“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 Rhíminee. 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 fo
rge 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.
The cart was loaded with iron grates. These were simple, sturdy affairs of upright bars and crosspieces. Apparently they were made at the shop in the upper city, then carried down for final fittings here. At the forge, the smith and his helpers were putting the last touches on one, trimming the crosspieces to fit caliper measurements and fashioning hot iron from the forge into the final bars. When they’d finished with that, heavy metal flanges were fastened to the outermost uprights, top and bottom. The lower flanges had heavy pins protruding down from them; the upper did not.
Presently several workmen came out of the tunnel. Their faces were covered with the vinegar cloths, but one was noticeably taller than the rest, and bushy blond hair showed beneath the rim of his leather cap.
“Ordo, we’ll want those rivets when we go back in,” he called to the smith at the forge. “Are they hot yet?”
“Whenever you’re ready for ’em, Master Rythel. And this young fellow’s been waiting for you.” The smith hooked a thumb in Alec’s direction, adding pointedly, “Sergeant Durnin said it was all right.”
Rythel pulled off his face cloth and scrubbed a hand over the thick, well-trimmed beard beneath it. “What do you want?”
Alec jumped down and bobbed an anxious bow. “I’ve a message for you, master, from a woman.”
The man’s scowl lessened appreciatively. Waving for Alec to follow him, he moved away from the others.
“What woman and what message?” he asked.
“A dark-haired bawd in the Street of Lights, master. She says she prays you remember her fondly, and that you’ll come back to her soon as ever you’re able.”
“Did she give her name?” Rythel asked, looking pleased.
“No,” Alec told him with a worried frown, then, as if suddenly remembering, added, “but she’s in the House of the Swans.”
“I know the one,” Rythel said, recognizing the name of Eirual’s establishment. “Anything else?”
“That’s the whole of it, just as she sent. And if I may say, master, I was lucky to find you—”
“Yes, yes!” Reaching into a wallet at his belt, Rythel dropped a few coins into Alec’s outstretched palm. “Tell your lady I’ll see to her when I can. Now off with you.”
“Maker’s Mercy to you,” said Alec, hurrying away. As he passed the soldiers he looked at the coins Rythel had paid. They were all coppers. Showing them to the grinning soldiers, he spat sideways and muttered, “Stingy son of a bitch. Let him carry his own messages.”
Their laughter followed him up the gully.
At the boulder Seregil fell into step beside him and Alec told him all he’d seen as they walked back along the track.
Seregil rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. “Well, now we know what our noser looks like.”
“We still don’t know much about him, though.”
“But if that woman at the shop is anyone to go by, I think we can find those willing to gossip. You carried that off well, as usual. I think maybe we’ll use you for the jilt again tonight.”
Alec grinned happily at the praise. “What will I be this time?”
“A doughty, fresh-faced country lad, looking for an apprenticeship and a few friends.”
Alec’s grin widened. “That has a familiar ring to it.”
• • •
Standing at the end of Ironmonger Row, the Hammer and Tongs was a traditional gathering place for the smiths in that part of town. Most outsiders were actively discouraged by that close-knit fraternity, who considered the alehouse their personal sanctuary and unofficial guildhall, but no one objected to the little wayfaring minstrel who came in out of the storm that evening. Such musicians, hardly more than beggars, were common enough in the city, playing for pennies in taverns and market squares. His cloak, stitched all over with scraps of colored cloths and cheap beads, and the flutes protruding from various pockets granted him entrance and a place near the fire.
Selecting a long wooden flute, Seregil piped out a simple tune and then sang the verse in a voice that would have made Rolan Silverleaf cringe. Fortunately, his present audience was less discriminating and a small crowd had soon gathered at his end of the room. Rythel was not among the company, but he soon found Alec, looking the perfect bumpkin with his homespun tunic and scrubbed, beardless face. The boy gave a slight nod, signaling that all was well.
From his seat by the fireside, Seregil could see that Alec had been adopted by a group of drinkers, and that the woman they’d spoken with at Quarin’s shop was among them. Judging by how they included him in their jests, he had obviously made a favorable impression.
Seregil piped on, keeping an ear open for useful tidbits of conversation around him until Alec left. He played a few short ditties, collected his coppers, and followed.
Alec was waiting for him at the public stable where they’d left horses. Stripping off their disguises in the shadow of an alley, they put on plain clothes and rode to a dram house near the north wall of the Ring.
“I didn’t have much luck, unless you want to know the current price of pig iron,” Seregil said as they sat down at a corner table. “How did you make out?”
“You were right about noses being out of joint among
Quarin’s people,” Alec told him. “Maruli and some of the other smiths gave me a real earful. Not only is Rythel Quarin’s nephew, but he hasn’t been with him that long. He had a shop of his own down in Kedra, but it burned four months ago. That’s when he showed up here.”
“Is Quarin fond of his nephew?”
“Not anymore. Old Alman Blackhand told me things were friendly at first, but that there’ve been hard words. Quarin’s hardly spoken to him since he handed him the sewer job. And some think it’s strange that Rythel lodges apart from his uncle.”
“Interesting. Were any of those you spoke with part of Rythel’s crew?”
“A few, and they don’t much like him either. He has a sharp tongue and treats them like first-month apprentices, always looking over their shoulder. Early on in the job he found fault with the way the grates were being secured. Now he does most of the final fitting himself.”
Seregil raised an appraising eyebrow. “I’ll just bet he does.”
“They’ve been at it for a little over three weeks. All the old grates had to be pulled out and the masonry knees repaired. That’s why the guards are there. They’re putting in the new grates now. Alman is in charge of measuring the part of the sewer tunnel where the grate will be, so that the flange pins and holes will set in properly, but Rythel does the final seating and pinning. And the grates are fixed, not gated. That’s about it, except that I’ve been told to see Quarin about an apprenticeship.”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that.”
Alec leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Do you think Rythel could be tampering with the grates?”
“Judging by his behavior, we can’t afford to overlook the possibility. The question is how, and whether any of the other workmen are in on it. And who’s backing this whole thing, of course.”
“It’s got to be the Plenimarans.”
“I mean specifically who, and whether or not Rythel knows who’s running the show. We’ve got to move very carefully, Alec. We don’t want another cock-up like the raid at Kassarie’s. We got the big snake there, but all the little ones slithered safely away. We’d better go talk to Nysander. This looks to be Watcher business.”