Alec crossed over and reached to inspect the cut on Seregil’s scalp. “That’s quite a lump she raised.”
“Serves me right,” he muttered through chattering teeth. “Illior’s Fingers! Jumped by a pair of gaterunners. If the cold water hadn’t brought me around I’d have drowned.”
“I’m glad you didn’t kill him. He couldn’t have been more than twelve.”
Seregil braced one arm against the wall and let out a long sigh. “Me, too. It’s strange for them to have attacked in the first place. Runners are usually a pretty elusive lot. They steal and spy, but they generally avoid a fight.”
Frowning, Alec pulled off his face rag and pressed it to the cut on Seregil’s head. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’re looking kind of shaky.”
Seregil closed his eyes for a moment, resting one hand on Alec’s shoulder. Then, taking the cloth from him, he held it himself and continued on down the tunnel. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve had all the swimming I care for tonight.”
They reached the upper entrance behind the mulberry bushes without incident, but the combined effects of cold and the blow were beginning to take their toll on Seregil.
“You go for Nysander,” he said, shivering even with his dry cloak pulled tightly around him. “I’d better stay and make sure no one tumbles to our little adventure in the meantime.”
To his surprise, Alec balked.
“No, you go,” he stated flatly. “Your head is still bleeding and I can hear your teeth chattering from here.”
“I’ll survive,” Seregil retorted. “I don’t want you here alone. What if someone does show up?”
“All the more reason for you to hurry,” Alec said stubbornly. “I’ll stay out of sight—they’ll never know I’m here. You’re the one needs looking after. Go on!”
Seregil could tell by the set of Alec’s jaw that his mind was made up. Cutting a small strip from the hem of his cloak, he handed it to Alec. “Hang on to this. Nysander can use it to find you. And keep out of sight no matter what, understand? No heroics.”
“No heroics.”
Seregil let out a defeated sigh. “If I’m not back soon, you get back to the Orëska, understand?”
“All right, yes! Will you just go? I don’t want to be here all night.” Pulling up his hood, Alec melted back into the shadows.
The pounding in Seregil’s head worsened as he dashed through the darkened streets toward the Orëska, but he managed to ignore the pain by worrying about Alec instead. Despite his faith in the boy’s quick wits, he couldn’t seem to shake off visions of Alec being caught unawares by the Watch or stealthy spies returning to check their handiwork.
Arriving at the Orëska filthy, wet, and bloody, he argued his way past the watchman and hurried up the twisting stairs to Nysander’s tower.
Thero opened the door and recoiled, covering his nose with one full sleeve. “By the Four!” he gagged, blocking the doorway. “You smell like you just crawled out of the sewers.”
“Very observant of you. Get out of my way.”
“You’re not coming in here like that. Go down to the baths first.”
“I don’t have time for this, Thero. Now move or I’ll move you.”
The two glared at each other, years of mutual dislike laid open between them without the gloss of banter or social nicety. Either could have done the other considerable harm if it came to open confrontation, and they both knew it.
“Alec’s alone out there, and we need Nysander’s help,” hissed Seregil.
With a last disgusted look, Thero stepped aside and let him through to the workroom. “He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“Out for his nightly walk, I imagine,” Thero replied stiffly. “Or perhaps you’ve forgotten about those?”
“Then summon him!” Seregil paused, took a deep breath, and said through clenched teeth, “If you please.”
Thero conjured a message sphere with a casual wave of his hand. Balancing the tiny light over his palm, he said to it, “Nysander, Seregil needs you right away. He’s in the workroom.” The light shot away through the floor. He waved Seregil to a wooden bench near one of the tables, but remained standing himself.
The young wizard was immaculate as ever, Seregil noted sourly, his robe spotless beneath his leather apron, his curly black hair and beard neatly trimmed, blunt-fingered hands unsullied. The thought that he’d inhabited that angular frame himself, if briefly, still made him cringe inwardly. That Thero had had the use of his body didn’t bear thinking about.
“You’re bleeding,” Thero said at last, stepping reluctantly toward him. “I’d better have a look.”
Seregil drew back from his touch. “It’s just a scratch.”
“You have a lump the size of an egg over your ear and fresh blood on your cheek,” Thero snapped. “What do you think Nysander would say if I let you sit there like that?”
Wethis, the young servant, brought clean water and dressings and Thero set about cleaning the wound.
Nysander returned just as he was finishing.
“What an unprecedented tableau,” the wizard exclaimed, hurrying in between the stacks of manuscripts. He was dressed in a threadbare surcoat and trousers. Seregil noted with a twinge of pride how kind and unwizardly his old friend looked in comparison to his stiff assistant.
“By the Light, Seregil, what an appalling stench! When you have finished there, Thero, please go and find him a clean robe.”
Folding the bloodied towel next to the basin, Thero disappeared down the back stairway to their quarters.
Nysander smiled, examining his assistant’s handiwork. “He does surprise me sometimes. But where is Alec?”
“Take this.” Seregil pulled out another scrap of cloth he’d cut from his cloak and pressed it into Nysander’s hand. “We found what we were looking for, sabotage in the tunnels, but made one hell of a mess doing it. I need you to fix it up for us. Alec’s waiting by the entrance, so we’d better hurry.”
Nysander shook his head. “Yes, of course, but I see no reason to drag you out again. You are still chilled to the bone, and a translocation would not be the best thing for you after such a knock on the head.”
Seregil rose to protest and was very surprised to feel the floor lurch beneath his feet in a decidedly unpleasant manner.
“There now, you see?” Nysander chided, pressing him back down on the bench. “You go downstairs and sit by the fire. Alec can show me whatever it is I need to see.”
“I can’t just sit here,” Seregil insisted again, though his head was still spinning. “We ran into one pair of gaterunners down there already tonight. There could be others, or worse.”
Nysander raised a shaggy eyebrow at him. “Are you suggesting that Alec would not be safe in my company?”
Seregil sank his head in his hands as Thero reappeared with clean garments over his arm.
“I leave Seregil in your able care,” Nysander told him. “I suggest a cup of hot wine and, by all or any means necessary, a bath.” Clasping the scrap of woolen cloth Seregil had given him, he traced a series of designs on the air and disappeared into the wide black aperture that opened briefly beside him.
When Nysander opened his eyes again, he was in a small deserted square.
“There you are,” whispered Alec, crawling out from behind a clump of leafless bushes. “Is Seregil all right?”
“Yes, just a bit dizzy. He says you have something to show me.”
“Something we need fixed,” the boy replied with a familiar grin. “Follow me.”
This was the first time he’d actually seen Alec at work, and he was impressed with his quickness and efficiency.
“My, but Seregil has been busy with you!” Nysander remarked as Alec let him through the second gate.
“Ruint me for honest work, he ’as,” Alec replied, making a passable stab at a dockman’s accent. “It’s not far now.”
Reaching the damaged grate, Nysander climbed up to inspe
ct the damaged stone and ironwork, then moved across to see the intact corner.
“I see,” he murmured to himself, peering closely at the remaining pin. “Most ingenious. And ingenious of you to have discovered it. Yes, I am quite satisfied. Well done.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Can I fix it?” Nysander snorted, climbing down again. Grasping the bars with both hands, he closed his eyes and listened to the voice of the cold iron. Letting his own energy pass into it through his hands, he visualized the metal, felt it stir under his hands.
• • •
Standing beside him, Alec felt a powerful ripple pass through the rank air. There were no flashes of light or magical signs, just the brief scrape and whine of metal. For a moment it seemed to Alec that the metal came alive, like a plant, growing and moving as it healed.
Looking up, he saw that the damaged corner now looked as it had before. “Illior’s Light!” he gasped, hardly able to believe his eyes.
Nysander laughed. “I hope you did not expect me to come down here with a hammer and anvil.” Opening his hand, he showed Alec a long iron pin. It was scored along its length where it had been driven through the flange and blackened from forging, except where the white metallic substance showed through near one end.
Without a word Alec scaled the left side of the grate to find a solid pin in its place.
“That’s amazing,” he exclaimed, tapping the iron with his knife blade.
Nysander shrugged. “It is only magic.”
Seregil grudgingly accepted the willow bark infusion Thero prepared, then went down to the baths. As soon as he was clean and dressed, however, he returned to the workroom and refused to be moved, despite Thero’s obvious desire that he wait elsewhere.
Anxious and impatient, Seregil prowled the crowded room, fiddling with bits of delicate apparatus.
“Give me that!” Thero snapped, snatching away a cluster of fluid-filled glass spheres. “Drop that and we’ll be up to our eyes in swamp sprites. If you won’t go downstairs then for Illior’s sake, sit down.”
“I know what it is.” Scowling, Seregil climbed the stairway to the catwalk overhead and stared out through the thick glass panes of the dome, watching the movement of lights below.
By the time Nysander and Alec materialized neatly in the center of the room, it would have been difficult to say which of the two looked more relieved.
“There you are!” Seregil exclaimed, bounding down. “Any trouble?”
“No, everything looks as good as new,” Alec told him, grinning.
“Shall I fetch fresh clothing?” Thero inquired, wrinkling his nose again.
“Yes, in a moment,” said Nysander. “First, however, I must congratulate our two able spies on a most valuable find.” He shook the iron pin from his sleeve. “I will keep this for now. Seregil, Alec tells me you took a sample of this curious white material?”
Seregil held up the small container. “Right here. Want to see it work?”
“Yes, but not here, I think. Too many flammable items.” Taking a crucible from a nearby shelf, he ushered them into the casting room.
Placing a few of the white shavings in the crucible, Nysander set it on the floor and touched a candle flame to its contents. A small fountain of white sparks flew up and scattered across the floor.
“Incredible!” murmured Thero, nudging the remaining shavings about with a small glass wand.
Seregil watched him surreptitiously, recognizing the sudden light of enthusiasm in those pale eyes. At such moments he could almost see what maintained Nysander’s hopes for the young man—the keen and wondering mind that underlay Thero’s cold facade.
“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” Thero asked, turning to Nysander.
The older wizard lit another fragment, then sniffed at the smoke left behind. “It’s a sort of incendiary metal, I believe. It’s called Sakor’s Bite or Sakor’s Fire for obvious reasons. Very, very rare but”—Nysander paused to raise one bushy eyebrow at Seregil—“found in greater quantities in certain regions of Plenimar.”
Seregil exchanged knowing grins with Alec. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a decent bit of work at last.”
18
ON THE SCENT
Over the next few days Alec and Seregil shadowed their man closely, but learned little more than that Rythel was annoyingly regular in his habits. He rose early, gathered his crew, and worked the day through without leaving the site. At night he took supper at his lodgings and turned in early.
Lounging across the street from the Sailmaker Street tenement the fourth evening, they saw a broad, ruddy young man step out into the street.
“That’s the landlady’s grandson,” Seregil whispered to Alec. “He’s been down to that tavern on the corner every night so far.”
True to form, the fellow set off for the corner tavern, stopping to chat with neighbors along the way.
Seregil stood up and stretched, still following the young man with his eyes. “He looks like a talker to me. I think I’ll nip in for a pint and try to strike up a conversation.”
It was a clear, windless night, but cold. Moving restlessly from one cold doorway to another, Alec watched the house, and the half moon sailing slowly over it. It had gained the chimney by the time Seregil reappeared, chuckling to himself and smelling warmly of beer.
“You look pleased with yourself,” Alec muttered, shifting his frigid feet.
“I am.” Seregil threw his cloak back and presented him with a wooden cup of the Dog and Bell’s best lager. “Let’s go home. Rythel’s unlikely to stir out for another couple of nights yet.”
Alec took a grateful swallow of the watery beer as they headed back to the court where they’d left their horses. “Then you did get something out of the grandson?”
“Our smith appears to be equally disliked by almost everyone who knows him, with the exception of his landlady, who judges her tenants solely by how punctual they are with their rent. Her grandson, young Parin, has had a few run-ins with him around the house. Apparently harsh words were exchanged when Parin entered the smith’s rooms unexpectedly one day. ‘Mind you’ ”—grinning, Seregil mimicked Parin’s somewhat slurred complaints—“ ‘he was only messin’ about with some drawerings. Not like he was tupping nobody or nothin’. Just drawerings, for the love a’ hell! He’s a queer one, and a miser, for all his high and mighty ways.’
“A shrewd judge of character, our Parin,” Seregil said with a chuckle. “He wasn’t much help about the nature of the ‘drawerings,’ but he did tell me that Rythel always keeps to his rooms on work nights, but come end of the week he goes on a regular spree.”
Alec’s hunter instincts stirred. “Tomorrow night.”
“That’s right. According to Parin, he appears downstairs in gentlemen’s clothes, sends Parin next door to hire a horse, tips like the miser he is, and rides off not to be seen again until dawn or the next night.”
“That explains how he came to be in the Street of Lights.”
“And I’m willing to bet he makes a few other stops along the way. I think it’s time Lord Seregil put in an appearance.”
Alec shot him a sharp look. “Just him? What about me?”
Seregil threw an arm around his shoulders and playfully ruffled his hair. “Well now, if Master Rythel is out gambling and whoring all night, what better time for a bit of housebreaking?”
• • •
The following evening Rythel rode out from Sailmaker Street just as expected. The streets were busy, making it an easy matter for Seregil to follow him up to the main city. A heavy cloak masked the fine surcoat and breeches he’d put on for the evening’s role.
The smith rode easily, apparently enjoying the evening air, and ended up at the Heron, a stylish gambling house on the eastern fringe of the Merchant’s Quarter.
That’s a lucky turn. Seregil grinned to himself, watching from a distance as Rythel disappeared inside. Lord Seregil was well known at the Heron from the da
ys when he’d made his living in such dens. And gaming-house friendships were easy enough to manage.
Leaving Cynril with a groom, he strode inside. The elderly doorkeeper took his cloak with a bow.
“Good evening, my lord,” the old man said. “It’s been some time since we last saw you. Will anyone be joining you?”
“No. A canceled engagement has left me at loose ends.” Pausing, he slipped a discreet coin to the man, murmuring, “Any new blood tonight, Starky?”
Stark palmed the bribe and leaned closer. “A few, my lord, a few. Young Lady Lachia has become quite addicted to bakshi since her marriage, but her husband’s with her tonight and he may know you rather too well from times past. There’s a country knight, Sir Nynius, with plenty of gold and a passion for eran stones who plays badly as a rule. And there’s a third, a newcomer. Not noble, but well turned out. Calls himself Rythel of Porunta.”
“How will I know him?”
“He’s tall and fair, with quite an impressive beard. I expect you’ll find him in the card room. A bold player, as I hear it, though not always clever. He’s become a regular over the past month or so and takes both wins and losses philosophically.”
Seregil slipped him a second coin and a wink.
“Illior’s luck to you, my lord.”
The Heron was a modestly opulent establishment divided into a number of large rooms. Those near the front featured various sorts of games open to all comers; smaller rooms at the back were reserved for private affairs.
Seregil found Rythel in one of the latter, settled down to a round of Rook’s Gambit with several rich merchants and a few officers of the Queen’s Archers. A number of them knew Seregil and invited him to join in. He took the empty chair nearest Rythel and set his purse on the table.
“Good evening, Lord Seregil,” Vinia the wool merchant greeted him, gathering up the brightly painted cards for a new deal. “The hazard is three gold sesters, the limit eight. As the new player, you begin the bid.”
Keeping one eye on Rythel’s style, Seregil played conservatively for the first few rounds, managing to collect a modest pile of winnings. He chatted with the others as they played, spicing the light banter with investment advice and allusions to recent successful ventures, including an interest in the privateer fleet being overseen by Nyreidian.