Stalking Darkness (27 page)

From his seat by the fireside, Seregil could see that Alec had been adopted by a group of drinkers, and that the woman they’d spoken with at Quarin’s shop was among them. Judging by how they included him in their jests, he had obviously made a favorable impression.

Seregil piped on, keeping an ear open for useful tidbits of conversation around him until Alec left. He played a few short ditties, collected his coppers, and followed.

Alec was waiting for him at the public stable where they’d left horses. Stripping off their disguises in the shadow of an alley, they put on plain clothes and rode to a dram house near the north wall of the Ring.

“I didn’t have much luck, unless you want to know the current price of pig iron,” Seregil said as they sat down at a corner table. “How did you make out?”

“You were right about noses being out of joint among Quarin’s people,” Alec told him. “Maruli and some of the other smiths gave me a real earful. Not only is Rythel Quarin’s nephew, but he hasn’t been with him that long. He had a shop of his own down in Kedra, but it burned four months ago. That’s when he showed up here.”

“Is Quarin fond of his nephew?”

“Not anymore. Old Alman Blackhand told me things were friendly at first, but that there’ve been hard words. Quarin’s hardly spoken to him since he handed him the sewer job. And some think it’s strange that Rythel lodges apart from his uncle.”

“Interesting. were any of those you spoke with part of Rythel’s crew?”

“A few, and they don’t much like him either. He has a sharp tongue and treats them like first-month apprentices, always looking over their shoulder. Early on in the job he found fault with the way the grates were being secured. Now he does most of the final fitting himself.”

Seregil raised an appraising eyebrow. “I’ll just bet he does.”

“They’ve been at it for a little over three weeks. All the old grates had to be pulled out and the masonry knees repaired. That’s why the guards are there. They’re putting in the new grates now. Alman is in charge of measuring the part of the sewer tunnel where the grate will be, so that the flange pins and holes will set in properly, but Rythel does the final seating and pinning. And the grates are fixed, not gated. That’s about it, except that I’ve been told to see Quarin about an apprenticeship.”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that.” Alec leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Do you think Rythel could be tampering with the grates?”

“Judging by his behavior, we can’t afford to overlook the possibility. The question is how, and whether any of the other workmen are in on it. And who’s backing this whole thing, of course.”

“It’s got to be the Plenimarans.”

“I mean specifically who, and whether or not Rythel knows who’s running the show. We’ve got to move very carefully, Alec. We don’t want another cock-up like the raid at Kassarie’s. We got the big snake there, but all the little ones slithered safely away. We’d better go talk to Nysander. This looks to be Watcher business.”

He must still be keeping company with Ylinestra, Alec thought wryly as Thero let them into Nysander’s tower. Several long scratches were visible on the young wizard’s neck just above the collar of his robe. She’d left similar marks on Alec during their single encounter.

He’s welcome to her, Alec decided.

Having let them in, Thero returned to a worktable spread with open books. “Nysander’s downstairs,” he told them.

“You’d better come down with us,” said Seregil as he started down the stairs. Thero shot Alec a look of surprise. “Watcher business, maybe.”

Alec was pleased to see the hint of an expectant smile cross Thero’s face as he hurried to join him. He was a cold fish, and no mistake, but in the months since he’d helped secure Seregil’s release from prison, albeit grudgingly, Alec had come to feel a certain sympathy for the stiff young wizard, and respect. He was talented, and his arrogance seemed a shield for his own inner loneliness.

As for the rivalry between him and Seregil, Alec had quickly learned that this was as much Seregil’s fault as Thero’s.

They found Nysander in his favorite sitting-room armchair, the floor around him covered in charts of some sort.

“Well, there you two are,” he exclaimed, looking up with a pleased smile. “How long has it been? Two weeks?”

“Closer to four,” Seregil said. “Business has been slow lately, but we may have run across something interesting.”

With Alec’s help, he quickly sketched out what they’d learned over the past two days. Thero sat a little apart, arms crossed, nodding silently to himself as he listened.

“Dear me, that does sound suspicious,” Nysander said when he’d heard their report. “I seem to recall hearing that one of Lord Zymanis’ valets disappeared not too long ago. I had not heard of any stolen documents, though. Most curious. I assume you mean to make a closer investigation?”

Seregil nodded. “Tonight, but we’ll have to be careful. So far Rythel is the only fish in our net. I don’t want to get the wind up him before we find out who’s behind all this.”

“Have you looked into his lodgings?” asked Thero.

“Not yet. Tenements are terrible for housebreaking—every room occupied and half the time no corridors, just a series of rooms letting one onto another. I thought we’d have a look at the sewer tunnel first, then proceed from there.”

“Yes, that seems to be the logical course,” said Nysander.

“How do you propose to get in with the tunnel so carefully guarded?”

“The lower end is, where they’re still working,” said Alec. “But it shouldn’t be at the upper end, where they started. There’s no need, since the grates are fixed and they started at the top and worked down toward the lower city end. Seregil figures there must be at least five or six between the city wall and the sea.”

“Anyone planning to bugger about with any of the grates later on would have to do them all,” Seregil added.

“I know of an access passage near the south wall that should lead down to the head of the channel. If we can get to it from this end, we should be able to find out what they’ve been up to.”

“When will you go?” asked Nysander.

“Tonight seems as good a time as any,” replied Seregil, standing to go. “I’ll let you know if we need any help.”

“Luck in the shadows,” said Thero as he passed.

Seregil raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, then touched a finger lightly to one of the scratches on Thero’s neck. “And to you.”

T
amir the Great’s builders had laid down the sewers of Rhiminee before a single building was constructed, thereby sparing the new capital the unpleasant and often unhealthy filth common to most large cities. So extensive was it, and so often modified and enlarged to accommodate the growth of the city over five centuries, that now only the Scavenger Guild knew the full extent of it. Even among the Scavengers, most knew only the section that they maintained, and they guarded their knowledge jealously.

Alec and Seregil waited until the second watch of the night before making their way to the southern ward of the city. Though armed, they went cautiously, fading silently into alleys or doorways whenever a Watch patrol happened by.

The entrance they’d targeted was located in a small square behind a block of tenements by the south wall of the city. Half-covered by an unkempt clump of mulberry bushes, the low, iron-strapped door was set into the wall itself. The small grate near the top of it reminded Alec uncomfortably of a prison door, but he kept this to himself as they set down the torches and pry bars they’d brought with them.

He stood behind Seregil and held his cloak out with both hands to hide the light of his companion’s lightwand. Kneeling in front of the door, Seregil probed the keyhole with a hooked pick, soon producing a succession of grating clicks.

The door swung in on blackness. Gathering their gear again, they slipped inside.

Alec tacked a square of heavy felt over the grate, then looked around the little entrance chamber. In front of them, stone steps led downward through an arched passage and out of sight. The faint stench already permeating the air left no doubt they were in the right place.

“Here, we’d better put these on now.” Seregil pulled vinegar-soaked face rags from a leather pouch and handed one to Alec. Leaving their cumbersome cloaks, they lit their torches with a firechip and started down, Seregil in the lead.

“Why did they build it so big?” Alec whispered; the arched passage was nearly ten feet high.

“For safety. The poisonous humours that can collect down here rise. The theory is that this design lets them collect overhead, with good air below. Keep an eye on the torches, though; if they burn blue or gutter, the air’s bad.”

The stairway led down to a tunnel below. Narrow walkways bordered a central channel, full to the brim now with a swift, evil-smelling stream.

Turning to the right, they followed the tunnel for several hundred feet. The recent rains had swelled the flow, and it had overflowed whole sections of the raised walkway, forcing them to wade ankle deep in the foul, frigid waters.

Suddenly they heard high-pitched growling and squeaking coming from the darkness ahead. Seregil edged forward, torch held high, until they came to an iron grate fixed across the width of the tunnel.

The lower ends of the vertical bars extended down into the channel and the body of a small dog was caught against them, held there by the pressure of the stream as it flowed through. Dozens of fat, snarling rats swarmed over the carcass, tearing at it and each other. Others paddled down the channel toward the feast or perched on the crosspieces of the grate. They paid little attention to the human interlopers as they fed, beady eyes glaring red in the torchlight.

“This one is gated,” whispered Seregil, driving off the closest rats with the burning torch. “It’s locked up, but it’s nothing we can’t manage. Want to do the honors?”

“Go ahead,” Alec rasped, not wanting to have to squeeze past his companion in such a narrow place.

Jiggering the lock, Seregil swung back a narrow section of grate on protesting hinges and stepped through, Alec close on his heels.

There were more rats beyond, rats everywhere. The chuckle of the flowing water and the sounds of the rats echoed in the silence as they paused at a sort of crossroads where another channel flowed into the one they were following.

Leaping the four feet to the other side, they continued on to a second hinged grate. Beyond this the way began to slope downhill noticeably.

No other tunnels intersected theirs and finally they came to a fixed grate. The ironwork was new and of the same design Alec had seen at the work site.

The broad flanges set at the four corners of the grate rested against stone knees jutting from the walls of the tunnel and were held in place by thick iron pins set in holes drilled into the stone.

“Here we are,” Seregil whispered, setting down his bundle. “Light your torch from mine and go check that side.”

“What are we looking for, exactly?”

“I don’t know, so be thorough. It could be some fault in the iron or the stone.”

Alec jumped across the channel and began his examination of the ironwork, looking first for something as obvious as bars sawn through. They seemed sound enough, however. The sockets for the pins had been sealed with rivets hammered in hot and the lower flanges, which bore the weight of the grate, rested solidly against the stone knees.

“Let’s try moving it,” said Seregil.

Grasping two crosspieces, they braced their shoulders against the bars and lifted. The grate lifted an inch or two.

“Push!” Seregil grunted, shaking his side of it.

But the grate was solidly held in place by the pins. Giving up, they let it fall back into place with a dull clank.

“I thought maybe he’d sawn off the lower pins,”

Seregil panted, flexing his arms. “I guess not.”

“It did move, though.” Alec squinted up at the flanges overhead. It was impossible to see anything from this angle, so he climbed the crossbars for a closer inspection, torch in hand.

Across the channel, Seregil was about to do the same, but his torch was burning low. Pulling a fresh one from his belt, he paused to light it from the old one. “See anything?”

“There’s nearly three inches of pin exposed up here,” Alec replied, clinging one-handed to the top of the bars.

“I’m no expert, but that seems like a lot. How does it look?”

“Like a metal pin.” Alec held his torch closer. “No marks or cuts. Hold on.

Hey, it’s melting like wax and there’s—“

“Be careful!”

Searing white sparks erupted inches from Alec’s face with an angry spitting sound. With a startled cry, he dropped his torch and threw an arm across his face.

“Alec! Alec, get down,” Seregil yelled.

Alec crouched awkwardly, one leg jammed between the bars. Overhead, sparks still rained down from the sizzling corona of light.

Dark spots danced in front of Seregil’s eyes as he launched himself across the channel. Grabbing Alec, he dragged him to the floor and tried to roll him onto his belly to smother the smoldering patches on his tunic.

“My eyes!” Alec gasped, struggling away in pain and confusion.