“Aye, that’s the one,” said Arna. “It’s a rough track beyond, though, or so I hear.”
“I’m used to that,” said Alec, dismounting. “I will borrow a horse, though, and leave my pack here. I’ll be back for Patch before dark.”
He was underwater. Looking up, he could see the surface shimmering just above him, a shifting silver mirror that reflected nothing. Just beyond the surface something dark moved, like a man standing against the sky—
Seregil uncurled with a startled grunt as something prodded him roughly between the shoulder blades.
“Told you he was alive!” he heard a woman say. Two bluecoats were looking down at him from horseback, early morning light glinting from their helmets. A third stood over him holding a truncheon in both hands.
“Come on, you. On your feet,” the one with the truncheon growled, looking like he’d just as soon give a beggar another good jab for good measure.
“Maker’s mercy and blessings on you,” Seregil whined.
“Keep your blessings, you Dalnan mudlark.”
Seregil pulled his dirty rags closer about him and got stiffly to his feet, wondering how in hell he’d let himself doze off in the middle of the east end stews.
He’d been watching a nearby slophouse, hoping to snag a certain informant who often drank there. The dingy establishment was shuttered now, his man long gone.
Grabbing Seregil roughly by the arm, the bluecoat marched him past the horses to a high-sided cart. “Get up there and be quick about it.”
Scrambling over the tailboard, Seregil found half a dozen sullen beggars and whores already huddled inside.
Disgusted with himself, Seregil clung to the hard bench as the cart lurched on. Something nagged at the back of his mind, some dream he’d been having when the bluecoats had woken him. But it was gone. Time now to deal with the present situation.
“I ain’t done nothing,” he protested querulously, tucking his chin down against his chest. “I’ve done nothing a’tal. What are they at, taking a poor cripple up like this?”
“Haven’t you heard?” a ragged girl asked tearfully. “Word come that war’s started. It’s the Beggar Law for us!”
Seregil stared at her mutely as the irony of the situation struck home. Ancient and time-honored, the Beggar Law stated that in time of war all vagrants, beggars, and criminals were to be either pressed into military service or cast out of the cities to fend for themselves. In the event of a siege, no precious stores would be wasted on societal parasites.
Looking around at his fellow unfortunates—the tearful whore, a pair of vaguely familiar thieves, a one-armed drunken giant covered in sour vomit, a half-starved boy—Seregil had all he could do not to laugh at his own unwitting miscalculation in choosing a disguise.
Stay with this lot and I’ll find myself facing down a Plenimaran cavalry charge with nothing but a pike in my hands, he thought grimly. I might just as well have taken a pleasant ride out to Watermead with Alec for all the use I’ve been so far.
• • •
Alec didn’t see the otters as he rode past their pool, although there were footprints and slide marks enough to show that they were still in residence there.
Beyond the pool, the trail grew steeper, winding steadily uphill around thick fir trunks and boulders bigger than his borrowed mare. Crusts of snow still lingered under roots and rocky overhangs, but the air was sweet with the scents of tender new growth and moist earth. Despite the rain already pattering down through the boughs, it felt good to be in the woods. After a winter spent mostly in the confines of Rhíminee’s intricate streets, the simple task of following a disused woods trail held a comfortable familiarity.
Spring runoff and fallen needles had obscured long stretches of the trail. In other places, it crossed open expanses of bare ledge with nothing but the tumbled remains of a few small cairns to show the way.
The forest grew thicker as he went along. Thick stands of hemlock and fir laced their branches overhead, shutting out what little light the day had to offer. Winter storms had felled trees across the trail, forcing him to dismount frequently and lead his horse around or over.
After an hour of struggling along, he still hadn’t seen any sign that he’d reached the pass Ranil had spoken of. The wind picked up suddenly, lashing a torrent of icy rain down through the trees. Cursing, Alec pulled his cloak around him and tucked it under his thighs to keep out the wet as long as he could.
At last he reached the crest of the pass. From here the trail seemed to open up a bit, but before he could make up any lost time he rounded a bend and found himself faced with the worst deadfall so far.
The ground was steep here, and the path hugged a small cliff face to the left. A thick hemlock had fallen across against the rock face, its thick branches forming a dark green palisade higher than Alec’s head.
He could have wormed his way through, but the horse was another matter. Cursing Ranil again, and himself for listening, he dismounted again to look for a way around.
Trees groaned in the wind around them as Alec led his horse off the trail, following the trunk to its base. A tangled network of roots twenty feet across lay exposed there, torn from the thin, stony soil in some past storm.
His horse shied as they went around it, spooked perhaps by the gnarled fists of the roots or the roar of the storm. Gripping the reins in one hand, he pulled the animal’s head down and threw his cloak over its eyes. By the time he’d climbed the bank back up to the trail he was soaked to the skin and covered in mud.
He had one foot in the stirrup to mount when the mare shied again. Alec staggered awkwardly, pulling his foot free in case she bolted.
The move probably saved his life. He’d just gotten both feet on the ground when he caught a hint of motion out of the corner of one eye and instinctively flinched.
Something struck his left shoulder hard before he could turn, hard enough to knock him sideways. Scrabbling backward, he tugged his sword free and got it up in time to make his attacker pause.
The ragged bandit held a club in both hands, grinning wolfishly as he circled for another strike. He was gaunt but sinewy, with a long reach behind the long club he wielded. Alec suspected he was overmatched, but that his sword had surprised the man, judging by the wary way he watched it, still not pressing the attack.
“What do you want?” Alec demanded as the first shock of the attack passed.
The bandit gave him a nasty, gap-toothed grin. “What else you got?” he sneered, jerking a thumb down the trail. “We already got yer ’orse.”
Alec glanced quickly in that direction and saw a harsh-faced woman leading his horse away.
“I have gold,” Alec told him, ignoring the dull pain that ran down his left arm as he pulled his purse from his belt and shook it so the coins inside jingled. “You’re welcome to it, but I need that horse.”
“Did you hear the fine young gentleman’s offer, me love?” the bandit exclaimed gleefully. “He wants to buy back his ’orse!”
The woman gave a listless shrug and said nothing.
“Give us the bag, then, and we’ll shake on the bargain,” the bandit offered, sidling closer.
Alec lowered his sword and held out the purse, as if he’d been gulled into the bargain. As he’d expected, the bandit immediately struck at him. Jumping back, he blocked the blow and swung a slashing stroke that opened the front of the man’s jerkin and some of the skin below.
“Bilairy’s Collops, the little bastard cut me!” the bandit snarled in surprise. “Got teeth, have you, you whelp? I’ll soon blunt ’em!” Gripping his club in both hands, he flew at Alec and swung another blow at his head.
The bandit was strong; blocking the swing with a two-handed parry, Alec felt a nasty jolt down both arms. Pushing him away, he fell back, letting the man push him toward the deadfall. Rain ran down into his eyes as he blocked blow after blow, hoping to make his attacker think he was a novice swordsman.
Still moving backward, he felt branc
h tips graze his neck. It was time to hazard his one gambit.
He lowered his sword and turned slightly, as if he meant to run for it. As Alec had hoped, his opponent struck at him, and hit the springy branches of the hemlock instead. Overbalanced by the force of his own swing, he stumbled.
Alec whirled and struck him a savage blow to the shoulder. The blade glanced off bone, flaying the muscle from shoulder to elbow in a great bloody flap.
Alec had expected the blow to stop the man in his tracks, but it didn’t. With a howl of pain, the bandit dropped his club and grappled Alec, locking his good arm around the boy’s neck and dragging him to the ground as he choked him.
Raw, severed flesh slapped against Alec’s face, and the hot blood pulsing from the wound spurted into his mouth and eyes. His sword was useless at such close quarters. Dropping it, he tore at the arm around his throat, but the man held on, pinning him down as he locked his hand around Alec’s windpipe.
Blood loss alone should be weakening him, Alec thought grimly as his vision began to darken. Through a red haze he saw mindless determination still burning in the haggard, white face above his, felt it in the hard hand crushing his throat; the man might just live long enough to kill him first.
Letting go of the man’s arm, Alec felt for the slender, black-handled dagger in his right boot. His fingers found the rounded pommel and closed over it, pulling it free. Gripping it, he drove it with the last of his strength into the bandit’s neck. More blood spurted out, steaming hotly against his face as the world went dim around him.
The sound of fading hoofbeats brought him around again a moment later. From the sound of them, the woman had decided the horse was booty enough and taken off with it as soon as her man went down. Alec pushed the dead man off and sat up, but it was too late. She was already out of sight.
Wet, bruised, and muddier than ever, Alec got to his feet only to find that his legs were not ready to support him just yet. Staggering away from the body, he braced himself against the tree trunk and waited for the world to stop spinning around him. He tasted blood in his mouth and spat repeatedly, trying to get rid of the revolting metallic taste.
He supposed he should be grateful for the woman’s cowardice. She’d taken the horse, but had left his purse, his weapons, and his life, for that matter. She’d had ample opportunity to knife him.
Hoping he’d already covered at least half the distance to Warnik’s valley, he set off on foot again.
The trail was no better on this side of the pass but the downhill grade made for easier walking. Coming to a stream, he waded in to wash off some of the filth. His clothes were ruined, but it was a relief to cleanse away more of the blood. He could still taste it at the back of his mouth and retched suddenly, remembering the feel of it spurting down on him.
A more immediate worry, however, was whether or not the bandit’s woman would decide to circle back for another try, drawn by a delayed desire for revenge or his purse. Wading out of the stream, Alec scanned the surrounding forest with renewed wariness. Thick underbrush pressed close on both sides of the trail, the potential for ambush unlimited. The storm blew on, hastening the afternoon darkness already thickening into mist beneath the tangled forest roof.
Seregil was obliged to delay his escape. Soon after they picked him up, the Watch patrol entered the East Ring to begin a sweep of the shanties there. Even if he got away now, there was nowhere to run.
Other bluecoats were already at work there, pulling down the shacks and piling the scrap wood onto carts, clearing the Ring to serve its wartime purpose as a killing zone between the inner and outer walls of the city. The marketplaces and circles all around the city would be cleared as well for similar reasons. Despite its size and grandeur, Rhíminee had been designed first and foremost to be a defensible citadel.
Most of the shantytown denizens had cleared out already, warned by the vagrant’s sixth sense that trouble was brewing. Those that had remained were rounded up and sorted out. Cripples and mothers with young children were allowed to stay in the city, as well as any able-bodied person willing to work for their keep or fight. Unpatriotic ne’er-do-wells would have to fend for themselves in the countryside.
The cart was full by midday and the patrol headed back through the east ward. Seregil stood at the rear of the cart, maintaining his air of sullen bewilderment until a familiar street corner came into view.
Taking the three bluecoats riding behind the cart by surprise, Seregil vaulted over the side, dodged between their horses, and tore off down the street. Behind him, his fellow prisoners cheered him on with delighted jeers and catcalls.
Two of the guards wheeled in pursuit, but Seregil had chosen his moment carefully. Running back to the familiar street, he bolted around the corner.
It was more of an alley than a street. There were no side ways leading off it and the far end was blocked by a high wooden barrier. Without slowing, Seregil launched himself at it, found purchase with hands and feet, and clambered over the top just as the furious guards thundered up.
On the far side, another alley angled off toward a larger street. The bluecoats knew this section of the city nearly as well as he did himself; he could hear the approaching clatter of hooves ahead of him as he ran. Dodging down a side lane before they caught sight of him, he slipped into the narrow space between two sagging tenements and came out in a tiny, weed-choked courtyard.
Here he bounded up a rickety exterior stairway to a disused attic. The cache of spare clothing and knives he’d hidden there months ago was still under the warped floorboards, no worse for wear except for a few beetles and some mouse turds. Whistling softly through his teeth as he shook them out, he changed clothes and settled down at the garret window to outwait his pursuers’ patience. It was only a filthy beggar they’d lost. They wouldn’t waste much time hunting for him.
Hungry, wet, and footsore, Alec finally reached the edge of the woods by late afternoon. Through the trees ahead he could see a rolling valley stretching out before him.
A small log house stood near the trail, with a low byre and a goat pen beside it. Too tired to care what he must look like, he headed for it, hoping to beg a little food and some directions.
As he approached the place, a huge mongrel charged out of the byre, baying as it charged toward him.
“Soora thasáli,” Alec said quickly, making the left-handed charm sign Seregil had taught him. It worked to a degree; the dog halted a few feet away, but remained on guard, growling every time he moved.
“Who’s that?” a man called out, emerging from the byre with an ax gripped in both hands.
“Sir Alec of Ivywell,” Alec replied, holding his hands out, palm up. “I had some bad luck up the trail. Bandits stole my horse. Could you—”
“That so?” The man stepped nearer, squinting for a better look at him.
Alec had managed to wash off most of the blood, but his bedraggled clothing and sword appeared to inspire little confidence.
“Lots of bandits about just now,” the man went on, still wary. “Stole two of my milch goats just the other day. Could be you’re one of ’em come back to rob me again. Tugger!”
The dog crouched, baring its fangs.
“No, please! Soora thasáli.” Alec fell back a pace, making the sign again. “Listen, I’m only trying to get down to—”
“Here now, what’re you up to with my dog?” the man demanded. “Tugger, on him!”
“No—soora thasáli—if you’d just listen—”
“Damn you, Tugger, at him!”
“Soora th—Shit!” Alec took to his heels with Tugger snapping at the ends of his cloak close behind.
The dog chased him until they were well out of sight of the cottage, then stood its ground in the center of the trail, snarling every time Alec chanced a backward look.
Winded and irate, Alec ran on until he was certain the dog had given up, then collapsed on a rock to get his breath. Evidently Seregil’s dog magic worked best without the cur’s master on
hand to countermand it.
Less than half a mile farther on he struck the main road and soon met a string of heavy oxcarts heading for Warnik’s estate. At the sight of Alec’s gold the lead carter and his wife agreed to let him ride with them.
Climbing into the cart, Alec stretched out gratefully among the bales and baskets.
“Maker’s Mercy, lad! You’ve had rough traveling, ain’t you?” the woman asked, turning to look him over.
“I had a little trouble coming over the hill trail,” Alec told her.
“The hill trail,” snorted the carter. “What in the world made you go that route when it’s faster on the highroad?”
“Faster?” Alec groaned. “I thought the hill track was a shortcut.”
“What looby told you that? It’s my livelihood, driving these roads, so I guess I know a thing or two. It don’t take more than two hours by cart from this valley around to the next one, less on a good horse. The hill track this time of year? By Dalna, you’re lucky you got over at all.”
The late afternoon light was already beginning to fail when they arrived at Lord Warnik’s fortified keep. A gate in the curtain wall swung wide for the carts and they rumbled to a halt in the bailey yard.
“We’ve got someone looking for one of his lordship’s guests,” the carter told the reeve who came out to take charge of their stores.
“I’m looking for Micum Cavish of Watermead,” Alec explained. “I need to speak with him at once.”
The reeve gave him an appraising once over, then motioned to a stable boy loitering nearby. “Portus, go and find Sir Micum. Tell him there’s a messenger boy waiting his pleasure in the bailey.”
Alec stifled a smile, then bid the carter and his wife farewell. A large brazier had been set up in the yard and he drifted over to join the knot of guards and servants who’d gathered around it. Sitting in the cart in wet clothes had chilled him through. Leaning close to the fire, he ignored the curious glances his sword and filthy clothes attracted.
A few minutes later he saw Micum stride into the bailey. He was dressed in a fine coat and furs, and looked rather harried.