on. They were all too large, so he sat down under one of the grates to alter them.
The morning passed quickly, and he was glad to be busy; it took his mind off his empty belly and parched mouth. He held one of the ivory needles in the corner of his mouth and sucked on that while he worked, trying to get a little spit flowing.
By early afternoon the rain had stopped and he’d altered two coats and bundled them into a pair of moth-eaten cloaks. Bored now, he went back to searching, and soon found a place over the main part of the house where he could hear voices. Stretching out on his belly, he pressed an ear to the floor. It sounded like servants’ chatter, and from what he could make out, the household was still in an uproar. Grinning, he softly moved on, looking for anything else that could be useful.
The alchemist had no weapons or coin lying about up here, but Seregil did find something nearly as valuable in a locked casket. With the help of the shears he pried the hasp up and spilled out a small pile of jewelry. Most of it was small items of worked silver, set with inferior stones—a child’s collection, perhaps, but there were a few gold lockets and a set of ivory and gold combs set with a nice bit of blue chalcedony.
Valuable, and portable. My favorite combination. He added them to his stock of useful items.
Further on, he ran across a box of rusty tools, and among them was a lathing hatchet with a cracked haft. It had a flared blade on one side and a hammerhead on the other.
“You’ll do quite nicely in a pinch,” he murmured happily, testing its weight. It could cave a man’s skull with either side. He also found a worn whetstone, and carried both back to the window and set about sharpening th
e hatchet blade. He didn’t have much spit left by now, but it was enough to grind an edge of sorts. He was looking around for something to bind up the haft when the sound of a commotion burst out in the direction of the workshop. Someone was crying out, and one side of his mouth curved up in a lopsided grin, for he was quite certain he recognized that voice.
Alec awoke to the sound of shouting upstairs in the shop. He went to the door and pressed his ear to it. It did little good; what he could make out was in Plenimaran. But there was no doubt that Master Yhakobin was furious with someone. A moment later he heard the sound of a blow and a cry, then a babble of craven apology.
That was Khenir’s voice.
The tirade ended with the sound of someone being dragged down past his door to the cellar, and the slam of the heavy door there and the tramp of ascending boots.
Things went quiet for a long time after that, but he was sure he could hear the sound of ragged weeping now and again, floating up from below. Time dragged on. His belly told him it was long past time for breakfast, but still no one came. What could Khenir, the master’s favorite, have done to warrant this sort of treatment?
At last Ahmol appeared with some soup and bread.
“What’s going on?” Alec asked, not really expecting to be understood.
“Slave run,” the man replied sullenly.
“Khenir tried to escape?”
But Ahmol shook his head. “’Faie slave.”
“Rhania?”
Ahmol snorted at that, then sneered with evident enthusiasm, “Khenir slave.”
Alec wondered if he’d understood the man’s broken answers correctly. Hadn’t he just said it wasn’t Khenir who’d escaped? And if this escaped ’faie wasn’t Khenir or Rhania…“Is the slave who ran a man?”
Ahmol gave him a grudging nod and went out. Hadn’t Khenir told him that there were no other ’faie slaves in the house?
He sat staring at the door, heart beating loud in his ears. There was no reason to think it was Seregil, but he couldn’t quash the sudden rush of hope that it might be. Perhaps the alchemist had purchased both of them that night. Maybe Seregil had even been in the same slave barn, and Alec hadn’t seen him. To have been that close!
And if it was Seregil, and if he had gotten out, then he was out there somewhere, looking for a way to get Alec out, too.
But only if he knows I’m here.
He decided not to think about that right now. No matter what, it was time to get out. He reached under the bed and felt for his pick. It was still there.
Alec paced and fretted, wishing he had a window to tell the time by. He slept and woke and paced some more, empty belly reminding him that no one had appeared with a meal for too long. He was still at it when the door swung open and two of Yhakobin’s warders stormed in and dragged him upstairs to the workshop garden. It was late afternoon, or at least he thought so. Black clouds hid the sun, heavy with the promise of rain.
A dozen or more household servants were there, along with a great number of armed men. Alec recognized several as those who had dragged him back and forth from his cellar prison. They all stood around a stout post that had been set into the ground. Beside it, on a litter, lay the nursemaid, Rhania. A cloth had been bound across her eyes and another under her jaw; she was dead. Flies buzzed around the blood staining the front of her rain-soaked gown.
If it was Seregil who’d escaped, why would he kill another ’faie?
Yhakobin stood by the post, holding his crop in one hand. Alec began to tremble, wondering what in Bilairy’s name he’d done to deserve this?
But it soon became apparent that this wasn’t about him. More men emerged from the workshop, dragging Khenir between them. The fine golden collar was gone, replaced by one of cruder iron. Alec was shocked at his appearance. The normally reserved man was screaming and struggling, hair wild about his face as if he’d been tearing at it. And he was naked.
Worse, the scars of Khenir’s gelding and terrible whippings were revealed for all to see.
Alec watched, grief-stricken, as the struggling man was dragged to the post and chained by his collar to it.
“Ilban?” Alec gasped faintly.
“Watch well, Alec.” Yhakobin flexed the crop between his hands. “This wretch Khenir, whom I loved and trusted above all others, has brought shame on my house, and death. He begged a slave of me and promised to tame him, then allowed him to escape and kill poor Rhania.” He looked down at the dead woman and shook his head. “Such a waste!”
Khenir had a slave? One who needed taming? Is that what Ahmol had been trying to say? But how could a slave own another slave?
Yhakobin brought the crop down on the cowering man’s bare shoulders and back. “You are cast out of my household!”
The alchemist continued to vent his rage on the huddled, screaming man. Watching helplessly, Alec forgot all his suspicions and questions for the moment; Khenir had befriended him, comforted him. And Alec couldn’t save him.
Yhakobin whipped Khenir until he was out of breath, then threw the crop aside. “I should have you skinned alive for this, but in light of your past good services, I am sparing your life. You’ll be flogged, and tomorrow you’ll be taken to the markets and sold, with your sins known.”
“Please, Ilban, no! Kill me if you will, merciful Ilban, but not the markets, I beg you!” Khenir wailed.
When Yhakobin turned his face away, Khenir grew more frantic. “The door was locked! I know it was locked! It had to be locked. The key. I have it. Please, Ilban, let me show you!”
“Silence! He was your responsibility and you failed. You know the laws, Khenir. Your shame falls on me.”
Men tied Khenir’s hands and hung him from a large peg set high on the post. Another unlimbered a short, thick drayman’s whip and took his place.
“Thirty lashes,” Yhakobin ordered. “Don’t cripple him. I want him fit for the block.”
Alec closed his eyes, but there was no escaping the screams that followed.
Seregil lay with his face pressed to the wooden screen, and was surprised at how little pleasure he took in the sight of Ilar being brought low. How many times had Ilar endured the whip, he wondered, thinking of all the scars on the man’s body. And who knew what sort of person would buy such damaged goods?
He was so beautiful once…
No! This is my doing, my revenge. I should be glad! But his heart wasn’t in it.
When the whipping was over, and Ilar had subsided to ragged moans, someone came forward and threw handfuls of something onto his back. Judging by the renewed screams, Seregil guessed it was salt. Alec was still being held at the front of the crowd, and even in this light, Seregil could see his lover’s anguish.
The master gave another order and Ilar was cut down, still chained by his collar to the post. They left him there, broken and alone.
Something tickled Seregil’s cheek and he brushed at it, expecting to feel another spider, but it wasn’t.
He wiped his face angrily. Why should I waste any tears on that bastard?
But he couldn’t seem to look away from the broken wreck of his enemy, or block out the pathetic sobbing.
CHAPTER 38
Lovers and Lying Bastards
ALEC SAT ON his bed, watching the candle burn down, glad to be shut down here, away from masters and whips and the sight of Khenir hanging on that post. He couldn’t get the man’s cries out of his head, or the sight of his scars. But mixed with that was the memory of that day in the garden, and Khenir’s faltering attempts to woo him. Or seduce him. Had Seregil been in one of those upper rooms? Was he the shadowy figure at the window Alec sometimes caught sight of?
Oh, talí, what did you think?
Khenir lied to me.
“Alec, I was half-dead when Ilban brought me to this house…I pledged my life to him. I’ve kept that pledge…” He’d been telling Alec the truth then.
And he’d admitted to taking the first pick Alec had made.
But he didn??
?t tell Yhakobin about that. It could have been me on that post, and Khenir certainly would have been rewarded if he’d told.
He didn’t know what to believe at this point, only what he wanted to be true.
He rested his face in his hands, trying to calm his racing thoughts and pounding heart.
Breathe, Alec. Just focus on your breath, Seregil whispered to him from long ago.
In.
Out.
Slow.
Deep.
He continued like that for a long time, until grief, doubt, confusion—all of it—receded, leaving in their place that same calm silence he felt right before he released his bowstring and let an arrow fly.
He reached under the bed, reassuring himself again that the bronze pin was still there, and settled back to watch the candle’s progress.
By midnight, the house below had fallen silent. Seregil felt around in the dark, making sure he had everything he needed. The clothes he’d altered fit well enough and despite the musty odor that clung to them, he felt more himself than he had in weeks, free at last of his slave’s garb. He had a suit of clothes ready for Alec, too, rolled tightly around a pair of boots he hoped would fit.
The poniard, dagger, and lathing hatchet were tucked securely into the belt Rhania had given him. The bits of jewelry, his boots, and Alec’s clothing were tied in the cloak and slung over one shoulder, and with them the severed braid of his long hair. He regretted having to cut it, but that, as much as his face, would have been a flag to any slave takers. What remained hung in ragged hanks around his face. Between that, his patched-up, faded, ill-fitting clothing, and a day’s worth of dust on his face and hands, he cut a rather fine figure as a beggar. He tied a stained kerchief around his neck and went to the window to see if the coast was still clear.
He’d seen two sentries so far, and they came and went. No doubt the alchemist had the rest still scouring the countryside for him.