Shadows Return

CHAPTER 36 Nightrunning

RHANIA CAME TO Seregil’s door again that night.

“Have you thought more about what we spoke of?” he asked, cheek pressed to the door.

“Yes. Do you really think it possible?”

“Get me out of this room and I’ll prove it to you.”

“And you would take me with you?”

“Yes.”

“You give your word?”

“By the honor of Bôkthersa, I swear it. But we’ll need a few things. Weapons, clothing, food. Can you put your hands on those?”

“Yes!”

“Don’t do it all at once. Someone might notice. Just a bit at a time, and hide them somewhere you can get to quickly at night.”

“I understand.”

“Now, how are you going to get me out of this room?”

There was a long silence. “Let me think on that. I will find a way.”

Once again, he heard no sound of her leaving. That might be a good sign. She was brave and quiet, and must have a steady nerve to come to him like this. He might actually be able to keep his promise to her.

Rhania stole to his door almost every night, whispering to him about what supplies she’d been able to cache, and telling him of any glimpse she’d had of Alec. It seemed he was still being kept in the outbuilding and was sometimes allowed to walk in the garden with Ilar. As far as she could tell, they’d become friends.

That news was like a knife in Seregil’s gut.

Ilar visited Seregil every day, and his visits grew longer. It was clear he delighted in having Seregil under his sway and making him do all sorts of menial tasks.

Seregil played the perfect body servant, letting Ilar believe that he was becoming resigned to his fate. Day by day Ilar grew a little more at ease with him, a bit more open.

Today, after some subtle prompting while massaging Ilar’s feet, Seregil had gotten him to talk about some of his former masters and what he’d suffered at their hands. As Seregil listened, he found himself caught between pity and disgust. His expression must have betrayed him, though; Ilar had suddenly kicked him away and stormed out without a word.

Seregil sat up and staunched his bloody nose with the bottom of his robe. For once, he didn’t hold it against Ilar, when his own collection of wounds had been gotten as a free man, doing his chosen work. Not that it made him hate Ilar any less, of course.

That would be weakness.

Lying in bed that night, though, he spent a long time trying to chase away the images Ilar had summoned in his mind. But they followed him into his dreams, and he was glad to be woken sometime later by the familiar sound of soft, persistent scratching on his door.

He walked over and pressed his ear to the wood. “Yes?” He was always careful not to use her name, or sound as if he were expecting anyone, in case it did turn out to be someone less friendly.

Tonight his answer was the sound of a key in the lock. A cloaked figure slipped inside, armed with a large carving knife. Seregil jumped back quickly, braced for an attack. Rhania pushed back her hood and removed her veil.

She wasn’t young but was quite beautiful under the tracery of Khatme clan markings. Seregil read them quickly: she was a person of middle standing, without magic. There were large holes in her ears where the clan jewelry had been stripped from her. One earlobe had been torn and healed badly.

“Here, take these!” She reached under her cloak and handed him a wadded tunic. Inside he found a belt, some ragged trousers, his worn old poniard, and Alec’s boot dagger with the black-and-silver handle.

“Where did you get these?”

“Ilban Yhakobin had them displayed in the library downstairs, as trophies. The slavers include belongings in the price of the sale.”

“That’s all there was? No swords, or a bow?”

“There was nothing else.”

“Damn.” Seregil’s uncle had made his sword for him. Alec’s-together with the Black Radly bow-had been gifts from Seregil. “I wasn’t expecting you to act so soon. Has something happened?”

“The master visited my bed tonight.” Rhania raised her chin proudly, daring him to judge her as she held up a large key. “I took it while he slept and came here at once. We must leave before he knows it’s missing. He’s sure to know I took it.”

“Bravely done.”

“Come on, then. Kill Khenir with your knife and flee with me!”

But Seregil wasn’t ready to let go of all caution just yet; somehow, it felt too easy. “It’s a good tale, my lady, and believe me, nothing would please me more. But why should I trust you any more than I do him? How do I know it’s not Khenir putting you up to all this, just to get me in trouble?” That would probably suit Ilar very well, watching him lose a foot on the block.

She fell to her knees and clasped her hands. “I give you my pledge: ‘Though you thrust your dagger at my eyes, I will not flinch!’”

“Are you sure?” asked Seregil, grasping the tip of the knife she was still holding and moving it away from his crotch. The oath was more than mere poetry among the ’faie. He drew the poniard and leveled it at her face. Even when he made a quick feint at her left eye, she remained absolutely steady, her gaze locked with his.

“Please. Don’t doubt me now,” she whispered.

He pulled her to her feet. “Will you show me to where my friend is being held?”

“Yes, but it’s dangerous.”

He grinned as he changed his slave robe for the clothing she’d brought him. “At this point, what isn’t? I’m not going without him.”

“I know. But we must go quickly!” She pulled back her cloak to show him a satchel she had over one shoulder. “See? I have food, water, a flint, and the rest you asked for.”

She took him by the hand and led him down a narrow stair and through several turns of a narrow passageway. He smelled dust and mice-a back passage, one that let servants move through the house without offending the eyes of the master and his household.

They came out in a shadowy room full of bulky furnishings. At the far end a set of double doors stood open. Seregil stole up to the edge of the doorway. It was a crisp, overcast night, with no moonlight to betray them. Intentionally or not, the Khatme had chosen her moment well.

Peering cautiously outside, he froze as he made out a line of figures outside. As his eyes adjusted to the light, however, he realized that they were only statues, lined up along the sides of a long fountain pool.

I’ve been here! He recognized the black-and-white mosaic paving. It was all he did remember, having been drugged to the gills the only other time he’d been here.

Overhead, there was a second-floor gallery, with doorways and lots of darkened windows.

“There, the watchman,” Rhania whispered, pointing out a dark figure slumped on a stool near an archway to their left. An overturned cup lay at his feet.

“Drunk?” asked Seregil.

“Dead, I hope. He helped himself to me once too often, so I gifted him with a bit of one of the master’s special elixirs in his wine tonight.”

“You were planning this long before I ever showed up.”

“Yes. Aura sent you, and I am ready.”

“Take what the Lightbearer sends and be thankful, eh?” Seregil shook his head, wondering how a woman like her had ended up a slave in the first place.

Rhania pointed to an arched gateway at the far end of the courtyard. “Through there. Your friend is in Ilban’s workshop.”

“Good. Stay close to me.”

Keeping to the shadows under the gallery, he started for the gate.

Suddenly someone on the gallery overhead shouted, “There they are.”

Rhania cowered back against the wall as the sound of running feet came from all directions. “That’s Ilban!”

“There!” a woman screamed, and Seregil prayed it wasn’t Zoriel.

“No!” Rhania gasped, looking around wildly. “No, I can’t…I won’t!”

Before Seregil could stop her, she clasped the carving knife in both hands and drove it deep into her breast. She fell without a cry.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Seregil bolted across the courtyard, dodged between two startled guards coming the other way, and dashed into the garden beyond. The workshop Rhania told him about was right there in front of him, but it might as well have been on the moon for all the good it did him right now.

A pursuer caught him by the shoulder. Seregil paused just long enough to plunge his poniard through that man’s throat and into the chest of the one who’d come with him, then ran across to a large, ornate fountain on what appeared to be an outer wall. Using the carvings for purchase, he scrambled up. At the top, somehow still clutching the bloody poniard, he looked over and saw a shadowed fold of ground below. Ditch or gorge, it was impossible to tell.

He kept low and ran along the top of the wall, trying to find a better place, but the declivity followed this side of the house.

If he did jump and didn’t break his neck, he still might not be able to get back inside easily for Alec. And just where exactly was he going to go if he did run-branded, dressed in stolen, ill-fitting clothes, with blood on his hands, and no knowledge of the countryside?

He followed the top of the wall past the workshop and around the smaller garden with the covered walkway and the fish pool. He caught sight of movement below just in time to flatten himself into the angle between the wall and the tiled walkway roof.

“What are you doing in here?” a man demanded.

“The master said to search everywhere,” another replied.

“Don’t be a fool. You can see where he went over the wall. There are bloody handprints all over the fountain. Get the dogs and search the gully first. He’s likely lying there with a broken leg, the damn fool.”

“That’ll be the least of his worries once the master has him again.”

The voices faded away. Thunder rolled in the distance, and a few drops of cold rain pattered down, spattering on the tiles and soaking through the back of Seregil’s thin tunic. A moment later the skies opened and rain came down in sheets.

Seregil mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. The rain would cover the fact that there were no tracks beyond the wall. He cautiously raised his head and looked around. Directly across from where he lay was the wing of the house where he’d been held in the upstairs room. Several small wooden grilles were visible just below the eaves, and most likely let into an attic. In his experience, attics of large houses could be very useful places.

He carefully crawled along the walkway roof, but the rain was so heavy now that he could barely see the fountain and guessed he was equally hidden.

It was hard work, clambering over the uneven tiles, and his palms and knees were sore by the time he finally reached the first wooden grille. It was old and a little rotten. Using the dagger, he easily pried it from its frame and wriggled in.

It was dusty and cold inside, and pitch-black at first. He crouched where he’d landed, letting his eyes adjust. A flash of lightning gave him a glimpse of jumbled trunks and broken bits of furniture. Seregil resisted the urge to explore just yet and leave telltale wet footprints in the dust.

His caution was well warranted. Servants soon appeared with lanterns and proceeded to search every corner of the rambling space. Seregil was kept busy skulking from one shadowy hiding spot to another. He eventually managed to get behind them in an already searched area and hunkered down under a large pile of moth-eaten bedclothes, clutching the bloody poniard.

It wasn’t the best hiding spot: the musty comforters were alive with beetles and mice, and he nearly ruptured his eardrums stifling several violent sneezes.

The lights finally disappeared and the attic went silent again. He stayed where he was, breathing though his mouth, for some time, but no one came back to catch him out. The storm still raged outside, with thunder treading on the lightning’s heels.

With any luck, Yhakobin would give up the search for tonight, and find the trail cold tomorrow. Safe for the moment, Seregil arranged himself more comfortably in his dusty, itchy hiding place to rest while he could.

“Take care, talí,” he murmured softly. “I’m coming for you soon.”