Seregil crossed the room with the aid of a lightstone and lit the fire. As the flames leapt up, he surveyed the room in surprise. “Illior’s Hands, don’t tell me you cleaned the place up before you left for Wheel Street?”
“Just enough so I could walk across the room safely,” Alec replied, going to his neat, narrow bed in the corner near the hearth. He didn’t particularly mind Seregil’s chaotic living habits, but he did dislike stepping on sharp objects barefoot, or having heavy things fall on him from shelves. Hanging his sword and bow case on their nails above the bed, he stretched out with a contented sigh.
Seregil collapsed on the sofa in front of the fire. “You know, it strikes me that this is all a bit of a comedown for you. After having your own chamber, I mean. Perhaps we should think about expanding our accommodations here. There are empty rooms on either side of us.”
“Don’t bother on my account.” Yawning, Alec crossed his arms behind his head. “I like things just as they are.”
Seregil smiled up at the shadow of a dusty cobweb wavering overhead. “So do I, now that you mention it.”
Their pleasure at returning to the inn was marred by a sudden scarcity of jobs. The few that had come in during their absence were petty matters, and over the next week new ones were slow to follow. For the first time in their acquaintance, Alec saw Seregil grow bored.
To make matters worse, late winter was the dreariest season in Rhíminee despite the lengthening days. The icy rains brought thicker fog in off the sea, and a grey dampness seemed to get into everything. Alec found himself sleeping well past dawn, and then nodding off over whatever he was doing in the evening with the sound of the rain lulling him like a heartbeat. Seregil, on the other hand, became increasingly restless.
Returning from a visit with Nysander one dank afternoon near the end of Dostin, Alec found Seregil working at the writing desk. The parchment in front of him was half-covered with musical notations, but he appeared to have lost interest in the project. Chin on hand, he was staring glumly out at the fog slinking by like a jilted lover.
“Did you check with Rhiri on your way up?” he asked without turning his head.
“Nothing new,” Alec replied, unwrapping the books the wizard had lent him.
“Damn. And I’ve already checked everywhere else. If people keep behaving themselves like this we’ll be out of a job.”
“How about a game of bakshi?” Alec offered. “I could use some practice on those cheats you showed me yesterday.”
“Maybe later. I don’t seem to be in the mood.” With an apologetic shrug, Seregil returned to his composition.
Suit yourself, thought Alec. Clearing a space on the room’s central table, he settled down to study the compendium of rare beasts Nysander had given him. The text was somewhat beyond his ability, but he stubbornly puzzled it out, relying on the illustrations for clues when the gist of a passage eluded him. With cold mists swirling against the windowpanes, a fire crackling on the hearth, and a cup of tea at his elbow, it was not an unpleasant way to occupy an afternoon.
It did require considerable concentration, however, which quickly proved difficult as Seregil abandoned the desk and began wandering around the room. First he toyed with an unusual lock he’d picked up somewhere, grinding noisily away at the wards with a succession of picks. A few moments later he tossed it onto a shelf with the others and disappeared into his chamber, where Alec could hear him rummaging through the chests and trunks piled there and muttering aloud, either to himself or the ever faithful Ruetha.
Presently he reappeared with an armload of scrolls. Kicking the scattered cushions into a pile in front of the fire, he settled himself to read. But this pursuit was equally short-lived. After a brief perusal involving considerable rustling of parchments and muttered asides, each document was relegated in rapid succession into the fire or onto a dusty pile beneath the couch. With this task completed, he lay back among the cushions and began to whistle softly between his teeth, keeping time to his tune by tapping the toe of one boot against the ash shovel.
Not even Nysander’s excellent bestiary could withstand such distraction. Realizing he’d just read the same sentence for the third time, Alec carefully closed the book.
“We could do some shooting in the back court,” he suggested, trying not to let his exasperation show.
Seregil looked up in surprise. “Oh, sorry. Am I disturbing you?”
“Well—”
He stood up again with a sigh. “I’m not fit to be around today, I’m afraid. I’ll get out of your way.” With this he returned to his room, emerging a few moments later wearing his best cloak. He’d changed his rumpled tunic for a proper surcoat and breeches, too, Alec saw.
“Where are you off to?”
“I think I’ll just walk awhile, get some air,” Seregil said, avoiding eye contact as he hurried to the door.
“Wait a minute, and I’ll go with you.”
“No, no, you go on with your reading,” Seregil insisted hurriedly. “And tell Thryis not to wait supper for me. I could be late.”
The door closed after him and Alec found himself in sole possession of their rooms.
“Well, at least he didn’t take his pack this time,” he grumbled to Ruetha, who’d stationed herself on a stack of books beside him. Tucking herself into a neat loaf, the cat merely blinked at him.
Alec opened his book again, but found he couldn’t concentrate at all now.
Giving up, he made another pot of tea and looked into Seregil’s bedroom while it steeped; no clue was immediately apparent in that chaotic jumble.
What’s he up to, dashing off like that?
Except for that one mysterious journey, Seregil had included him in every job since the Festival. But he hadn’t acted like he was going out on a job just now.
The parchment was still on the desk. Bending over it, Alec saw that it was the beginnings of a song. The words were badly smudged in places, and whole lines had been struck through or scribbled over. What remained read:
Shelter awhile this poor tattered heart.
Cool my brow with your kiss.
Tell me, my love, you’ll lie with me only.
Lie to me all night like this.
Sweet is the night, but bitter the waking
When the sun harries me home.
Others there’ll be, who drink at your fountain
While I toss cold and alone.
Yellow as gold, the hair on your pillow,
Green as cold emeralds, your eyes.
Dear as the moon, the cost of your favors,
Below this half a dozen lines had been struck out with what appeared to be increasing frustration.
The margins of the sheet were filled with half-completed sketches and designs—Illior’s crescent, a perfectly drawn eye, circles, spirals, arrows, the profile of a handsome young man. In the lower left corner was a quick but unmistakable sketch of Alec scowling comically over his books, which Seregil must have drawn from his reflection in the windowpane.
As he set the sheet aside, a familiar binding caught his eye among the books stacked on the workbench next to the desk. It was the Aurënfaie journal case they’d discovered in the Orëska library. He’d assumed Seregil had returned it with the others; he certainly hadn’t said anything more about it, or about their discovery of the reference to the mysterious “Eater of Death.”
Opening it, Alec gently turned the fragile pages over. Though he couldn’t read them, they all looked just as he remembered them.
He replaced the case as he’d found it, and for the first time wondered if Seregil’s restlessness lately was due to something more than just bad weather and boredom. Come to think of it, he’d been restless at Watermead, as well. Those nights they’d shared the guest chamber bed, his friend had often tossed and muttered in his sleep. He hadn’t done that before. What secrets was he wrestling with?
“Or maybe he’s just pining for his green-eyed mistress?” Alec speculated aloud, scanning the parchment
again with an amused chuckle. Ruetha appeared to have no opinion on the matter, however, and he found himself pacing as he rehearsed various nonchalant comments he could use to broach the subject when Seregil returned.
Whenever that turned out to be.
Lost in the quiet of the murky afternoon, he went back to his book and read until the light failed. When he got up for a fresh candle, he saw that the rain had stopped. Beyond the courtyard wall, the street lanterns glowed enticingly through the mist.
Suddenly the room seemed close and stale. There was really no reason he shouldn’t go out. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? Throwing on a surcoat and cloak, he headed downstairs.
The door between the kitchen and lading room was open. Through it he could see Cilla serenely nursing Luthas in the middle of the dinnertime bustle, sorting through a basket of apples with her free hand as she did so. The baby sucked greedily, tugging at the lacings of her open bodice. Her exposed breast throbbed gently with the rhythm of his demand.
Alec’s experience with Ylinestra had considerably altered his reaction to such sights. He colored guiltily when she looked up and caught him hovering in the doorway.
“I thought you’d gone out already,” she said.
“Ah—no. I was just, that is— It’s stopped raining, you see, and I’m just going out for a walk.” He gestured vaguely toward the door behind him.
“Could you hold the baby a minute before you go?” she asked, pulling Luthas off the nipple and holding him up. “My arm’ll break if I don’t shift over.”
Taking the child, Alec held him while Cilla moved her baskets and uncovered her other breast. It was swollen with milk; a thin stream jetted from the nipple as she moved. Alec was close enough to see the pearly drops that fell across the deep red skins of the apples. He looked away, feeling a little dizzy. Luthas let out a sleepy burp and nuzzled at the front of Alec’s cloak.
“The way he eats, you’d think I’d not have a drop to spare, but just look at me!” Cilla exclaimed merrily, taking the child back and putting him to breast on the other side. “Maker’s Mercy, I’ve got more milk than Grandmother’s goat.”
Unable to think of a suitable reply to this, Alec nodded a hasty farewell and turned to go.
“Hey, Alec. Take this for your troubles,” she said, tossing him an apple.
Feeling wetness beneath his fingers, he tucked it into a pocket and retreated to the back courtyard.
There, with the fog cool on his face, he allowed himself a moment’s guilty pleasure replaying the scene in his mind. Cilla had never treated him as anything but a friend and until just now it had never occurred to him to think otherwise of her. Of course, the fact that she was at least six years older than he made it unlikely that her opinion would change.
Settling his sword belt against his hip, he pulled his hood well up and set off through the back gate with no particular destination in mind. The fog carried the smell of smoke and the sea. He tossed a corner of his cloak over one shoulder, enjoying the feel of the cold night air.
Skirting the Harvest Market, he strolled through Knife Maker’s Lane to Golden Helm and followed it, watching the evening traffic bustle past. As he reached the Astellus Circle, he was suddenly struck by a new and unexpected inspiration.
Across the busy circle, beyond the pale, templelike fountain colonnade, stood the gracious arch that marked the entrance to the Street of Lights. He’d been down this street many times on the way to the theater and gambling houses there, and Seregil had often jested about stopping in at a brothel afterward, but somehow it had never happened. He’d never imagined it would.
Until now.
The colored lanterns—rose, amber, green, and white—glowed softly through the mist, each color signifying what sort of companionship was available within. Rose meant women for men, he knew, and white was women for women; amber meant a house for women, too, but the prostitutes there were male. Most enigmatic of all, however, was the green lantern, signifying male companions for male patrons. Worse yet, some houses showed several colors at once.
There’s no reason to be nervous, he thought as he crossed to the arch. After all, his clothes were presentable, his purse was heavy, and thanks to Ylinestra, he wasn’t completely inexperienced. As his friends never seemed to tire of pointing out, he was of age for such diversions. There was no harm in just having a look around, anyway. Nothing wrong with being curious.
As usual, the street was busy. Riders on glossy horses and carriages displaying the blazons of noble houses and wealthy merchants clattered past as he strolled along, looking with new eyes at the establishments showing the pink lantern. Groups of rich young revelers seemed to be everywhere, their boisterous laughter echoing in the darkness.
A woman wearing the uniform of the Queen’s Household Guard was bidding a lingering good-bye to a half-dressed man in a doorway beneath an amber lamp as he passed. Next door, a well-heeled sea captain and several of his men burst from one house showing the rose light and, after a moment’s consultation, stormed off across the street to one with a green. Lights glowed in nearly every window; muffled laughter and strains of music drifted everywhere, adding to the festive feel of the place.
It occurred to him as he walked along that the color of a lantern was not a lot to go on for such a decision. No doubt Seregil could have suggested a few likely places, but that wasn’t much good to him now. At last, he settled on a house near the middle of the street for no better reason than that he liked the carvings on the door. Just as he was about to go in, however, a door swung open across the street and a group of young men spilled out in a flood of light and music. A man was singing inside, and the voice stopped Alec in his tracks. The clear, lilting tenor was unmistakably Seregil’s.
“Yellow as gold, the hair on your pillow,
Green as cold emeralds, your eyes.
Dear as the moon, the cost of your favors,
But priceless, the sound of your sighs.”
Well, well! So here you are, thought Alec. And you figured out that last line, too.
Wondering what role his friend was playing tonight, he crossed the street and hurried up the stairs and into the spacious vestibule beyond. In his haste, he collided with a tall, handsomely dressed man just inside the door.
“Good evening,” he exclaimed, catching Alec lightly by the shoulders to steady himself. His hair was streaked with silver, but his long, handsome face was youthful as he smiled down on Alec.
“Excuse me, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Alec apologized.
“No harm done. I’m always glad to meet anyone so anxious to enter my house. You’ve not been my guest before, I think. I’m Azarin.”
The man’s blue eyes swept over him in what Alec sensed was well-practiced appraisal. He’d given no patronymics and Alec’s name was not asked for.
Evidently he’d passed muster, for Azarin slipped his arm through Alec’s and drew him with gentle insistence toward a curtained archway nearby.
“Come, my young friend,” he said warmly, drawing aside the curtain. “I believe you’ll find the company most congenial.”
“Actually, I was just—”
Taking the room in at a glance, Alec froze, all thought of Seregil momentarily forgotten.
Beyond the curtain, a broad staircase led down into an opulent salon. The air in the softly lit room was heavy with incense. The walls were painted in Skalan fashion with superb murals and, while erotic themes were not uncommon, these were unlike any Alec had encountered before.
Green, he thought numbly, heart tripping a beat as he gazed around.
The murals were divided into panels, and each presented handsome male nudes intertwined in passionately carnal acts. The sheer variety was astonishing. Many of the feats depicted appeared to require considerable athletic ability and several, thought Alec, must have been pure fantasy on the part of the artist.
Dragging his gaze from the paintings, he swiftly took in the occupants of the astonishing chamber. Men of al
l ages reclined on couches arranged around the room, some embracing casually as they gave their attention to a young lute player by the hearth, others laughing and talking over gaming tables scattered here and there. Couples and small groups came and went up a sweeping staircase at the back of the room. There was no unseemly behavior, but many of them wore little more than long dressing gowns.
The patrons seemed to be mostly noblemen of various degrees, but Alec also recognized uniforms of the Queen’s Archers, the City Watch, several naval tunics, and a red tabard of the Orëska Guard. He even recognized a few faces, including the poet Rhytien, who was currently holding forth to a rapt audience from the embrasure of a window.
The courtesans, if that was what one would call them, were not at all what he’d expected; some were slight and pretty, but most of them looked more like athletes or soldiers, and not all of them were young.
He hadn’t heard Seregil’s voice again since he’d entered, but he saw him now lounging on a couch near the hearth. He had one arm around a handsome, golden-haired young man and they were laughing together over something. As the courtesan turned his head, Alec recognized him—it was the same face Seregil had sketched on the margin of the song. Even from this distance, Alec could see the fellow had green eyes.
His heart did another slow, painful roll as he finally allowed himself to focus on Seregil.
His friend wore only breeches beneath his open robe and his dark hair hung disheveled over his shoulders. Slender, lithe, and completely at ease, he could easily have been mistaken for one of the men of the house. In fact, Alec silently admitted, he outshone them all.
He was beautiful.
Still rooted where he stood, Alec suddenly felt a strange division within himself. The old Alec, northern-bred and callow, wanted to bolt from this strange, exotic place and the sight of his friend stroking that golden head as absently as he’d petted the cat a few hours earlier.
But the new Alec, Alec of Rhíminee, stood fast, caught by the elegant decadence of the place as his ever-present curiosity slowly rekindled. Seregil hadn’t noticed him yet; to see him like this in such a place made Alec feel as if he were spying on a stranger.