Stalking Darkness (29 page)

Seregil sank his head in his hands as Thero reappeared with clean garments over his arm.

“I leave Seregil in your able care,” Nysander told him. “I suggest a cup of hot wine and, by all or any means necessary, a bath.” Clasping the scrap of woolen cloth Seregil had given him, he traced a series of designs on the air and disappeared into the wide black aperture that opened briefly beside him.

When Nysander opened his eyes again, he was in a small deserted square.

“There you are,” whispered Alec, crawling out from behind a clump of leafless bushes. “Is Seregil all right?”

“Yes, just a bit dizzy. He says you have something to show me.” “Something we need fixed,” the boy replied with a familiar grin. “Follow me.”

This was the first time he’d actually seen Alec at work, and he was impressed with his quickness and efficiency.

“My, but Seregil has been busy with you!” Nysander remarked as Alec let him through the second gate.

“Ruint me for honest work, he ‘as,” Alec replied, making a passable stab at a dockman’s accent. “It’s not far now.”

Reaching the damaged grate, Nysander climbed up to inspect the damaged stone and ironwork, then moved across to see the intact corner.

“I see,” he murmured to himself, peering closely at the remaining pin. “Most ingenious. And ingenious of you to have discovered it. Yes, I am quite satisfied. Well done.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Can I fix it?” Nysander snorted, climbing down again. Grasping the bars with both hands, he closed his eyes and listened to the voice of the cold iron.

Letting his own energy pass into it through his hands, he visualized the metal, felt it stir under his hands.

Standing beside him, Alec felt a powerful ripple pass through the rank air. There were no flashes of light or magical signs, just the brief scrape and whine of metal. For a moment it seemed to Alec that the metal came alive, like a plant, growing and moving as it healed.

Looking up, he saw that the damaged corner now looked as it had before. “Illior’s Light!” he gasped, hardly able to believe his eyes.

Nysander laughed. “I hope you did not expect me to come down here with a hammer and anvil.” Opening his hand, he showed Alec a long iron pin. It was scored along its length where it had been driven through the flange and blackened from forging, except where the white metallic substance showed through near one end.

Without a word Alec scaled the left side of the grate to find a solid pin in its place. “That’s amazing,” he exclaimed, tapping the iron with his knife blade. Nysander shrugged. “It is only magic.”

Seregil grudgingly accepted the willow bark infusion Thero prepared, then went down to the baths. As soon as he was clean and dressed, however, he returned to the workroom and refused to be moved, despite Thero’s obvious desire that he wait elsewhere.

Anxious and impatient, Seregil prowled the crowded room, fiddling with bits of delicate apparatus.

“Give me that!” Thero snapped, snatching away a cluster of fluid-filled glass spheres. “Drop that and we’ll be up to our eyes in swamp sprites. If you won’t go downstairs then for Illior’s sake, sit down.”

“I know what it is.” Scowling, Seregil climbed the stairway to the catwalk overhead and stared out through the thick glass panes of the dome, watching the movement of lights below.

By the time Nysander and Alec materialized neatly in the center of the room, it would have been difficult to say which of the two looked more relieved. “There you are!” Seregil exclaimed, bounding down. “Any trouble?” “No, everything looks as good as new,” Alec told him, grinning. “Shall I fetch fresh clothing?” Thero inquired, wrinkling his nose again.

“Yes, in a moment,” said Nysander. “First, however, I must congratulate our two able spies on a most valuable find.” He shook the iron pin from his sleeve. “I will keep this for now. Seregil, Alec tells me you took a sample of this curious white material?”

Seregil held up the small container. “Right here. Want to see it work?”

“Yes, but not here, I think. Too many flammable items.” Taking a crucible from a nearby shelf, he ushered them into the casting room.

Placing a few of the white shavings in the crucible, Nysander set it on the floor and touched a candle flame to its contents. A small fountain of white sparks flew up and scattered across the floor.

“Incredible!” murmured Thero, nudging the remaining shavings about with a small glass wand.

Seregil watched him surreptitiously, recognizing the sudden light of enthusiasm in those pale eyes. At such moments he could almost see what maintained Nysander’s hopes for the young man—the keen and wondering mind that underlay Thero’s cold facade.

“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” Thero asked, turning to Nysander.

The older wizard lit another fragment, then sniffed at the smoke left behind. “It’s a sort of incendiary metal, I believe. It’s called Sakor’s Bite or Sakor’s Fire for obvious reasons. Very, very rare but”—Nysander paused to raise one bushy eyebrow at Seregil—“found in greater quantities in certain regions of Plenimar.”

Seregil exchanged knowing grins with Alec. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a decent bit of work at last.”

O
ver the next few days Alec and Seregil shadowed their man closely, but learned little more than that Rythel was annoyingly regular in his habits. He rose early, gathered his crew, and worked the day through without leaving the site. At night he took supper at his lodgings and turned in early.

Lounging across the street from the Sailmaker Street tenement the fourth evening, they saw a broad, ruddy young man step out into the street.

“That’s the landlady’s grandson,” Seregil whispered to Alec. “He’s been down to that tavern on the corner every night so far.”

True to form, the fellow set off for the corner tavern, stopping to chat with neighbors along the way.

Seregil stood up and stretched, still following the young man with his eyes. “He looks like a talker to me. I think I’ll nip in for a pint and try to strike up a conversation.”

It was a clear, windless night, but cold. Moving restlessly from one cold doorway to another, Alec watched the house, and the half moon sailing slowly over it. It had gained the chimney by the time Seregil reappeared, chuckling to himself and smelling warmly of beer.

“You look pleased with yourself,” Alec muttered, shifting his frigid feet.

“I am.” Seregil threw his cloak back and presented him with a wooden cup of the Dog and Bell’s best lager. “Let’s go home. Rythel’s unlikely to stir out for another couple of nights yet.”

Alec took a grateful swallow of the watery beer as they headed back to the court where they’d left their horses. “Then you did get something out of the grandson?”

“Our smith appears to be equally disliked by almost everyone who knows him, with the exception of his landlady, who judges her tenants solely by how punctual they are with their rent. Her grandson, young Parin, has had a few run-ins with him around the house. Apparently harsh words were exchanged when Parin entered the smith’s rooms unexpectedly one day. ‘Mind you’”grinning, Seregil mimicked Parin’s somewhat slurred complaints—“‘he was only messin’ about with some drawerings. Not like he was tupping nobody or nothin’. Just drawerings, for the love a’ hell! He’s a queer one, and a miser, for all his high and mighty ways.’”

“A shrewd judge of character, our Parin,” Seregil said with a chuckle. “He wasn’t much help about the nature of the ‘drawerings,’ but he did tell me that Rythel always keeps to his rooms on work nights, but come end of the week he goes on a regular spree.”

Alec’s hunter instincts stirred. “Tomorrow night.”

“That’s right. According to Parin, he appears downstairs in gentlemen’s clothes, sends Parin next door to hire a horse, tips like the miser he is, and rides off not to be seen again until dawn or the next night.”

“That explains how he came to be in the Street of Lights.”

“And I’m willing to bet he makes a few other stops along the way. I think it’s time Lord Seregil put in an appearance.”

Alec shot him a sharp look. “Just him? What about me?”

Seregil threw an arm around his shoulders and playfully ruffled his hair. “Well now, if Master Rythel is out gambling and whoring all night, what better time for a bit of housebreaking?”

The following evening Rythel rode out from Sailmaker Street just as expected. The streets were busy, making it an easy matter for Seregil to follow him up to the main city. A heavy cloak masked the fine surcoat and breeches he’d put on for the evening’s role.

The smith rode easily, apparently enjoying the evening air, and ended up at the Heron, a stylish gambling house on the eastern fringe of the Merchant’s Quarter.

That’s a lucky turn. Seregil grinned to himself, watching from a distance as Rythel disappeared inside. Lord Seregil was well known at the Heron from the days when he’d made his living in such dens. And gaming-house friendships were easy enough to manage.

Leaving Cynril with a groom, he strode inside. The elderly doorkeeper took his cloak with a bow.

“Good evening, my lord,” the old man said. “It’s been some time since we last saw you. Will anyone be joining you?”

“No. A canceled engagement has left me at loose ends.” Pausing, he slipped a discreet coin to the man, murmuring, “Any new blood tonight, Starky?”

Stark palmed the bribe and leaned closer. “A few, my lord, a few. Young Lady Lachia has become quite addicted to bakshi since her marriage, but her husband’s with her tonight and he may know you rather too well from times past. There’s a country knight, Sir Nynius, with plenty of gold and a passion for eran stones who plays badly as a rule. And there’s a third, a newcomer. Not noble, but well turned out. Calls himself Rythel of Porunta.”

“How will I know him?”

“He’s tall and fair, with quite an impressive beard. I expect you’ll find him in the card room. A bold player, as I hear it, though not always clever. He’s become a regular over the past month or so and takes both wins and losses philosophically.”

Seregil slipped him a second coin and a wink. “Hlior’s luck to you, my lord.”

The Heron was a modestly opulent establishment divided into a number of large rooms. Those near the front featured various sorts of games open to all corners; smaller rooms at the back were reserved for private affairs.

Seregil found Rythel in one of the latter, settled down to a round of Rook’s Gambit with several rich merchants and a few officers of the Queen’s Archers.

A number of them knew Seregil and invited him to join in. He took the empty chair nearest Rythel and set his purse on the table.

“Good evening, Lord Seregil,” Vinia the wool merchant greeted him, gathering up the brightly painted cards for a new deal. “The hazard is three gold sesters, the limit eight. As the new player, you begin the bid.”

Keeping one eye on Rythel’s style, Seregil played conservatively for the first few rounds, managing to collect a modest pile of winnings. He chatted with the others as they played, spicing the light banter with investment advice and allusions to recent successful ventures, including an interest in the privateer fleet being overseen by Nyreidian.

Rythel listened with polite interest, saying little until the deal came around to him again.

“I suggest a change of game,” he said, gathering the pack. “Sword and Coin? There are enough of us to partner two games.”

The other players were agreeable and when the chairs and tables had been shifted, Seregil was not surprised to find himself sitting across from Rythel. With a silent nod to Illior, he settled down to make his partner a richer man.

The less circumspect players were soon winnowed out as Seregil, no stranger to creative card shuffling, gently tipped the scales in his and Rythel’s favor. Rythel, too, showed signs of certain talents; in an hour’s time the two of them had exhausted the resources of the other players.

Seregil gave him a slight bow as they rose to divide their winnings and extended his hand. “Well played. I’m Lord Seregil, as you may have gathered. And you?”

“Rythel of Porunta, my lord.” His hand was hard in Seregil’s, but not as stained and roughened as he’d expected. The man had obviously taken pains to hide his current occupation.

“Porunta? That’s down near Stoneport, isn’t it? What brings you so far north this time of year?” “I’m in commerce there, my lord, in a modest way.”

Rythel paused, giving Seregil a disarmingly open smile. “I must confess, some of the ventures you’ve mentioned tonight interest me.”

“A man of vision, eh?” Seregil said with a knowing wink. “I’m a great admirer of ambition, and our brief partnership tonight didn’t do my purse any harm. Perhaps you’d like to discuss things further over a bit of supper?”

“I’d be honored, my lord,” Rythel replied, just a hint too eager.

“Anyplace in particular?”

Rythel shrugged. “No, my lord. I’ve no plans for the night.”

Damn, thought Seregil. Looks like we’ll spend the evening plying each other with drink and fishing for secrets.

A harsh, clear dawn was breaking when Seregil returned to the Cockerel. Alec was asleep on the couch, legs stretched out toward the ruins of a fire.