Shadows Return (28 page)

And was it really going to be used to make medicine for the Overlord’s child? And how? Would they cook it or boil it or drain its blood?

Oh Illior, why didn’t you warn me? What’s the use of an oracle, if not to keep something like this from happening?

There’d been no warning, though. He’d gone over the rhui’auros’s words endlessly, trying to glean their meaning, but he couldn’t see any way they’d hinted at such a horror.

Pondering this, he dozed off again, only to be roused by more sounds of pain from the workshop.

He pulled the pillow around his ears, trying to shut out the pitiful cries. When that proved impossible, he frantically pulled the horn spoon from its hiding place and staggered over to the door to inspect the lock.

Seregil had taught him many things over the years, and among the first of those lessons had been lock-craft. With his tool roll in hand, he could open just about anything, but Seregil had also taught him to make do with what he had, and for just such situations as this.

The lock hole was small. He put his eye to it first, but the light was wrong to make out the workings, and he couldn’t get even the tip of his little finger inside to feel around. He went back to the bed and turned the horn spoon over in his hands, noting how the grain ran lengthwise down the handle. If he could snap it just so, it might yield the beginnings of a usable pick.

Upstairs the cries started again, weaker this time.

Don’t listen. I can’t do anything, not unless I can make this work. Just use what I have.

Sweat rolled down his face and back as he tried to break it between his fingers, but the horn was too strong. After several false starts, he found that he could jam the edge of it between the bed frame and the wall, like a vise, and use the lip of the pitcher to bend it.

The cries continued intermittently, making his heart race. As he worked, he couldn’t help wondering what he’d do if he did manage to get the door open. In his current state, weakened and unarmed, he’d be no match for Yhakobin’s guards, or the man himself, probably. But then, head-on fights weren’t the nightrunner way; Seregil had done his best to instill that in Alec, who’d had more of a tendency for honest fights.

The cries grew weaker as he finally snapped off the bowl and broke the handle into two long spines.

He held them up, inspecting the taper and thickness. Still too big.

He didn’t dare try breaking them again, so he settled on the floor by the bed and burnished the rough edges against the stone flags. His hands began to shake and sweat stung his eyes. To distract himself, he concentrated on recalling Seregil’s various lessons on the subject. A bit of doggerel came to him and ran round and round inside his head.

A crafty nightrunner died of late,

And found himself at Bilairy’s Gate.

He stood outside and refused to knock

Because he meant to pick the lock.

The silly little verse took him back to their old rooms at the Cockerel, sitting knee to knee with Seregil as he took some lock to pieces and explained how it worked. They’d spent countless hours at it. Some had one pin, others had as many as five. Others had wards or poison needles to stick the unwary thief, but they all could be tickled open if you had the skill.

After a considerable amount of rubbing and burnishing, he had a crude tool. Going to the door, he inserted it into the lock and gingerly felt around.

This lock, a simple two-pinner, was hardly a challenge, even with his makeshift tools. The horn pieces made little noise as he carefully probed the works. With a little careful twiddling, he threw the tumblers and heard each satisfying click as they fell.

All had gone silent upstairs.

That doesn’t mean Yhakobin is gone, he reminded himself as he eased the door open and peered around it. The low murmur of voices came from upstairs-Yhakobin’s and someone else’s.

Alec crept halfway up the stairs to hear better. They were speaking Plenimaran, so he had no idea what they were saying, but he recognized the other voice. It was Khenir. He was surprised at the tone: it sounded as if the two men were arguing about something. Khenir was using the humble “Ilban,” but his tone grew less and less respectful as the debate went on. Alec caught his own name several times. Was Khenir arguing on his behalf?

The risk wasn’t worth the toss, eavesdropping on a conversation he couldn’t understand. What mattered was that when the right moment came, he was ready and had a way out!

He crept back to his room, locked the door, and hid the picks inside the mattress again with the rest of the spoon bits. As he lay back on the bed with his head on his arms, trying to calm his racing pulse, he wondered again about the rhekaro. He hadn’t heard it making any noise. Perhaps Yhakobin would leave it alone now, having gotten whatever it was he was after from it.

Ahmol shook him awake sometime later, and the guards hustled him upstairs, where Yhakobin was waiting. Morning light streamed in through the skylights, and he could hear a mockingbird trilling somewhere nearby and the laughter of the children at play.

The slate table was bare, and scrubbed clean.

“Where is it, Ilban?” he asked without thinking.

The alchemist nodded toward a small tub by the door. It was covered with a cloth, and a single hank of silvery white hair hung out from beneath its edge.

“Oh, Illior. You killed it,” Alec gasped. One of his handlers cuffed the back of his head for such insolence, but Alec hardly felt it. He felt numb, gaze still locked on that pitiful lock of hair, remembering the pleading look he’d seen in its eyes when he’d healed it.

“It was never alive to begin with,” Yhakobin told him impatiently. “It was ill made, besides.

Quite useless. We shall have to try again. Give me your hand.”

Alec tucked both under his armpits. “Why? So you can torture another one?”

Yhakobin struck him across the face, sending him sprawling. The guards were on him at once, but the alchemist reached for his bodkin rather than the whip.

“I don’t have time for this. I’ve redone my calculations, and if this proves suitable…” He jammed the bodkin into Alec’s sore finger and performed the flame spell. It burned pale lavender. “Ah, good. I haven’t lost too much ground, after all.” He paused, and Alec realized he was staring at the dragon bite on his ear.

“I know what that is now, Alec. Khenir confessed it to me. It’s such a small thing, and yet…?

Well, no matter. We are where we are.” He went to the tincture shelf. “I believe we can start with silver, this time.”

“No!” Alec tried in vain to wrench free of the guards, but they knew his tricks now, and had little trouble holding him down on his back and pinching his nose shut as Yhakobin leaned over him with the funnel.

Pride  

S
EREGIL HAD NO way of knowing how long Ilar had kept him drugged, but when he finally did wake up in that cold little cell, he was desperately hungry and thirsty. His ribs were sticking out again. The pallet under him was wet and reeked of urine.

Mine, no doubt, he thought wearily.

A wooden pitcher stood beside the bed. He rolled over and sniffed at it. Water. Not caring if it were drugged or not, he took several gulps. It was stale but cool, and it soothed his dry throat.

His next priority was to get away from the dirty bed. He rolled off and sorted out a few of the quilts that hadn’t been soiled, then used the corner of one dipped in water to clean himself. His skin was sore where he’d lain in his own filth.

Wrapping himself in the musty quilts, he propped himself up in the corner and stared at the door. The spot of barred light on the wall told him it was late afternoon.

Alec could be dead by now.

Seregil hugged the quilts tighter around him, pondering that reality. Whatever this rhekaro thing was, Alec’s blood was clearly an important ingredient.

It was no secret that the necromancers of Plenimar favored ’faie blood for use in their foul magics, a fact from which the slavers made a great profit. Hadn’t the alchemist said that Bфkthersan blood was used for making a dra’gorgos? He wondered whose life had been given for the one that had attacked them in Aurлnen.

But the alchemist also claimed to have no intention of killing Alec. My precious alembic, brewing wonders for me.

Seregil shuddered. Not while I have breath in my body!

Gathering his strength, he used the wall to push himself upright and then leaned on it as he walked around the room to test his strength. He was light-headed and unsteady.

I couldn’t fight my way out of a rotten gourd!

He’d waited before, in the upstairs room, getting his strength back, and all the while Alec had been at the mercy of the alchemist and Ilar. Now, when he knew Alec was so close by, Seregil was right back where he’d started-limp and useless, trapped in a cell with no means of escape.

He wondered if Ilar meant to starve him to death this time, but doubted it. That would end the fun too soon, and it had sounded like he meant to savor Seregil’s destruction.

I’ve been in worse spots, he told himself again, but was hard-pressed to think of many. At least he wasn’t bleeding and had no broken bones so far. That was to the good-though from what Ilar had said, he wondered how long that would last. The future looked rather bleak at the moment.

He found himself missing Zoriel. She’d taken good care of him and cared enough to send that Khatme nurse to check on him.

He tugged absently at a strand of dirty hair. To get out of this wretched prison, he was going to have to use his wits. Fighting Ilar was hopeless. The bastard would enjoy it. No, it was time for a new strategy, and fast.

“Rhania, come pay me another visit, won’t you, my dear?” he whispered into the gathering gloom. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d found a servant just as useful as any lock pick.

But it was not Rhania who came to him after dark, but Ilar, and he had an escort this time.

Seregil didn’t stir from his corner. He’d had a long time to consider his options.

One of the men placed a stool and a lantern by the door. The other held a tray and Seregil’s mouth watered at the aroma of some soup made with onions and spices.

Ilar sat down and regarded Seregil with obvious delight. “Awake, I see. I hope fasting has improved your temper?”

“I suppose it has,” Seregil replied, purposely sounding fainter than he felt. “Please, what’s happening to Alec?”

“I believe Ilban Yhakobin is preparing him to make another rhekaro.”

“Another?” Seregil closed his eyes, fending off a wave of very real panic.

“Yes. The first one was not suitable,” Ilar told him, relishing his discomfort.

“I want to help him,” said Seregil. “Is there anything I can do that will sway you?”

“My goodness, this is a sea change,” Ilar sneered. “And why should I bargain with you?”

“No bargains,” Seregil replied. “I’ll do anything you want, take any torture you like, if you can keep that man from killing him.”

“You must think me quite a fool, Haba. I assure you, I’m not. I know the minute I turn my back on you, you’ll try to strangle me again, or run away. Probably both.”

“You think I’d leave Alec to die in this place?”

Ilar pondered that a moment. “Perhaps not, but I do find it hard to believe this sudden change of heart toward me.”

“You have my word, Ilar- Ilban. By the love I once had for you, and the love I bear for Alec now.”

“Words are worthless between us, Haba.”

Seregil gathered his will, swallowed his pride and crawled to Ilar on hands and knees, letting the quilts fall away.

“What’s this?”

Seregil crouched before him, kissed one slippered foot and then rested his forehead lightly on it. “My life for his, Ilban. Please, I beg you, my life for his.”

Ilar grabbed the back of Seregil’s head, fingers twisting painfully into his hair. “Be careful, Haba. I will not be lenient with you again when you betray me.”

“My life for his,” Seregil whispered.

“He is not mine to save, you know.”

“But your master listens to you. As long as Alec survives, I will serve you.”

“You will serve me anyway, one way or another.”

“I will serve without resistance.”

“A very interesting proposition, Haba, and one I will consider.” He released Seregil and shoved him away, then stood abruptly. “Get away from me. You stink.”

Seregil crawled backward, to all appearances a craven, broken man.

Ilar stood a moment longer, and Seregil could feel the man’s gaze traveling over him, suspicious, but intrigued. “Well, we shall see.”

Turning to the men, he spoke in their language. “Clean him up, and the room. If anything untoward happens, I’ll have your guts on a trencher.”

The men watched sullenly until Ilar was out of sight, then one growled to his partner, “That arrogant little dog’s prick! Who does he think he is, ordering us around? By Sakor, I’d like to put him in his place once and for all.”

“So you keep saying,” the other one sighed, pushing past him to roll up the soiled bedding.

“Count Yhakobin would have you flogged and sold if you so much as laid a finger on his precious pet ’faie, and you know it. And the lickspittle will be free soon, too, and of better standing than either you or me. So just hold your temper and wait. He’ll be gone soon enough.”