Luck in the Shadows (11 page)

At the mayor’s house they were taken to the kitchen for the customary meal. The tapestry over the door had been pulled back and they could see the guests in the hall being entertained by a juggler. When the last of the platters had come back to the
kitchen and the wine and fruit had been passed, Aren Windover was announced.

The great hall was ablaze with firelight and wax tapers. The trestles had been set up in a U facing the hearth and the company, made up mostly of rich merchants, guild masters, and craftsmen of Wolde, clapped approvingly as Seregil and Alec took their places on a small platform set up there. Alec handed Seregil the harp with a flourish he’d learned less than an hour before, then stepped back deferentially.

In Aren Windover’s most flowery manner, Seregil introduced himself and made a brief speech of gratitude to the mayor and his lady. His words were well received and he struck up the first song amid a flutter of applause. He captured his audience at once with a rousing hunting lay, then moved on to a succession of love songs and ballads, throwing in a raucous ditty here and there once he saw that the ladies approved. Alec took frequent turns at the harmonies and fetched ale for his master as the occasion demanded.

The one calling himself Boraneus sat in the place of honor to the right of the fat mayor and Seregil studied him surreptitiously as he played. Boraneus was tall, with the high coloring and thick, blue-black hair of a true Plenimaran. He was younger than Seregil had expected, no more than forty, and extremely handsome despite the thin scar that ran from the inner corner of his left eye to the cheekbone. His black eyes sparkled rakishly as he shared some joke with the mayor’s wife, but when the smile faded his face had a veiled, unreadable quality.

By the Light, that’s Duke Mardus—whatever he calls himself here
, Seregil thought as he played. Though he’d never seen Mardus before, he knew him both by description and reputation. The most highly placed officer of the Plenimaran intelligence system, he was also known to be a sadistically ruthless inquisitor. Seregil felt an involuntary chill as Mardus’ impassive gaze rested briefly on him. To have such a person study your face was the worst sort of luck.

The other envoy didn’t look like he amounted to much. A narrow, whey-faced fellow with lank dark hair, Trygonis was apparently doing his dour best to avoid being drawn into conversation with the garrulous matrons seated on either side of him. Splendidly dressed as he was in the regalia of a Plenimaran diplomat, to Seregil’s practiced eye his pale skin and silent, peering manner
told a different tale. He had more the look of one who spent his life huddled over books in rooms where sunlight never penetrated.

Seregil played on for nearly an hour before he judged the time to be right. Pausing to tune the harp, he snapped the string and, after a tense, whispered exchange with Alec, rose and bowed to the mayor.

“My most gracious host,” he said, affecting an air of barely concealed irritation while Alec did his best to appear shamefaced. “It seems my apprentice has neglected to bring extra strings for my instrument. With your kind permission, I will send the boy back to my lodgings for replacements.”

Comfortably into his cups, the mayor waved agreeably and Alec hurried out.

Seregil bowed again. “If I may ask your further indulgence, I will take this opportunity to freshen my throat with the cool night air.”

“By all means, Master Windover. I think it may be some time before we let you go. Your fine singing goes well with the wine.”

Once outside, Seregil made a show of clearing his lungs and admiring the stars. Spotting a Plenimaran guard posted near the front of the building, he asked after the privy and was directed to the yard in back of the house. As soon as he was safely around the corner, he pressed into the shadows and checked again; no guards back here. Alec was waiting for him beneath the servants’ stairs.

“Did anyone see you?” Seregil whispered.

Alec shook his head. “I went across the square, then doubled back to the other side of the house.”

“Good. Now stay close and pay attention. If anything goes wrong, you’re on your own, understand? If it comes to that, I’ll do my best to come back for you, but your best guarantee is to not get into trouble in the first place. All right?”

Looking rather less than reassured by this advice, Alec nodded gamely and followed him up the stairs to the second level of the house.

The door was locked, but Seregil produced a long pick. Beyond they found a dimly lit service passage. Seregil signed
Quickly
and moved to a door at the far end. Beyond it, they could hear sounds of the revelry below. Opening it the merest crack,
Seregil found that they were near the upper landing of the great staircase.

Just as they were about to make a dash for the guest rooms, a black-clad marine came upstairs from the hall and disappeared into one of the rooms overlooking the street. Emerging a moment later with a small chest, he went back downstairs. Seregil counted slowly to ten, then drew Alec behind him into the hall. Moving quickly to the room the soldier had entered, they found the door unlocked.

“This is Trygonis’ room,” whispered Seregil. “Keep watch, and if you touch something,
anything
, be sure to leave it exactly as you found it.”

Against the right wall stood a carved bedstead with a clothes chest at the foot. A tall wardrobe and a writing table stood by the window.

“This first, I think,” Seregil murmured, kneeling in front of the chest. After a moment’s examination he drew a small leather roll from his tunic and spread it out in a workmanlike fashion on the floor beside him; it contained an impressive collection of various lock picks and other implements, each in a narrow pocket of the roll. The chest’s heavy padlock came open on the first attempt.

Except for a brass map tube, the chest contained little more than the usual mundane articles of clothing and equipment, all seeming to confirm that the man was a diplomat rather than a soldier. Quickly shaking out the rolled parchment from the tube, Seregil moved to the thin sliver of light at the door and unrolled it to find a map of the northlands. Alec peered over his shoulder for a moment, then went back to his watch-keeping while Seregil studied it more closely, committing the details to memory.

Small red points had been inked in next to the Gold Road towns of Wolde, Kerry, and Sark. Several other points marked remote freeholdings along the Ironheart foothills, Asengai’s among them.

Nothing so surprising there. Seregil rolled up the map and replaced the contents of the chest as he’d found them. The desk yielded nothing of value, but in the wardrobe he found a small silk pouch containing a golden disk hung on a golden chain.

One side of the pendant was smooth; on the other a peculiar, abstract device of intricate lines and swirls stood out in raised relief. Try as he might, Seregil couldn’t make sense enough of it
to reproduce it later. Mildly annoyed, he replaced it and joined Alec at the door. No more than five minutes had elapsed.

The next room was very much like the first, except for a dispatch box sitting on the table. It was banded with nailed strips of brass and secured with an internal lock rather than a hasp. Moving to the light again, he examined the lock plate, noting tiny imperfections in the metal around the keyhole. A less experienced thief might have dismissed them as pits in the metal; Seregil recognized the needle holes lightly plugged with wax and brass dust. Anyone attempting to force the lock while the device was engaged would end up with at least one tiny but no doubt heavily poisoned needle embedded in his hand. Running sensitive fingertips over the brass nail heads, he found one on the back left corner that depressed with a barely audible click. Double-checking to be sure he hadn’t missed any others, he picked the lock and raised the lid.

On top was a sheaf of documents written in cipher. Setting these aside, he found a map much like the larger one, but with only two red points marked on it: one deep in the heart of the Blackwater Fens at the southern end of the lake, the other apparently somewhere in the Far Forest. The point in the Fens was circled.

Beneath the map was a leather pouch containing another of the golden pendants.

What in the name of Bilairy are these?
he wondered, frustrated again at not being able to make sense of the design.

At the clothes chest he felt carefully down through the layers of tunics and robes until his fingers encountered studded wood near the bottom. Lifting the clothing out, he found a rectangular casket a foot long and perhaps half that deep, its lid secured only by a hook. His mouth twisted into a humorless smile as he cautiously opened it; inside lay a collection of small but effective torture instruments and several earthenware vials. More certain than ever that his man really was Mardus, Seregil took extra care to replace the box as he’d found it. As he was replacing the clothing, however, another leather pouch dropped from the folds of a robe. Probing inside, he found a few Plenimaran coins, two rings, a case knife, and some small wooden disks.

There were eight in all, fashioned from some dark wood and pierced through the center with a square hole. They had a
slightly oily feel, and each was carved on one side with the same frustrating design he’d seen on the gold pendants.

Now here’s a piece of luck at last
, he thought. These crude things didn’t look like something anyone would miss in a hurry. He pocketed one for later study.

He’d just locked the chest when Alec made a frantic gesture at the door. Someone was coming.

With Alec at his heels, Seregil moved smoothly to the window. Swinging the casement wide, he looked up to find the overhang of the roof within easy reach.

He’d already pulled himself up onto the slates above before he noticed the two guards lounging near the fountain. For a brief second his breath caught in his throat; he was in plain sight if they looked up. The noise from the hall must have covered his scramblings, however, or perhaps they were drunk, for neither of them did.

Alec snaked out the same way, and Seregil caught his wrists to help him up. The boy looked scared, but still had presence of mind enough to gently push the window shut with his foot on the way up.

The slick slate roof was steeply pitched, but they managed to get over to the back side, reaching the servants’ stairway without mishap. At the bottom Seregil grasped Alec’s shoulder for a moment in silent approval, then pointed him off toward the kitchen door.

Alec was nearly there when a tall figure reached from the shadows and caught him by the cloak. Seregil tensed, hand stealing to his dagger. Alec jerked back instinctively and the man laughed. Just as Seregil was about to spring to his aid, however, he heard the man speak and realized this must be one of the soldiers who’d accosted the boy earlier that day.

“Hey, you sing good in there,” the man exclaimed. His tone seemed friendly enough, but he hadn’t released his grip on Alec’s cloak. “You sing more for me now maybe?”

“I’ve got to get back in.” Stepping away as far as he could, Alec pulled the harp string from his tunic and waved it like a pass. “My master needs this. I’ll be in trouble if I make him wait.”

“Trouble?” The man squinted at the string. “No trouble for you, Cavish’s man-child. Go sing some more for the fat mayor
and my master!” Turning Alec loose, he sent him on his way with a resounding slap on the back.

Letting out a soundless sigh of relief, Seregil waited until the way was clear, then skirted back through the shadows to reappear from the direction of the mayor’s privy.

It was after midnight before they returned to the Three Fishes. Nonetheless, Seregil insisted on making ready to leave at first light.

“You did well tonight,” he said as he finished strapping up his pack. “That was quick thinking, with the window.”

Alec grinned happily at the praise and continued checking over his new equipment. Master Radly had included an oilskin bow case and a covered quiver in the price of the bow, to which Alec had added a score of arrows, linen twine and wax for bowstrings, and packets of red and white fletching.

Seregil was just turning to say something more when they both were startled by the sound of someone pounding up the stairs. Micum Cavish burst into the room. Panting, he said, “I don’t know what you did this time, Seregil, but a pack of Plenimaran marines are on their way here right now!”

Somewhere below they heard a door bang open, then the sounds of heavy feet.

“Grab your things, Alec!” Seregil ordered, throwing back the shutters.

A moment later Tildus and a dozen Plenimaran soldiers burst into the room, only to find it dark and empty.

F
rom the inn window the three of them dropped thirty feet into water cold enough to knock the breath from their lungs.

Alec floundered, gasping as he tried to hang on to his gear and keep his head above water. A strong hand closed over his wrist; Micum hauled him to a handhold on the slimy pilings supporting the building.

“Quiet!” Seregil whispered against his ear.

Working their way back to the shallows, they crawled out onto a narrow mud bank and huddled there as the sounds of a violent search rang out overhead.

“I doubt you two will be welcome again at the Fishes,” Micum whispered through chattering teeth.

It was a miserably cold vigil they kept, and dangerous. At one point several marines found their way under the building, forcing the three fugitives to turtle back into the icy water until they were gone. It was over an hour before Micum judged that it was safe to go.

They made a sorry trio as they staggered from the shadows of the tavern. Covered in mud, their hair and clothing stiffened into fantastic configurations, they moved as fast as their numbed legs would allow, heading for the market square.

Micum led the way to the Temple of Astellus
that stood next to the Fisherman’s Guildhall on the square. It was a plain, windowless structure, but the large double doors at its front were elaborately carved with boats and water creatures. The lintel above displayed the stylized wave symbol of Astellus the Traveler. By custom, the doors of the temple were never locked, and they slipped inside without challenge.