The White Road

CHAPTER 36 Rhíminee in the Dark

THEY ARRIVED at the north gate of the city just before midnight and rode through into the Harvest Market. The labyrinth of stalls was dark, and the great square was deserted except for a few sleeping beggars and a stray tomcat howling its lust somewhere in the shadows. From here they followed Silvermoon Street into the Noble Quarter, past the Palace grounds, and on to the walled grounds of the Orëska House. The soaring white palace towered above its walls, gleaming like pearl in the moonlight. The huge glass dome that topped it, and three of the four towers that stood at the corners, were dark, but light still showed through the dome of the east tower.

“Looks like we won’t be waking Thero,” said Alec.

“Perhaps he waited up for us.” Seregil patted his saddlebag and the two oo’lus strapped behind his saddle. “This time we brought presents for him, too.”

Guards in the red livery of the House stepped out to challenge them, but their names were password enough. They rode on through the dark, ever-fragrant gardens and left their horses with an attendant. Climbing the broad steps, they entered the huge, echoing atrium and strode across the great dragon mosaic floor to the stairway. Five stories of elaborately carved balconies and walkways were lost in shadow, except for lanterns hung at intervals along each.

Thero was uncommonly disheveled when he answered their knock. His blue robe looked slept in, and there were purple ink stains on his fingers and right cheek. “There you are! I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.” He looked them over, taking in their mud-spattered boots and trousers, and the saddlebag and oo’lus Seregil carried over one shoulder. “Where is Sebrahn?” he asked as they came into the workshop. The smell of a brazier hung on the air, and the stink of some spell.

“He’s safe. I’ll tell you the tale in a while,” Seregil said quietly with a meaningful look in Alec’s direction. “When we’ve had some wine.”

“Very well. I’ve had some news of my own, today. Ulan í Sathil died in Riga.”

“When?”

“Not long after you left, I’d say. He was carried back to Virésse in state with a boatload of ransomed slaves, a hero to his people.”

“A hero?” Alec exclaimed.

“It’s all right,” Seregil told him. “He’s more use to everyone that way. No good could come of the truth.”

“But, still, it’s sort of ironic, isn’t? Us keeping his secret for him?”

Seregil gave him a wry smile. “Life does tend to work out that way sometimes.”

“Did you find the book?” asked Thero.

“Books, as it turned out,” Seregil told him.

Seregil set the saddlebag down on one of the workbenches and took out the three halved volumes.

Thero looked at them in dismay. “What happened?”

“I split them with a Hâzadriëlfaie captain we got to know, with the idea that it was safer with no one having all of any of them. I did try to salvage the best bits, though.”

Thero gaped at them. “Hâzadriëlfaie? Really?”

“That’s who was chasing us when we met you at the Bell and Bridle,” Alec told him. “It’s a long, long story after that.”

“Another one. Then you’d better come downstairs and tell them.”

“Is Magyana still awake?” asked Seregil. “She’ll want to hear it, too.”

“She went down to Rhina to visit Hermeus. I’ll send word to her tomorrow.”

“Oh, and before we go any farther?” Seregil pointed to Alec’s hair; Thero’s magic had not worn off and it was still brown. “Will you please put this right?”

“Of course.” Thero stood behind Alec and ran his hands over his head. When he was through Alec’s hair was back to its normal honey blond.

“Ah, that’s much better!”

“And these,” said Alec, pushing his sleeve back to show him the slave brand.

Thero removed those as well, and led them down the back stair to his tidy sitting room.

The room hadn’t changed since Nysander’s day. There was still the band of mural around the room, magical as well as decorative, and the old comfortable furnishings. A dining table stood at the center of the room, with armchairs by the hearth beyond. The walls were filled with bookcases, scroll racks, and dusty objects of uncertain origin.

Thero wove a quick spell on the air with one finger and a burlap-wrapped wine jar appeared on the table, still crusted with snow from Mount Apos. He poured them goblets of the chilled Mycenian apple wine and they sat down at the table with the books.

Seregil took a long sip of the cold wine and sat back in his chair. “Oh, I have missed that!”

“The books?” Thero asked impatiently.

“I think you’ll find this one of the most interest.” Seregil said, showing him the one with the most drawings of rhekaros. “I don’t know if the whole thing is about the making of them, but I tried to get as much of it for you as I could.”

“Excellent!” Thero looked as happy as Micum’s daughter Illia with a new necklace. “This is wonderful! Given Yhakobin’s skills, this could prove very useful, even if it is incomplete. I’ll need your expertise in figuring out the code, I’m sure.”

“Once we get settled in again,” Seregil promised, then presented Thero with the oo’lus. “I thought you’d like these, too.”

“Also part of the long story,” Alec told him.

Thero refilled the cups. “I’m ready to hear it.”

It did take quite a while, even with two of them telling it. When they were done, Thero shook his head. “I’m sorry about Sebrahn, Alec.”

“It was the best thing we could do,” Alec told him, but there was still a raw edge of sadness in his voice.

“The things you two survive! It never fails to amaze me.”

Seregil saluted him with his empty cup, then set it aside.

“Where are you going tonight? You’re welcome to stay here.”

“Thanks, but we’re headed for the Stag,” Alec told him.

“Shall I send word to Runcer?”

“No, thanks.” As much as Seregil trusted the man who oversaw the running of the Wheel Street villa, he didn’t want to chance word getting out of their return.

“When will you see the queen? She’s not very happy with me for coming back without you, or about your extended absence.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you were still in Bôkthersa, recuperating and visiting your family.”

“Thank you. We’ll send word to the Palace tomorrow after we’ve had a bit of a rest. And that’s what I need right now. Come on, Alec.”

Thero walked upstairs with them and saw them to the door.

“I know you’ll guard those books carefully,” said Seregil. “It’s a relief to be rid of them.”

“I’ll take good care of them.”

With that duty discharged, they backtracked through the Noble Quarter to Golden Helm Street and on past the round colonnade of the Astellus fountain and the arched entrance to the Street of Lights. The colored lanterns in front of the elaborate brothels were lit and there were still quite a number of people on the street, heading for the favors of a favorite courtesan, or the gambling houses at the far end. A good many were soldiers.

From here they entered a twisting maze of narrow streets toward Blue Fish Street.

They were nearly there when they heard the telltale scuffle of feet behind them. The lanterns were few and far between in this part of the city, but there was enough light from the nearest for Seregil to count five men. They were young and dressed like ruffians. He didn’t see any swords, just clubs and staffs and a few long knives.

“And where might you be going?” asked one with a northern accent.

“Those are pretty horses you have there,” said another with a head of wild curly hair.

Two of them were advancing, probably meaning to cut the lead reins of Windrunner and Star. Smelling the brandy on them, Seregil let out a heavy sigh. “You don’t want to do this.”

“I don’t see the bluecoats anywhere,” the leader said with a confident leer.

“He’s trying to do you a favor,” Alec warned.

The man laughed. “I think you two better come down off those horses. Now.”

“Why would we do that?” asked Seregil.

The man swung his club in a vicious arc in front of him. “We mean to lighten your load, that’s why! So you can stop acting so high and mighty, my lordlings. We’ll take those bags, and your purses. And that’s a nice bow you’re carrying, too, Yellow Hair.”

Moving as one, Seregil and Alec swung down from the saddle and drew their swords. The polished Aurënen steel caught the faint light.

Two of the men in front of them stepped back a little, but the three others rushed them, swinging their clubs. Alec ducked a blow from the fare most and slashed the man across the chest, striking to wound rather than kill. It had the desired effect; the man dropped his club and staggered back. Seregil struck the other one—the erstwhile leader—across the face with the flat of his blade, opening up his cheek and stunning him. The rest turned tail and ran.

Satisfied, Seregil went to the man who lay doubled up on the ground and gave him a hard nudge with his foot, pushing him over onto his back.

“Please, sir, don’t kill me!” the man pleaded, craven now.

“I did warn you.” Holding him down with a foot on his chest, Seregil put the tip of his sword under the man’s chin and helped himself to the thief’s purse. “You really should be more careful about choosing your marks.”

The man gaped up at him in terror. “Please sir! I’m sorry! Maker’s Mercy, please don’t—”

Seregil looked over at Alec, who was still standing over the other man. “What do you say?”

“Not worth getting our blades dirty.”

“I suppose not. On your feet, you pathetic bastard. Take your friend here and run away before we change our minds.”

“He’s no friend of mine!” the coward exclaimed and staggered away behind the horses.

“No honor among some thieves,” said Alec.

Seregil sighed. “That was hardly any fun at all.”

Mounting again, they continued on, alert for reprisals.

The Stag and Otter was dark. Bypassing the front door, they led their horses to the back courtyard and left them with the sleepy stable lad, then went in by the kitchen door.

Seregil went to the mantelpiece above the broad hearth and took down the large painted pitcher that stood at the center of it.

“Well, well.” He felt inside and held up three folded vellum packets and a small scroll tube, no doubt delivered by Magyana or Thero. “We’ve been missed.”

Alec lit a candle from the banked coals and they made their way up to the second floor, where Seregil unlocked the door of an empty storeroom and locked it again carefully behind them. Crossing to the opposite wall, he spoke the ward that opened the hidden panel there.

“Do you remember the passwords?” he asked Alec with a grin. “It has been a while.”

“I certainly hope so. It would be a shame to be killed on our own doorstep.” Alec took the lead, whispering the current passwords—Aurathra. Morinth. Selethrir. Tilentha, the Aurënfaie words for the four moon phases—for each of the four wards Magyana had placed here to deal with unwanted visitors, should anyone stumble onto their secret.

Seregil’s cat, who had her own way in, stood up and stretched as they reached the door at the top of the stairs.

“There’s my girl!” Seregil exclaimed, reaching down to scratch her behind the ears as Alec spoke the final password. Ruetha broke into a loud purr and rubbed around Seregil’s ankles as he opened the sitting room door.

The room was dark and cold and smelled of dust, but they’d left a good supply of wood by the hearth. Seregil tossed his saddlebag into a corner and kicked off his muddy boots by the door. Alec did the same, then used a fire chip from the dish on the marble mantelpiece to light the fire. Seregil went around the room, lighting candles and lamps, then—sweeping the dust cover off the couch—he stretched out there and inspected the seals on the letters.

Two of them were simply drops of melted sealing wax; it was more prudent not to advertise who was sending certain letters in case they were intercepted. The third was from a duchess he knew slightly, and the scroll was from Magyana.

Alec pushed Seregil’s feet aside to sit down and covered them both with his cloak as they waited for the room to warm.

“Let’s see,” said Seregil, breaking the first blank seal. “This is from old Lord Erneus. Seems his daughter has gotten herself—No, look at the date. She’s given birth by now.” That one was relegated to the fire. The second had been left for them just a week before. The scent of a lady’s perfume still clung to it. Seregil held it to his nose, giving Alec a wink, then looked it over. “This one is from Duchess Myrian, Duke Norin’s wife. It seems she’s unwisely given a token to her lover—Bilairy’s Balls, why do they always do that?”

“We’d be out of work if they didn’t.”

The third missive was from Tyrien, a Street of Lights courtesan Alec had met the first time he’d blundered under a green lantern. The young man wanted someone to rob the house of a patron who’d wronged him.

“I wonder what he’d think if he knew it was you he was writing to?” Seregil said with a grin.

Alec ignored him and picked up the scroll tube. Breaking the seal, he shook out the rolled letter. “Let’s hope Magyana has something more challenging for us. This is dated just four days ago. She must have left it as she went out of town.”

Seregil pulled the edge of the cloak up under his chin. “That sounds promising.”

“‘My dear boys, if you return before I get back, I have a small matter that might be of interest to you. Please visit Lady Amalia as your lordly selves as soon as you can. Tell her you are in my confidence, and know of someone trustworthy who can help her. It’s a small political matter. I do hope you had a pleasant adventure.’”

Seregil grimaced. “‘Pleasant’ is not the word I’d use to describe it. What about you?”

Alec pushed Seregil’s feet off his lap. Going to his discarded saddlebag, he took out the false slave collars they’d worn and propped them up on the cluttered mantelpiece between a box of loose gems and a broken lock.

“Are you sure you want to save those?” Seregil asked. How could Alec look at them and not think of Sebrahn?

“It’s all right,” Alec assured him as he sat down beside him again.

He didn’t say more, and Seregil didn’t ask. Instead, he made a show of weighing a letter in each hand. “What do you say, talí? The lady or the whore?”

“Magyana first, then the whore, and then the lady,” said Alec. “On one condition, though.”

“You’re leveling conditions now? All right, what is it?”

The flickering firelight made Alec look a bit menacing as he grinned and said, “That I don’t hear you complain about being bored for at least two months.”

Seregil gave him a mocking seated bow. “You have my word. I’m sure this old whore of a city can keep me entertained for a bit. Besides, it’s nearly spring, and people do all sorts of foolish things in the spring. Ah, Alec—a good honest brawl and jobs waiting.” He yawned and stretched, then uttered the words he had not said since the Cockerel Inn burned.

“It’s good to be home.”