The White Road

CHAPTER 25 Mixed Emotions

THE SUMPTUOUSLY DECORATED ship’s cabin was the best accommodation Alec had seen since they’d left Bôkthersa. Seregil, who had a taste for luxuries of any sort, sprawled across the bed at all hours like a big contented cat, and for the first time in a very long time it was just the two of them at night. No Sebrahn. No Rieser, who looked vaguely uncomfortable whenever they so much as clasped hands. Seregil was like a man dying of thirst, and Alec was the spring. After the tension of the past weeks, lovemaking was as much relief as pleasure for both of them.

On their second morning at sea, Rhal took one look at them over breakfast and burst out laughing, as did Nettles, who was eating with them in the captain’s cabin. Alec had been amused to see that this one was decorated even more garishly than their own, but he wasn’t amused now, sensing that the laughter was at his expense.

Seregil looked up from the runny grey porridge Tarmin had served up. “What’s funny?”

“Look in the mirror, both of you,” Rhal told him. “You’ve got matching love bruises on your necks.”

“And you’ve been so quiet, too,” said Micum. “We could hardly hear you in the forecastle.”

Alec’s face went hot to the roots of his hair as he pulled up the collar of his coat. That just made the others laugh harder, of course, all of them except Rieser, who kept his attention on his breakfast, expression carefully neutral. Seregil was clearly controlling himself with an effort; he couldn’t care less what anyone thought, but he also knew how Alec hated it when things like this happened. Not that Alec was ashamed of their relationship—far from it—but his father had been a modest man, and their lonely wandering life had left Alec ill at ease in personal matters around other people. He kept hoping he’d at least grow out of blushing, but so far he hadn’t been that lucky.

As much as he valued having Seregil to himself again, though, Alec missed Sebrahn badly. He’d grown used to the little rhekaro’s constant presence, even if Seregil hadn’t, and felt bereft without him. More than once he caught himself looking around for him, purely out of habit. Sebrahn crept into his dreams, always being carried out of reach by the Ebrados and their tall rhekaro. But he kept all that to himself, and busied himself helping Seregil prepare for the task ahead.

Seregil and the other “slaves” were leaving most of their gear behind, but he and Alec kept their tool rolls, in spite of the danger of being caught with them. For now they were stored at the bottom of their small traveling packs, but Seregil and Alec both had a medium-sized lock pick sewn into a seam of their tunics. Weapons presented another challenge, and they had a heated discussion about that with Rieser behind closed doors in their cabin.

“Even if you’re only presenting yourself as a horse trader, wouldn’t you have armed men to protect the string?” Rieser demanded.

“You have to play every role to the last detail,” Seregil explained. “Slaves caught carrying weapons will get their master into some serious trouble, not to mention what would happen to them. If we get backed into a corner, we’ll either steal some or use whatever comes to hand.”

“Or run very fast,” added Alec.

“It’s usually better to avoid a fight altogether,” said Micum.

Rieser raised an eyebrow at that. “You’re afraid to fight?”

“No,” said Seregil, “but fighting attracts attention, and that’s something we want to avoid at all costs. Still, we won’t go in without any protection. Micum has his sword, and no one will question him carrying Alec’s bow. If he can’t get it to Alec in time, Micum’s a very good archer. Does that satisfy you? Or are you afraid?”

“I fear nothing, but dying won’t accomplish our purpose.”

“None of us plans to die. Just follow our lead when the time comes. This is what we’re good at.”

“I caught you easily enough,” Rieser reminded them.

“And we escaped just as easily.”

“The first time.”

“That’s enough!” said Micum. “It’s settled: no swords or knives. We each play our role. That should be protection enough.”

For clothing, the ship’s sailmaker was able to alter some of their clothing and some loose trousers traded from the crew into outfits befitting a well-to-do northlander’s slaves. They would wear shirts under the usual sleeveless tunic, but with sleeves loose enough to readily display the slave brands. Seregil sewed plain veils for each of them out of some of the ribbon and fine lady’s handkerchiefs Rhal had plundered from a Plenimaran ship.

When it was all fixed, Alec modeled it for them.

Seregil frowned. “It’s not perfect.”

“It’s good enough for a foreigner’s slaves,” said Micum. “The brands and collars should be enough to convince anyone.”

That night Seregil and Alec sat down to map out all that they recalled of the alchemist’s villa. Alec had seen only a bit of the cellar under the house where his cell had been, and the way from there to the workshop with its two gardens. Seregil had been kept in an upper room overlooking the inner garden, and then in the same cell that Alec had been in, but he had been unconscious for the transitions. The night he’d escaped with the Khatme nurse, it had been dark and she’d been in the lead, but he had some sense of the direction she’d taken, leading him down through the dining room into the central courtyard. The workshop garden lay just beyond. He’d also spent a night in an attic overlooking that same garden.

Alec knew the workshop best, and sketched it, marking the forge and athanor, tables and other structures, including a small ornate tent at the far end. “And here’s where the tunnel begins, under the anvil nearest the door,” Alec said, showing Rieser.

“And you can’t just go in that way?”

“I considered that, but I don’t think we could lift the trapdoor with that anvil bolted on top of it,” Seregil explained. “I almost killed myself getting it closed last time.”

“Perhaps with my help—” Rieser began.

“You won’t be there.”

“You are not going to get the book without me.”

“Oh, yes, we are. We know what we’re doing and don’t need you there, bumping around and knocking things over in the dark. If you want the book, then you damn well better leave it to us.”

“He’s right,” Micum told Rieser. “You and I will have our own task.”

“And I’ll find out what that is later, I suppose?”

“The night I got out and hid in that attic, I overheard the guards talking about a gully behind the workshop’s garden wall,” Seregil told them. “That might be a good route in, if the workshop backs up to it.”

“What about the tunnel?”

“Repeating ourselves would be dangerous. Unless something better presents itself, I think a straightforward burglary by way of the gully is the best plan for now. If all else fails, then we can use the tunnel, but I’d rather not.”

“You seem to be leaving a lot to chance,” Rieser noted.

Seregil grinned. “We don’t know how else to operate.”

They reached a small wooded island on the afternoon of the third day out. Alec and the others went ashore while the sails were changed for the black-and-white-striped ones and the figurehead was removed and stowed away. The sails were a bit of a risk, since meeting a Skalan ship was a very real possibility in these waters.

“I’ve done this before,” Rhal had assured them. “And I haven’t encountered the warship, Skalan or Plenimaran, that my Lady can’t outrun.”

It was peaceful here. No one lived on the island. There was only the sound of the waves, the wind, and the cries of gulls and ospreys. Alec drank it all in, knowing this was likely to be their last respite for a long time.

Seregil picked up a flat stone from the beach and sent it skipping across the surface of the cove toward the Lady with a practiced snap of his wrist.

“How much longer until we reach Plenimar?” asked Rieser, watching the progress with the sails.

“Three or four more days, according to Captain Rhal.” Micum sent a stone skimming after Seregil’s. It went a few skips farther.

Alec watched the two of them compete, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The Skalan coast had dropped below the horizon yesterday. He was feeling very far from home—and from that waterfall where Rieser’s Ebrados were supposedly waiting for them. “Sebrahn could be halfway to Cirna by now.”

“I gave you my word,” Rieser replied calmly. “My riders will not disobey my orders, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

And to Alec’s surprise, the man picked up a flat stone half the size of his palm and sent it skipping farther than any of the others.

The striped sails went up quickly, and they were under way again before sundown.

Alec stood by himself at the rail as the coast of Plenimar came into view on the horizon, distracted by old memories. Gazing north, he pulled absently at the collar he now wore and wondered how far they were from that distant stretch of ledges where they’d battled Duke Mardus for possession of the Helm. His eyes stung a little as he said a silent prayer for Nysander.

Micum joined him and must have read his thoughts on his face, for he rested a hand on Alec’s shoulder and said, “Seems like it wasn’t that long ago, doesn’t it?”

“Sometimes. I haven’t dreamed about it for a while, but Seregil still does.”

“I doubt he’ll ever quite get over it. How could he?”

Alec sighed and went back to studying the distant shore. It was open country here, similar to what they had trekked through after their escape from Yhakobin. At least it wasn’t raining this time.

Rhal put in at a deserted inlet south of Riga, and Alec and the others readied to disembark.

“I figure it will take us at least four days to find the book and get back here, if all goes well,” Seregil estimated.

“I’ll sail back in then. But what if you’re not there?”

Seregil thought a moment. “Come back again in two days, and then again until we either show up or a few weeks go by.”

They changed into their slave clothing and stout sandals, and let the carpenter fix the collars around their necks with lead rivets that could be cut with a knife if necessary. Rieser’s collar was made of bronze; the slaves Rhal had liberated had belonged to wealthier men than Micum.

Rhal chuckled as he looked the four of them over. “Well, you certainly look the part, from what I’ve seen of such things. And you’ve got all you need?”

“I think so,” said Seregil, ticking items off on his fingers. “Rope, grappling hook, lightstones, our tools, veils, food … Yes, I think that’s everything.”

“What about the documents?”

“What documents?”

“The warrants of ownership,” Rhal explained, surprised. “One of the Plenimaran merchants we captured tried to sell me his slaves and showed me the documents for them. I figured you knew about that.”

“No, damn it! I never had any occasion to. Alec, did you see anything like that change hands when Yhakobin bought us?”

“No, I was busy looking for you.”

“Shit! Rhal, can you describe them?”

Rhal gave him a wink. “I can do better than that. I saved them as a curiosity. I’d say it’s all the more important for Micum to have something like them, being a foreigner, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s a good thing you mentioned it,” said Micum. “It might have been a short adventure if you hadn’t.”

They followed Rhal below to his cabin and waited impatiently while he rummaged through several cabinets. At last he pulled out a leather packet containing several sheets of parchment folded in thirds. “Here they are.”

Seregil opened one and studied it for a moment. “Let’s see. This translates as ‘To all who meet this man Rhasha Ishandi of Vostir, know by this letter of ownership that this slave, Arengil by name, is his rightful property, as shown …’ Hmm. Yes … yes …” He tapped his lower lip with one long forefinger. “And here’s a description of the poor wretch, right down to a birthmark on his chest, whip scars, and a missing front tooth. Very detailed, but easily copied. I suspect forgers are well employed in Plenimar, if this is all it takes to claim a slave. Look here, Alec. This design at the bottom must be the owner’s mark. I’ll need you to draw that out when I’m done.”

It took several hours to complete the three letters of ownership, and they ended up spending the night aboard the ship. Although he and Seregil took advantage of what might be their last night of privacy for some time, Alec had trouble sleeping afterward, and he drifted in and out of nightmares that he couldn’t remember, except that they had to do with getting captured again. A few hours before dawn he gave up and went above.

A cold fog hung over the water, masking the shore. He heard a loud splash, followed by the harsh croak of a heron.

He wasn’t scared—risk and danger were as much a part of his life as eating—but the stakes were very high. There might well be another alchemist who could use him as a magical winepress. His hand stole to the center of his chest, where the scar of the blood tap would have been if not for Sebrahn’s healing.

He didn’t hear Seregil until he was right beside him.

“Are you well, talí?” Seregil looked a little hollow-eyed himself.

“I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep very well.”

“Me, either.” He gave Alec that crooked grin of his and rubbed his hands together happily. “It’s going to be very nice, going back in there like this, instead of bound. And not half killed with their stinking slaver magic, either.”

Alec grinned back, dreams discarded and the old spark of excitement in his belly. “Yes, it will.”

They lingered there as the crew began to appear, and it wasn’t long before the smell of porridge and salt fish drifted out from the galley. Micum and Rieser came up to join them and they ate on the deck, watching the mist swirl away with the morning breeze.

At last there was nothing left to do but say farewell.

Rhal clasped hands with all of them, even a startled Rieser, as they stood at the head of the ladder and the sailors lowered their gear to the longboat below. “Good luck to you. The striped sails should keep us safe enough if anyone happens by.”

“Just show them the guest cabin,” Seregil said with a grin. “Only a Plenimaran would decorate like that.”

“Micum, are you sure you can walk all the way to Riga?” Seregil asked as they were being rowed ashore, noticing how Micum was absently rubbing his thigh.

“I may have to rest a bit now and then, but I’ll make it. Sebrahn did a pretty good job on my leg.”

“We’ll buy horses as soon as we find some.”

“Buy?” Micum raised an eyebrow at that. “You?”

Seregil grinned. “We have plenty of money, and it will attract less attention. I didn’t come all this way to be hanged for a horse thief.”

Rhal’s coffers had provided them with as much gold and silver as a successful trader was likely to get caught with, all in Plenimaran coin. Each of them had a money purse hidden away in his pack.

They reached shore safely and pulled the boat up onto the rocky shingle to unload their meager belongings, then shook hands with the boatman and waved him off.

“Well, it’s time to complete our disguise.” Seregil took the linen veils from his pocket and showed Rieser how to tie his over his face, just under his eyes.

“I feel ridiculous,” the Hâzad muttered. “And what about him?” he asked, looking at Alec. “Even with his hair dark, it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that he’s a ya’shel.”

“Slavers aren’t that particular,” Alec said. “Ya’shel are common, though they’re not as valuable. Yhakobin didn’t own any, except for me, and that was just for my blood.”

“If anyone asks about you, I’ll just tell them I got you cheap,” said Micum with a wink.

Seregil chuckled. “See, Alec? I told you he was going to enjoy this. Come on, let’s go.”

“Wait.” Alec dug in his pack for a moment, at last producing the little pouch with his flint and steel, and a handful of striped owl feathers. “I brought them from the mountains. I think we can use all the luck we can get.”

Turning his back to the breeze, he kindled a little fire with twigs and dry bits of driftwood. When the flames licked up strongly enough, he carefully laid the feathers on. Smoke rose at once, and each of them quickly bathed his hands and face in it.

“Aura Elustri málreil,” Rieser said, solemnly invoking the Lightbringer’s protection for them all.

“Even me, Hâzad?” Micum asked dryly, recognizing the prayer.

“I assume you have some Immortal of your own to look after you,” Rieser replied, and walked away.

Micum laughed, refusing to be insulted. “Come on, you lazy lot. We’re wasting daylight.”

They shouldered packs and started up the rocky beach.

Rieser scanned the empty countryside ahead. “I still think it was a mistake to come unarmed.”

“All we have to do is play our parts and stay out of trouble,” said Seregil.

“That’s right,” said Micum, carrying Alec’s bow in his free hand. “So behave while we find some horses. I got my fill of being chased by your lot, Rieser. I say we try for a nice, easy journey this time.”

They walked to the head of the beach and headed inland until they struck a forked road: the left fork was a rutted dirt track that led down to the water; the right, a proper highroad heading north toward Riga. One lonely cottage stood on the seaward side, but it looked deserted.

With nothing to hide, they took the highroad. Spring was more advanced here and the day soon grew too warm for cloaks, but they kept them ready in case they met anyone on the road.

“This is a dry land,” Rieser observed. Dust rose around their shoes with every step.

“It’s said it was forested here before the Plenimarans came. It still is in parts of the north,” Seregil told him. “But they’ve been here a good long time and cut it all down for their ships.”

“They have to trade in the north for mast timber now,” Micum added. “Even where they have forests, there aren’t enough old trees large enough to make a mast.”

Rieser shook his head. “It’s a large, strange world you live in. I miss my valley already.”

“What’s it like?” asked Alec.

Seregil listened with half an ear as the Hâzad extolled the beauties of his mountain fai’thast. It sounded a lot like Bôkthersa. He was more interested in the interplay between the two. Alec had been hostile to Rieser in the beginning, and with good reason. But that had been somewhat tempered during the time they’d spent in each other’s company.

For his part, Seregil had considerable respect for the tall, grim man. He was made of stern stuff, and brave to a fault. How else could he have offered to go with them like this, strangers sailing to the most dangerous place a Hâzadriëlfaie could possibly go?

Rhal waited until Seregil and the others were gone from sight, then set sail for open water. They’d left the coastline far behind when Nettles emerged from below, dragging Morthage by the arm.

“What’s this?” asked Rhal.

“I found a traitor, Captain,” Nettles told him as more of the crew gathered around. He held out his free hand, showing them a painted stick that had been broken in two. Rhal had seen enough message sticks since he’d met Seregil to know what this was.

“And just who are you sending word to?” he demanded.

Morthage was pale and trembling, but said nothing.

“Caught the last of what he said,” the mate told him. “He said, ‘to Riga, my lord.’”

“A lord, eh? A Plenimaran?” Rhal growled.

“No! I swear!” Morthage cried, finding his voice.

“Who then?”

Morthage went down on one knee. “Please, Captain. It’s only the Virésse lord, Ulan í Sathil! I meant no harm.”

“Bilairy’s Balls, you didn’t. By the Old Sailor, man, what were you thinking? Don’t I pay you well enough? And it’s Lord Seregil’s money!”

The knave was thoroughly cowed now. “I—I beg your forgiveness, Captain.”

Rhal wasn’t in any mood to forgive, and hanged the blackguard with the full approval of the crew, but it was already too late to get word to Seregil. He and the others were long gone.

Just beyond the beach Seregil and the others struck a rutted road and followed it. They soon reached a crossroads, with a marker that told them they were twenty miles out from Riga and only six from a town called Rizard.

“I hope they have a horse market there,” Micum said, sitting down heavily on a large stone.

Seregil knew Micum would ask for help if he really needed it, and that pride would keep him from need as long as possible. Despite the grey in his hair, Micum was still tough as an oak bole.

Not long after that they came upon a prosperous-looking farm with a corral full of fine-looking horses.

“Even better,” said Micum. “It will be easier convincing people that I’m a horse trader if I have some horses.”

They approached the house cautiously, but there were no dogs about, though they could hear barking from one of the outbuildings.

Micum went to the door and knocked.

A servant girl answered and looked him up and down. “What do you want here, sir?”

“I want to buy some good horses. Will your master sell a few, do you think?”

She left them there and went to inquire. The master of the house, a plump clean-shaven man, soon appeared.

“Good morning, sir,” said Micum. “My name is Lornis of Nanta.”

“And I’m Digus Orthan. So you like my horses, do you?” the man replied, smiling as he clasped hands with him.

“That’s a nice-looking herd you have. Would you part with any of them? I can pay you a good price.”

“That’s my trade, sir. Let’s go have a look, though you flatter my stock. The best have all been taken by the army.”

The man spoke the truth, but the horses he had left were good enough. In short order Micum picked out a spirited piebald mare for himself, a pair of chestnut geldings, and three cheaper mounts for the slaves. He paid in silver.

“You’ll be needing a saddle, too,” Digus noted. “I have one that might do for you, if you don’t mind it being used.”

“Not at all. Do you have just the one, though?”

“You put your slaves on horseback?” Digus asked, surprised.

“I’m a trader myself, sir, and travel long distances. These three are good, loyal slaves and I work them hard. They need steady beasts for that.”

“Well, I don’t have any saddles for them, but I can spare a few blankets and bridles.”

The bargain was struck, and Micum parted on good terms with the man.

“Always good to make a friend here and there,” Seregil told Rieser as they rode on. “You never know when they’ll prove useful.”

At the next crossroads, they overtook a drayman with a load of turnips, heading in the same direction they were going.

Seregil and the others pulled up the hoods of their cloaks. Between that and the veils, only their eyes were visible. The sharp, dangerous look in Rieser’s was enough to warn Seregil that the Hâzad might find the role of slave harder to play than he’d bargained for.

“Lower your eyes!” Seregil whispered in Aurënfaie. “And stop looking like you’re about to kill him.”

They rode forward until Micum came abreast of the man.

“Where are you headed, friend?” Micum asked as the farmer reined in his dray horse.

“Rizard market, if it’s any of your business,” the man replied.

“Why, so am I!” Micum exclaimed. “I don’t suppose you’d mind us riding along with you?”

The man scowled up at him, taking in the long sword at Micum’s hip. “I might, or I might not. You speak my tongue well enough, but with that red beard I don’t think you’re a countryman.”

“No, but I’ve been a trader here nigh onto twenty years now.”

The man turned to look at Seregil and the others. “Are you heading in to sell these?”

“Are you looking to buy?”

Seregil was glad that Rieser didn’t speak the language.

“They any good for field work? I got no use for any fancy house slaves.”

“Ah, you’re right. You’d be throwing your money away on this lot for field work,” he scoffed good-naturedly. “But Sakor’s Flame, I wish I had three more just like ’em. They’re loyal as hounds. I hardly ever have to beat them.”

The farmer was still sizing Micum up. “What is it you do?”

“I trade in horses, friend. I’ve sold most of my string, as you can see. I’m here for more, and then sailing north. Can you recommend an honest trader?”

“There’s a man in Rizard, but his stock is nothing to speak of. You’ll have better luck among the rogues in Riga, if you want better.”

“Riga it is, then.”

“So, you’ve been up north? What news of the war?”

Seregil rode behind the wagon with the others, leaving Micum to trade lies for gossip with the drayman. In no time they were laughing together like old friends.

“He’s good at this,” Seregil whispered to Rieser.

“So I see. A useful skill.”

They were nearly to Rizard when they were met by half a dozen riders in brown coats, all carrying whips and cudgels as well as long swords.

“The damn slave takers!” the farmer muttered under his breath. “They’ll be stopping us on your account. I want to be off the road before sundown.”

“Halt in the name of the Overlord!” their leader ordered. “What’s a dirt farmer like you doing with slaves?”

Meanwhile his riders had surrounded Seregil and the others.

“They’re nothing to do with me,” the drayman told them. “This red-bearded fellow’s the one you want for that.”

“Lornis of Nanta,” Micum replied, extending his hand.

The slave taker ignored it. Turning instead to Seregil and the others, he ordered sharply, “Take off those hoods, all of you.”

When they quickly complied, the one closest to Alec grabbed him by the hair. “Look at that, will you? Soft as a girl’s! You a girl?”

“He’s pretty enough. Look at those eyes!”

“What does it matter what he is?” another said with a crude laugh. “‘When whores are few, a boy will do,’ right, Zarmas?”

Alec kept his gaze averted, but his hands were curled into fists on the reins. He might not understand much Plenimaran, but he clearly got the gist of it and none of his experiences with Plenimarans had been good ones. If nothing else, he wouldn’t like strangers manhandling him.

Rieser’s eyes gave nothing away, but Seregil suspected he understood well enough, too.

“You’re a northlander, aren’t you?” their captain asked Micum. “We don’t see many of you this far south these days.”

“I’m a horse trader, and these three slaves are mine,” Micum replied, relaxed and friendly. “I have their warrants.”

“I need to see them.”

Micum took the packet of documents from inside his coat and gave it to him. As the man read through them, Micum turned and locked eyes with Seregil for an instant. He was ready for trouble if it came.

But the captain just handed the documents back. “Sorry to trouble you. We’ve had a lot of runaways this past winter and I’ve got my hands full trying to find them. There was one slave in particular, a blue-eyed one like this one of yours, but he was a blond.”

“Can’t be this boy,” Micum said. “I’ve owned him since he was just a little thing. The dates are there in the warrant.”

“So I see. I’ll just check their brands and you can be on your way.”

“Show him,” Micum ordered. Seregil was the only one who understood the words, but Rieser and Alec both pushed back their sleeves as he did and showed the fake brands. This satisfied the captain. He waved them on and continued on his way.

When they were gone, Micum heaved a deep sigh of relief. “That always takes a few months off my life, getting stopped like that!” he told the drayman. “Sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble.”

“No trouble for me, friend. This happens all the time. Sakor help the man who forgets to carry his warrants. The markets are full of seized slaves these days.”

“More than usual?”

“So I hear. Seems some escaped from a nobleman in Riga, and when he went after them they killed him. The widow has offered a good bounty for them, but it will be the Riga Master Slaver who gets them in the end.”

“I almost pity the ones who end up like that.” Micum was fishing for information.

“I don’t, sir. Slaves who kill their masters deserve to be tortured to death in the market square.”

“I’ve never seen it myself.”

“Oh, I have! Their hands and feet are cut off, and their guts are pulled out and burned in front of them while they’re still attached. And then their eyes are gouged out and their head cut off. But even that’s too good for murdering slaves, if you ask me.”

Seregil was very glad Alec and Rieser didn’t understand any of that. He and Micum and Alec had courted grisly deaths before, but not one like this.

They reached Riga late that afternoon and were stopped and searched again at the city gate. Once again, Seregil’s forgeries stood up under scrutiny.

The harbor was thick with warships sporting the striped sails. There were Virésse vessels moored there, as well.

Seregil shaded his eyes, brow furrowed above his veil. “I suppose that’s not unusual, given the trade agreements. Still—Oh, no.”

“What?” asked Rieser.

“See that Virésse ship flying the red-and-black pennant? That little flag isn’t flown unless the khirnari is aboard.”

“Ulan í Sathil is here?” Alec exclaimed softly. “He might know about the book, too, if he was in league with Yhakobin.”

“Who is Ulan í Sathil?” asked Rieser.

“The khirnari of that clan,” Seregil replied.

“A khirnari that treats with makers of tayan’gils?” The man looked truly shocked.

“We don’t know that for certain,” Seregil admitted. “But it’s possible.”

“What now?” asked Micum.

“I guess we’d better go see if the book is gone or not.”

“Even if it is, it doesn’t necessarily mean Ulan has it.”

“No,” Seregil replied, “but it gives us a place to start.”

“I can ask around the docks and see what he’s been up to,” said Micum.

But Seregil shook his head. “No, we’d better not do anything to get you remembered just yet. We know where he is, and if he leaves we know where he’ll go.”

The horse market was several streets on. The pickings were slim; the war was taking its toll here, too.

The others hung back respectfully again while Micum bargained for four horses and some used saddles, telling the trader he’d sold his slaves’ saddles during a slack time.

“Buying saddles for your slaves?” the man asked as he sat down at a small table to write out the bill of sale.

“I have a long way to go and I expect them to work. They can’t do that sliding around on nothing but a blanket,” Micum explained.

“Ah, well then. Where are you headed?”

“I mean to make my way to Nanta, and then up the river from there to the outposts to sell my horses.”

“What about the fighting?”

Micum laid a finger to the side of his nose. “I’ve got my routes, friend. No one bothers me. And it’s still winter up there where I’m heading. Skala’s whore queen is probably still snug in her palace for now.” He spat on the ground. “This will be her last year, I say. Death to Skala!”

“Death to Skala, friend!” The trader slapped Micum on the shoulder.

“Say, can you tell me if there are any rich nobles around here, who might have special stock to sell? Some with a bit of ’faie blood in ’em? Not that your beasts are inferior.” He stroked the neck of the ordinary bay he’d just purchased. “Fine animals! But if I should meet up with some officers along the way in Mycena, it’s ’faie beasts they want. It’d help me along, if I could put a bit more gold in my pocket going north.”

“Well …”

“And I’ll put some gold in yours, too,” Micum assured him. “Steer me right and I’ll give you a gold sester for every horse I find.” With that he spit in his palm and held it out to the trader. The man did the same, and they clasped on it.

Leaning at ease against the corral, the trader rattled off half a dozen names, none of them Yhakobin’s. “They might have a few horses left. But you’d better have a lot of gold in your pocket, if you mean to trade with them. The richer they are, the tighter the purse strings.”

“Isn’t that the truth! Any widows among them? They’re likely to not deal so sharp.”

“That would be the Lady Meran. You’ll want to keep your slaves on a short tether, though, if you go near her.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because her husband was killed by escaped slaves a few months back. It was the scandal of the city.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, friend.” Micum dropped another coin in the man’s hand. “And where would I find this grieving lady?”

“You want the east high road. You’ll find yourself on it if you go to the second slavers’ square and take a right turn at the barn with the sun and moon sign above the door. You can’t miss seeing it. From there you ride out to the second crossroad and turn right again. By and by you’ll strike a lane lined with tall trees. That’s the way to the estate.”

“Thank you, friend. One last thing, though. Can you tell me the name of the dead husband?”

“You could ask anyone in Riga that and get the answer. He was Charis Yhakobin, alchemist to the Overlord himself and the richest man in the duchy—even richer than the duke himself.”

“Does the duke have horses to sell?” Micum asked.

“No, but if you find any ’faie ones, he’s likely to be a good customer for you.”

Micum clasped hands with him again. “You’ve been a great help, my friend. Give me your name and I’ll come to you first with northern stock, and make you a special price for whichever ones you want.”

“Ashrail Urati. And yours?”

“Lornis of Nanta. Look for me in the fall.”

Ashrail glanced up at the sun. “You won’t get to that house before nightfall and she’d not likely to welcome you then. My house is just in the next street over. Be my guest tonight and take supper with me, why don’t you? I’ve a slave cupboard in my stable, so you needn’t worry about them.”

“Very kind of you. I believe I will!”

Ashrail left the market with them and took them to a large house in a respectable street. Micum was ushered in the front door, while Seregil and his fellow slaves ended up barred in a cramped, windowless room hardly bigger than the aforementioned cupboard, with one small flyspecked lantern for light. It reeked of stable muck, and there was no source of heat except for the lamp and their blankets and cloaks.

“This reminds me of our last visit to Plenimar,” Alec said in Skalan, whispering in case of any prying ears outside. “Cold all the time. At least we can take these damn things off, though.” Alec pulled his veil off and tucked it inside his coat.

“At least it’s not raining.”

Sometime later they were given a hot supper of stew and bread and let out once to use a stinking privy, for which they had to put on their veils.

“We might as well be horses!” Rieser muttered when they were barred in again.

“I think the horses get better treatment,” said Alec, running a finger along the inside of his slave collar.

Rieser pulled at his. “And this is what you escaped?”

“What we escaped was worse,” Seregil told him.

“And yet you come back here. You’re either very brave or just plain mad.”

“Bit of both,” Seregil said with a grin that was hidden.

“And all for the sake of the tayan’gil?”

Alec nodded. “We don’t want more of them made, any more than you do. And whatever is in that book may help us understand him better.”

“To what end?”

“To make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

“That won’t be a problem, among my people.”

“You’re not taking him,” growled Alec.

“You can’t stop us.”

“Hush, both of you, before someone hears,” hissed Seregil. “Nobody is to mention any of that again until we’re well away from all this!”