Luck in the Shadows (43 page)

“You must be thirsty after your ride,” Kari said, giving Seregil a mischievous look. “If I know you, you talked the whole way. Would you dare sample this season’s beer? For once I think it’s almost fit to drink.”

Micum nudged Alec playfully as she went out. “This is the first season since we came south that I’ve seen her satisfied with her beer. Mind you, she’s the finest brewer in the valley, but she’s never left off saying that northern hops give a finer taste.”

“I think I’ve heard her mention it a few times,” Seregil
concurred wryly. “Illia, do you think you could fetch my saddlebags there by the door?”

The little girl’s eyes went round. “Presents?”

“Who knows?” he teased. “But here’s Beka at last.”

A tall girl in a stained tunic and breeches burst in, her face lit by an expectant smile.

“Any news, Seregil?” she cried, stooping to hug him.

“Patience, Beka. At least say hello to Alec first.”

Of all the girls, Beka alone had taken after her father. Freckles peppered her fair skin, and an unkempt mare’s tail of coppery red hair tumbled over her shoulder as she leaned forward to clasp hands with Alec. She had rather too much of her father’s features to be beautiful, but her sharp blue eyes and ready smile would never let her be called homely either.

“Father says you’re quite an archer,” she said, looking him over in friendly appraisal. “I hope you brought that bow of yours. I’ve never seen a Black Radly.”

“It’s there by the door,” Alec replied, suddenly more at ease than he’d been since their arrival.

“Here they are!” Illia puffed, dragging the saddlebags over to Seregil. “Did you remember what I asked you for?”

“Illia, you beggar!” her mother scolded, returning with a pitcher and mugs.

“Why don’t you reach in and see what’s there while I try your mother’s excellent beer?” Seregil suggested, taking a long sip. “Sheer delight, Kari. Better than that served at the royal table of Mycena.”

Alec sampled his own and didn’t doubt Seregil’s sincerity, though Kari obviously did.

“Well, it’s better than last year’s,” she allowed.

Illia, meanwhile, had worried open the first bag. “These must be for Beka,” she said, pulling out a pair of glossy cavalry boots. “She’s going to be a horse guard.”

“A rider in the Queen’s Horse Guard,” Beka corrected, looking hopefully at Seregil.

Micum shook his head in mock despair. “We haven’t had a moment’s peace since she heard you were back.”

Seregil drew a scroll case from his coat and presented it to her. Prying off the seal, she shook out the papers inside and scanned quickly down through them, her grin broadening by the second.

“I knew you could do it!” she cried, giving Seregil another exuberant hug. “Look, Mother, I’m to report in a week’s time!”

“There’s not a finer regiment,” Kari said, slipping an arm about Beka’s shoulders. “And think how much quieter it will be without you crashing in and out!”

As Beka sat down to try on the new boots, Micum reached to take his wife’s hand; her smile did not match the sudden misting of her eyes.

“She’s your daughter, right enough,” Kari sighed, clasping his hand tightly.

Illia burrowed deeper, finding a tobacco pouch for Micum and a larger bag for her mother.

“Oh, Seregil, you needn’t have—” Kari began, then broke off as she pulled out a handful of papery hop cones and a knot of wizened roots.

“Cavish hops!” she cried, holding the cones to her nose. “This brings my father’s hop yard back to me as if I were standing in it! All the cuttings I brought with me here died out years ago. Oh, Seregil, how good of you to think of it. Someday perhaps I’ll be able to brew a proper beer again.”

Seregil saluted her with his cup. “I want to be the first to broach a keg of the batch that pleases you.”

Rescuing a finely bound book from Illia’s impatient pillaging, he handed it to Elsbet.

“The dialogs of Tassis!” the girl breathed, examining the cover. Any trace of shyness fled as she opened the volume and ran a finger down the first page. “And in Aurënfaie! Where did you ever find it?”

“I’d rather not say. But if you look toward the middle, I think you’ll find something else of interest.”

Elsbet’s eyes widened as she drew out a small square of parchment and read Nysander’s invitation to visit at her earliest convenience.

“Someone must have mentioned your interest in the Orëska library to him,” Seregil said, affecting innocence.

Torn between terror and delight, Elsbet stammered, “I wouldn’t know what to say to him.”

“He’s pretty easy to talk to,” Alec told her. “After a few minutes you feel as if you’ve known him all your life.”

Elsbet returned to her book, blushing more hotly than ever.

“Uncle!” Illia rocked back on her heels with an indignant look. “There’s nothing else in here!”

“And my lady supposes herself forgotten! Give me your kerchief and climb up in Alec’s lap. Don’t be shy—he has lovely young ladies sitting on his lap all the time. You’re quite used to it, aren’t you, Alec?”

Alec gave Seregil a dark look over the top of Illia’s head, not appreciating the gibe.

“Now,” said Seregil, pinching the corners of the kerchief together and holding it up, “what was it you asked for last time I was here?”

“Something magic,” Illia whispered, dark eyes fastened on the kerchief.

Making a great show of incantations and gestures, Seregil handed it back to her. She unfolded it to find a small ivory carving on a chain.

“What does it do?” she asked, hanging it about her neck at once. Before Seregil could reply, however, a swallow fluttered in through the smoke hole and lit on Illia’s knee. Blinking in the firelight, the little bird began to preen.

“It’s a drysian charm,” Seregil told her as she reached out to stroke its shiny blue wing. “You must be very gentle with the birds it brings to you and never use it for hunting. Study them as much as you like, but put the charm away when you’re finished so that they can fly away.”

“I promise,” Illia said solemnly. “Thank you, Uncle.”

“And now it’s time for your swallow to fly off in search of its supper,” said her mother fondly, “and for you, my little bird, to fly off to your bed.”

With a final kiss for Seregil, Illia went out with her mother. Elsbet retired to a quieter corner with the new book.

“Alec, I bet Beka would like a look at that black bow of yours, before it gets too dark,” Micum suggested. “Get her to show you her horses in return.”

“I’ve got some beauties,” Beka said proudly as he fetched his bow and quiver. “Pure Aurënfaie blood, and some mixed. You’ll have to try them out while you’re here.”

Micum turned to Seregil and raised an eyebrow when they’d gone. “He’s just the thing to occupy her while she waits to report.
But what am I supposed to teach him that you couldn’t yourself?”

Seregil shrugged. “You know me. I have no patience with beginners. Can he ride in with you and Beka at the end of the week?”

“Of course,” Micum said, sensing something in the wind. “Something going on back in Rhíminee?”

Seregil pulled out the damning letter Nysander had intercepted. “Seems Lord Seregil has run afoul of the Lerans at last. I’ve got a forger to track down.”

Micum quickly scanned the letter. “Does Alec know?”

“Yes, and he’s none too happy about being put out of the way. Keep him occupied and make a swordsman of him for me. It’s the only thing holding him back. By the Light, Micum, you’ve never seen such a sponge for learning. It’s all I can do to keep ahead of him!”

“He puts me a great deal in mind of you at that age.”

“I could do worse, then. Now, assuming this week goes well, I’d like to arrange a little something special for him when he gets back.”

“Smooth his feathers, eh?” Micum asked with a knowing look. “What did you have in mind?”

“I think you’ll settle in quite well here,” Seregil said with a yawn as he and Alec settled down for the night in the broad guest chamber bed.

Alec watched the play of the firelight across the whitewashed walls of the little room, arms crossed beneath his head. “Do you think Micum will really have better luck teaching me?”

“Would I have brought you all the way out here if I didn’t?”

“And what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not.”

Alec fell quiet, but Seregil sensed something was still worrying him.

“Go on, speak out.”

Alec sighed. “I still feel like you’re getting me out of your way.”

“I am. But only for the week, just as I told you.”

Rising on one elbow, he looked down at Alec. “Listen to me now. I may make my living lying and tricking, but I’m always
honest with friends. There’ll be times I choose not to tell you something, but I won’t lie to you. That’s a promise and there’s my hand on it.”

Alec clasped it sheepishly, then settled back against the bolsters. “What are you going to do when you get back?”

“I’ll check with Nysander first, see if his sources have found anything else. Then there’s Ghemella, a gem cutter in Dog Street, who’s known to do a tidy little side business in forged seals.”

“How will you get her to talk?”

“Oh, I’ll manage something.”

S
eregil woke well before dawn the next morning. Alec had gravitated to the far edge in the night, and lay now curled in his usual tight ball, one arm sticking stiffly over the side, fingers half curled. Resisting a wayward impulse to touch the tousled mass of yellow hair scattered over the pillow, Seregil dressed in the hall and set off for the city at a gallop.

He reached Nysander’s tower rooms before noon and found the wizard at work with Thero over a scroll.

“Any new developments?” asked Seregil.

“Not as yet,” replied Nysander. “As we expected, they were wise enough not to send more than one of the forgeries at a time. I think we may still have a bit of leeway before their next attempt.”

“Then this is all I have to work with.” Seregil pulled the forged parchment from his coat again and fingered the wax seals on the ribbons. “These have to be Ghemella’s work. I don’t know anyone else capable of this quality. Look at this.”

Taking his own seal stamp from a pouch, he held it next to the wax imprints; they were indistinguishable. He’d designed the original himself: a griffin seated in profile, wings extended, one forepaw upraised to support a
crescent. The forger had caught every nuance of the design, as well as several tiny imperfections Seregil had specified in the original to make such a forgery easier to catch.

“She knew very well whose seal it is, too,” he added wryly. “Lord Seregil has had a number of over-the-counter dealings with her.”

“There’s no chance these were somehow struck with the original?” asked Thero, examining the seal. “I seem to recall you breaking into noble houses to steal impressions.”

“Which is why I make a point of not letting my own seal out of my possession,” Seregil replied curtly, tucking it away.

“You will look into this yourself, I trust?” said Nysander.

“Oh, yes indeed.”

“Very well. In the meantime, I must ask you to leave the letter with me.”

Surprised, Seregil met the old Wizard’s level gaze for a moment, then handed the document over without comment.

Ghemella’s first thought was to ignore the hesitant rapping at the door. The gold had just reached the proper color for pouring, and if she left off now she’d have to start all over again. The shop door was shut and the shutters put up; any fool could see she’d closed for the night.

Reaching into the forge with her long tongs, she gently lifted the crucible from its ring over the coals. The troublesome knock came again just as she bent to pour it into the mold. It disrupted her concentration, and a few precious droplets spilled uselessly onto the sand packing the wax form. She set the crucible back on its iron stand with a hiss of exasperation.

“I’ve closed!” she called, but the rapping only intensified. Heaving her great bulk up from the stool, the jeweler lumbered to the small window and cautiously cracked a shutter. “Who is it?”

“It’s Dakus, mistress.”

A hunched old man shuffled into the slice of light from the window, leaning heavily on a stout stick. His crippled back kept him from raising his face to the light, but Ghemella recognized the gnarled hand clamped over the head of the stick. Like most craftsmen, she always noticed hands. A wave of revulsion rippled
over her slack flesh as she unbarred the door and stepped back to admit the dry little grasshopper of a man.

Against the rich backdrop of the shop he was more hideous than she recalled. Pointed spurs of bone sprouted from his knuckles, wrists, and the prominent bones of his ravaged face, looking as if they would burst through the taut yellow skin at a touch.

Hobbling toward the warmth of the forge, he settled himself on the stool and turned his one good eye to her. It had always offended her sensibilities, the way that bright, clear eye glittered in such a face, like a precious Borian sapphire glittering up from a clod of dung.

“So many pretty things!” the old relic wheezed, fingering a half-finished statuette on the workbench. “You’re looking prosperous as ever, dearie mine.”

Ghemella kept her distance. “What are you selling tonight, old man?”

“What would I have to sell to such a rich woman?” replied Dakus, giving her the ruins of a leer. “What except the occasional bit of information that these old ears glean as I beg at the back doors and waste heaps of the more fortunate? Are you still in the market for secrets, Ghemella? Fresh, shiny secrets? I’ve offered them to no one else as yet.”

Slapping a few sesters down on the bench in front of him, she stepped back and folded her arms across her broad leather apron.

The old man pulled a copper vial from his pouch. “Baron Dynaril has murdered his lover with poison bought from Black Rogus. His manservant made the purchase at the Two Stallions a week ago.”

Ghemella produced a gold coin for this and Dakus placed the vial on the workbench.

“Lady Sinril is with child by her groom.”