Shadows Return (36 page)

The Watchers Go Forth  

T
HE WEATHER TURNED rotten before Micum and Thero could set sail from Gedre.

Lashing rain and high seas held their vessel in port for three days, then the wind was against them, forcing the captain to tack endlessly to make any progress at all. The Osiat was deeper than the Inner Sea, and the storms fiercer, especially heading north toward the Strait. But the ship was a sturdy, sleek little caravel, lateen-rigged and well ballasted, under the command of a Gedre named Solies.

It took nearly a week to reach Virйsse. Thero used the tooth to keep track of their quarry; so far Notis was still in the harbor town. The Gedre khirnari had given them letters of introduction, but Micum seemed increasingly uneasy as they neared the port.

“Would it be fair to say that Seregil and Ulan í Sathil aren’t exactly on cordial terms?” he mused as they sat in the galley, trying to keep their salt meat and turab from sliding off the table as the ship pitched and rolled.

“I’ve been thinking the same,” Thero admitted. “And if Seregil were here, I think he’d be reminding us that he’s never one to go in the front door when he has a chance to do otherwise.”

Micum grinned. “Are you turning nightrunner on me, too?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but there’s much to be said for caution.”

“Can you magic us somehow, so we don’t stick out in the crowd?”

“I could, but remember where we are going. My magic is more likely to call attention to us than it is to shield us. I think an attempt at stealth might be the better plan.”

“Well then, I guess we’d better ask Captain Solies if he knows of any back doors.”

As it happened, the captain did, and put in that evening at a secluded inlet a few miles west of Virйsse harbor. Sailors swam their horses ashore for them, and Captain Solies went with Micum and Thero as they were rowed ashore, looking less than pleased with the plan.

“Keep those letters with you in case you’re challenged,” he warned. “I’ll be left explaining our anchorage here if anyone comes asking.”

“We’ll be back in a few days,” Thero promised. “And I’ll do my best to send you word if it all goes wrong.”

They spent the night under tall pines, wrapped in their blankets against the damp chill.

“I had my first taste of this with Alec, when the Plenimarans took us,” Thero admitted, huddled near the little fire Micum had coaxed to life. “I must admit, I miss my tower rooms at times like this. Nysander and Magyana were better at this sort of thing.”

“You’ve hardened up nicely, though.” Micum lifted the little kettle of tea off the coals and poured Thero a cup, then took out his pipe for a smoke. Settling with his back to a tree trunk, he took a few puffs. “It’s been a while for me, too. Feels damn good to be sleeping rough again.”

The following morning found the forest thick with fog. Thero would have been hopelessly lost, but Micum, who seemed to have an infallible sense of direction, soon found a narrow cart track leading in the right direction.

Micum kept up the horses at good pace through the morning as the mist burned off under the rising sun. By the time they dismounted by a roadside spring to eat, Thero noticed that his limp was more pronounced.

“I think I can help you with that,” Thero offered. “Nysander taught me a bit of healing, and I learned more from Mydri in Bфkthersa.”

Micum sighed. “I can’t say no to that, I suppose. What should I do?”

“Just sit on that rock there. I’ll have to put my hands on you.”

“Go on, then.” Micum sat down and stuck out his bad leg.

Thero knelt beside him and carefully pressed a hand to the front and back of Micum’s thigh.

He’d never laid hands on a man before, and felt a little awkward, but Micum just watched with interest and showed no sign of discomfort.

Thero hadn’t seen Micum’s wound since it had healed, but he could easily trace the long, uneven ridges of scar tissue through the thin leather of Micum’s breeches. They ran from behind his knee to just below his buttock. Closing his eyes, Thero whispered the healing charm Magyana had taught him to take away pain. The tense muscles under his hands relaxed a bit and he heard Micum’s grateful sigh.

“That’s a bit better.”

“Wait a little.” This time, Thero summoned the deeper healing Seregil’s sister had taught him-one he’d used often to help Klia through the long, painful days of healing, when her remaining fingers threatened to curl permanently into withered claws. As the spell took hold, he could feel the rush of blood through muscle and the tension of tendon along bone. He imagined warm sunlight and sent the heat of it deep into the flesh.

“By the Light!” Micum murmured.

Thero held on until he felt the thick, hardened skin loosen under his fingers, then sat back and opened his eyes. “I can do more later. Do you think you can ride some more?”

Micum stood and tried the leg. “Hell, I think I can run! Now, is our friend Notis still there?”

Thero took the tooth from a pouch at his belt and pressed it between his palms. “Yes, and he’s ashore, too. I think I can find him now that we’re closer.”

They reached the outskirts of Virйsse that afternoon. The sprawling white city embraced a deep, broad port, and was protected at its back by mountains. Pausing on a hill overlooking the harbor, Micum sat on a stone fai’thast marker and counted well over a hundred ships of all sizes moored there, and not a few of them carrying the striped sails of Plenimar.

“It’s no secret that the eastern clans trade with them,” Thero observed. “Still, it’s a bit daunting, seeing so many of them here.”

“I see a good many Skalan vessels there, too. We should be able to pass unnoticed if we don’t call attention to ourselves.”

Thero took out the tooth again and cast the seeking spell and a wizard’s eye at the same time.

The result was a quick, dizzying mental flight to a tavern inn at the waterfront. The signboard in front bore no words, but showed a dragon wrestling with a sea serpent.

“That shouldn’t be too hard to spot,” said Micum, rubbing absently at his game leg. “Let’s hope their food and ale are good. How’s your Plenimaran, by the way?”

“I can make myself understood, though I’m sure to be known for a Skalan as soon as I open my mouth.”

Micum nodded. “I’ve still got my northland accent. Better let me do most of the talking until we get our man cornered. It’ll draw less attention.”

The Good Slave  

I
LAR’S VISITS WERE becoming more frequent, and more varied. There were still whippings now and then-sometimes when Seregil let his careful mask slip, sometimes at Ilar’s own strange whim-but only at Ilar’s own hands now, and those Seregil could easily bear.

Ilar came earlier in the day and stayed longer, too. Seregil played his role with increasing ease.

As long as he kept Alec in his heart, he could feign obedience to Ilar with ease, pour wine for him without spitting in it when Ilar wasn’t looking, and even manage to converse with the man, listening again and again to Ilar’s version of the days they’d spent together. He learned of the man’s family and, when Ilar had had more wine than usual, his regrets at the shame he’d brought on his kin and clan. Seregil even shared a little of his own past, when pressed, and took a certain degree of dark pleasure in recounting his exploits in Skala, for the pain and envy it kindled in Ilar’s eyes.

As the days passed and they grew more accustomed to each other’s company, Seregil sensed that, despite Ilar’s cool faзade, he was increasingly troubled. Seregil guessed it had something to do with the fact that there had been no more mention of Ilar’s freedom. Intrigued, he bided his time and chose his moment carefully.

One evening, when Ilar seemed especially tense, Seregil poured the wine and brought it to him. Standing respectfully beside his chair, he reached out, and then pulled his hand back as if reconsidering the action.

“What is it?” Ilar demanded irritably.

“You seem out of sorts, Master.” Ilar relished hearing that word from his lips, and Seregil used it as often as possible, playing the obedient slave.

“And what if I am?”

Seregil slipped his hand under Ilar’s long hair to stroke the nape of his neck. “Yes, you’re very tense. If I may, Master?”

Ilar glanced up warily. “Stay where I can see you.”

Ilar was no fool, and still had a healthy distrust of Seregil, but it had also become obvious that he was starved for touch in this house. If approached carefully, Ilar was particularly susceptible to the slightest show of kindness. So Seregil chanced it now, kneading the back of Ilar’s smooth neck with expert fingers.

The man was slow to relax. He sat stiffly, still drinking, one eye on Seregil.

“It would be easier if I stood behind the chair, Master,” Seregil suggested, sliding his fingers down the neck of Ilar’s robe to massage between his shoulder blades.

“Easier to what? Throttle me? I prefer you where you are.”

“Then how about this?” Seregil boldly straddled Ilar’s legs, settling on his knees to bring both hands into play. It brought their faces close together and Seregil kept his eyes lowered for a time, then looked up through his lashes. Even a eunuch could be seduced if you knew what he liked; Ilar liked to be touched.

“What is it you want?” Ilar muttered.

“To take that frown from my master’s face.”

“‘Coy’ doesn’t suit you, Haba,” Ilar sneered, but Seregil could already feel the tension easing from the muscles under his fingers.

“What do I want, then?” Seregil worked his fingers up and down the back of Ilar’s neck. “My freedom, certainly. And Alec, of course.”

Ilar chuckled at his honesty. “What else?”

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Master Yhakobin hasn’t released you as he promised.”

“He will.”

“When?”

Ilar locked eyes with him. “What’s that to you?”

“I am yours, Master. My fate lies with yours, hand in glove. I can’t help being curious.”

“Well, if you must know, your half-breed may not be bleeding the right sort of blood.”

Seregil kept up his gentle work as he took this in. He couldn’t ask about the rhekaro without tipping his hand. Fortunately, Ilar was in a talkative mood.

“Mmmmm, yes, Haba. Right there.” He sighed as Seregil began kneading the stiff muscles at the base of his skull. “Since you are so agreeable today, I’ll answer your question. The master seeks to make a particular kind of creature, one that has great power. It can only be made with the blood of an Hвzadriлlfaie.”

A monster made from ’faie blood, just like the dra’gorgos! “That’s why he wanted Alec?”

“Yes. As soon as word came from Aurлnen that one had appeared, Master Yhakobin was determined to be the one to capture him.”

“Who sent word?”

“Spies, I suppose. It doesn’t matter.”

It does to me, Seregil thought darkly. Assuming that Ilar was telling the truth, this seemed to point to someone other than Phoria. Seregil was a little disappointed.

“Fortunately, I was able to assist him, since I knew that the young man’s talimenios was you.

So when word arrived that you were both returning to Aurлnen-Well, you know the rest.”

“Were you there?” Seregil kept his voice calm and his fingers working.

“Of course not! But I knew your name and face, and that was enough for the slavers. You certainly made no secret of your movements.”

“Why didn’t they come after us in Skala?”

“They don’t raid that far north, do they?”

“I suppose not.”

“And Rhíminee is not such an easy place for spies, since Mardus’s failed attack on the city.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So, Alec is well, Master?”

“You’ve seen him.”

“And he doesn’t suspect you being anything other than a fellow slave?”

“Apparently not.”

Seregil very much hoped Ilar was wrong about that.

“Oh, by the way. It seems your blood is as useless as his. Master Yhakobin attempted to use that which he took from you that day. It doesn’t transmute properly at all.”

“Do give him my regrets, won’t you?” Seregil said without thinking.

Strong hands clamped over his wrists, pinning them together in front of his face. “Are you missing the whip, Haba?”