Traitor's Moon

17 ALEC KEEPS BUSY

Bide our time. To Alec, it seemed all they'd done since they arrived was wait, held impotent by the strictures of diplomacy and the plodding pace of Aurenfaie debate. The last thing he felt like doing was biding his time now that something interesting had finally happened.

He rose early the next morning and took himself out for a dawn ride around the city walls. The distant hills floated like islands above the thick mist rising from the rivers. The bleat of sheep and goats came from closer by. Reaching the Nha'mahat, he stopped to exchange greetings with a rhui'auros who was setting out fresh offerings for the dragons. At this hour the little creatures fluttered in swarms thick as spring swallows, circling the tower. Others scrabbled over the bowls in the arcade. Several lit on Alec and he froze, not relishing the thought of another painful bite, no matter how auspicious the marks might be.

Riding back through the Haunted City he passed the House of Pillars and was surprised to see Nyal's horse, a black gelding with three white stockings, grazing there next to a sturdy white palfrey. Alec had an

eye for horses and recognized this little mare as the mount Lady Amali had ridden over the mountains from Gedre.

If it hadn't been for Beka, he might have ridden on. Instead, he tethered Windrunner out of sight and hurried inside.

Voices echoed from several directions, and he set off following those that sounded most promising to the pools at the center of the sprawling place. At last, he found his way to a small, weed-grown court some distance further on, where the comforting rise and fall of a man's voice sounded a counterpoint to a woman's soft weeping. Creeping closer, Alec slipped behind a tattered tapestry that still hung near the courtyard's edge and peered out through a hole.

Amali sat on the edge of an empty fountain, her face in her hands. Nyal stood over her, stroking her hair gently.

"Forgive me," Amali said through her fingers. "But who else could I turn to? Who else would understand?"

Nyal drew her close, and for an instant Alec scarcely recognized him. The Ra'basi's handsome face was suffused with an anger Alec had never seen in him before. When he spoke again, his voice was almost too low to hear. Alec could make out only the words "hurt you."

Amali raised her tear-stained face and clasped his hands beseechingly. "No! No, you must never think such a thing! He's in such distress at times I hardly know him. Word came that another village near the Khatme border has been abandoned. It's as if Akhendi is dying, too!"

Nyal murmured something and she shook her head again. "He cannot. The people would not hear of it. He won't abandon them!"

Nyal pulled away and walked off a few steps, clearly agitated. "Then what is it you want of me?"

"I don't know!" She reached out to him. "Only—I needed to know you are still my friend, someone I can open my heart to. I'm so alone there!"

"It's where you chose to be," Nyal retorted bitterly, then relented as she dissolved into tears again.

"I am your friend, your dear friend," he assured her, gathering her close and rocking her gently. "You can always come to me, talia. Always. Just give me this much: Do you ever regret your decision? Even just a little?"

"You mustn't ask me that," she sobbed, clinging to him. "Never, never, never! Rhaish is my life. If only I could make him well."

Amali could not see the despair that filled Nyal's eyes at her words, but Alec could. Ashamed of his eavesdropping, he waited until the pair had gone, then set off for home.

Seregil and the others had left for the Iia'sidra by the time Alec arrived. He checked at their room, in case Seregil had left any last-minute instructions, but found nothing. On his way down to the kitchen for breakfast, however, he found himself pausing outside Torsin's door, his heart beating just a little too fast. It seemed to be his day for opportunities; the door was ajar again.

The envoy's strange behavior the previous night was too much to ignore, given Seregil's concerns about the man's loyalties. And this—the open door was just too tempting to pass unexplored.

With a last guilty glance around and a quick prayer to Illior, he slipped inside and closed the door.

Torsin's room was a large one, with an alcove at the far side. A desk stood beneath a window there, dispatch box, writing materials, and a few sealed parchments arranged neatly on its polished top. The room was furnished with the usual accoutrements: gauze-hung bed, a washstand, clothes chests, all made in the simple Aurenfaie style— pale woods and clean, sweeping lines accented with darker inlay.

Feeling guiltier by the moment, he worked quickly, examining the desk and its contents, the clothes chests, and the walls behind the hangings, but found nothing of note. Everything was meticulous, orderly.

Picking up a daybook from a stand by the bed, he found a terse but detailed record of each day's developments written in Torsin's precise script. The first entry was dated three months earlier. As he moved to put it back it fell open to more recent entries, one dating a week or so before Klia's arrival in Gedre. The handwriting was still recognizable, but the letters were not as clearly formed, and words occasionally strayed from the careful lines or were marred by blots and smudges.

That's his illness doing that. Alec paged back through the book, trying to gauge how long Torsin had been failing, but was interrupted by the sound of brisk footsteps from the corridor.

Aurenfaie beds were low-slung affairs, yet he managed to wedge himself out of sight under it without too much trouble. It wasn't until he was hidden that he realized he was still clutching the book.

The latch lifted and he held his breath, watching from beneath the edge of the coverlet as the door swung open and a pair of boot-clad feet—a woman's, by the size—strode across the room to the desk. It was Mercalle; he recognized her limp. He heard the small squeak of the dispatch box's lid and the unmistakable rustle of parchments.

Turning his head, he looked out under the other side of the bed and could see the bottom of a dispatch pouch hanging against her thigh.

Seems I'm the only spy here, after all, he thought, letting out a pent-up breath when she'd gone out. She'd simply come to collect the day's dispatches.

He remained where he was a moment, and opened the daybook again. The first sign of weakness in Torsin's handwriting appeared several weeks before Klia's arrival. Pondering this, he turned to the latest entry, a summary of the previous day's debate.

U.S. remains subtle, letting the L. raise opposition —

Alec allowed himself a wry smirk. What had he expected? "Met with the Viresse. Plotted against the princess"?

His current position afforded him a different perspective on the room. From here, he could see the careful polish on the row of shoes lined up next to a clothes chest, and the crisply folded pleats in the hem of a robe hanging on the wall.

One glance into a person's private rooms will tell you more about him than an hour's conversation, Seregil had once told him. Alec had found the statement amusing at the time, considering the source; any space Seregil inhabited was soon in complete disarray. Torsin's room, on the other hand, shouted order. Everything was in its place, with nothing extraneous in evidence.

As he slid out from under the bed he noticed a flash of red in the ashes on the hearth, just beneath the metal bars of the grate. If he'd been standing, he'd have missed it.

Crawling over, he saw it was the half-charred remains of a small silk tassel, dark red with a few blue threads mixed in. He doubted Torsin owned a garment with such embellishments, but they were common enough on Aurenfaie clothing, edging cloaks and tunics.

And sen'gai.

He gingerly plucked it out, heart racing again. It was the right size and colors to have come from the edge of a Viresse head cloth. Someone had meant to destroy it, but it had fallen through the grate before the fire had completely consumed it.

No chance of it being missed, then, he reasoned, tucking it into the wallet at his belt.

He spent the rest of the morning loitering about the edges of Khatme tupa in hopes of striking up a profitable conversation.

Skilled as he usually was at such ploys, he had no luck here. Unwelcoming stares and whispers of "garshil" warned him off whenever he ventured too deeply into the area.

Perhaps I used up all my luck this morning, he thought, frustrated.

The few outlying streets he did manage to explore had none of the usual gathering spots. Unfriendly tattooed faces peered at him from windows and balconies, then disappeared from view. No one, it seemed, had time to drink or game here. Or perhaps, insular as they were, their taverns were located deeper in the tupa, far from prying impure eyes.

As midday approached he gave up and started for home. It took only a few turnings, however, to realize that he had once again gotten himself lost.

"Illior's Fingers!" he muttered, scowling as he scanned the anonymous walls and doorways.

"Blaspheming won't get you free, half-breed. You must use the Lightbearer's true name here."

A Khatme woman stepped into view a few yards away, her tattooed face impassive beneath her bulging red-and-black sen'gai. She wore none of the usual heavy jewelry Alec associated with the clan, but her tunic was stitched with rows of silver, pomegranate-shaped beads.

"I meant no disrespect," Alec replied. "And you can spare yourself the effort of magic; I get lost on my own without any help."

"I've been watching you all morning, half-breed. What is it you want here?"

"I was just curious."

"You're lying, half-breed."

Do the Khatme read thoughts after all, or do I just look as guilty as I feel? Putting on the bravest face he could, he replied. "My apologies, Khatme. It's a practice we Tir have when what we are doing is none of another person's business."

"There's an etiquette to duplicity, then? How interesting."

Alec thought he saw a hint of a smile shift the black tracery covering one cheek. "You say you've been watching me, yet I haven't seen you," he countered. "Were you spying on me?"

"Were you spying on Lord Torsin when he came here at our khirnari's request last night, half-breed?"

There was no use dissembling. "That doesn't concern you. And my name is Alec i Amasa, not half-breed."

"I know. Retrace your steps." Before he could respond, she was gone, disappearing like smoke on the air.

"Retrace my steps?" Alec grumbled. "What else have I been doing?"

This time, however, it worked and he found himself back in familiar territory, near the Iia'sidra chamber. Having nothing better to do, he went in and settled in an inconspicuous corner, watching faces. He watched Torsin's most closely of all.

He managed to catch Seregil's attention when the council adjourned for the midday meal. Motioning him outside, Alec walked him quickly into an empty side street.

"Find out anything in Khatme tupa?" Seregil asked hopefully.

"Well, no. Not there." Steeling himself, Alec plunged into a hurried account of his findings in Torsin's room, what he'd seen between Nyal and Amali momentarily forgotten.

Seregil stared a him incredulously, then whispered, "You burgled Torsin's room? Bilairy's Balls, didn't I tell you to wait?"

"Yes, and if I'd listened to you we wouldn't have this, would we?" Alec showed him the Viresse tassel. "What's the matter with you? A member of Klia's own delegation sneaks out to talk to the enemy and you say wait? Back in Rhiminee you'd have been in there last night yourself!"

Seregil glared at him a moment, then shook his head. "It's not the same here. This isn't the Plenimarans we're dealing with. The Aurenfaie are Skala's allies in spirit if not in actual fact. It's not as if they're likely to be plotting her assassination. And Torsin?"

"But this could be the proof Klia was looking for, about his divided loyalty."

"I've been thinking about that. It's not sympathy that would make Torsin court Ulan's favor. He's worried that we could lose all by offending the Viresse: not get Gedre, and lose our port in Viresse in the bargain. Still, if he did go behind her back to do it—?"

"How did he seem at the Iia'sidra?"

"Any guilty glances or secret nods exchanged, you mean?" Seregil asked with a crooked grin. "None that I saw. The one possibility we haven't considered is that he was acting on Klia's behalf, and that it's the rest of us who aren't supposed to know."

"Well, that brings us right back to my original question. What do we do?"

Seregil shrugged. "We're Watchers. We'll watch."

"Speaking of watching people, I saw Nyal and Amali together again early this morning."

"Oh?" This clearly piqued Seregil's interest. "What were they up to?"

"She was upset about her husband and it was Nyal she turned to."

"They were lovers once. Clearly there's still a bond there," said Seregil. "What was it she was upset about?"

"I didn't hear everything, but it sounded like this debate is taking a toll on Rhaish."

Seregil frowned. "That's not good. We need him strong. Do you think Amali and Nyal are still secretly lovers?"

Alec thought back over the morning's scene: Amali clinging to the tall Ra'basi, the anger he'd seen in the man's face at the mere hint of abuse. "I don't know."

"I think it's time we found out, and not just for Klia's sake. Let's see if Adzriel knows more than she's been letting on."

They found Adzriel sitting with Saaban in her colos.

"Nyal and Amali?" Saaban chuckled when Seregil broached the subject. "Have you two been gossiping in the taverns?"

"Not exactly," Seregil hedged. "I've heard a few rumors, and Nyal's been showing a lot of attention to Beka Cavish; if he's leading her on, I mean to take steps."

"They were lovers before her marriage to Rhaish i Arlisandin," Adzriel said. "A sad story, the stuff of ballads."

"What happened?"

Adzriel shrugged. "She chose duty over love, I suppose, marrying the khirnari of her clan rather than an outsider. But I know she's grown to love Rhaish dearly; it's Nyal who carries the pain of that decision. He strikes me as the sort of man who does not stop loving even when his love is turned away. Perhaps Beka can heal his heart."

"Just so long as he doesn't break hers in the process. Rhaish is getting long in years. Is he well?"

"I've been wondering that myself. He doesn't seem himself; the strain of the negotiations, no doubt."

"He's known more than his share of sorrows, too," said Saaban. "He's seen two wives die, one barren, one in childbed, along with the child. Now Amali carries their first child. That's bad enough by itself, but to be khirnari and watch your people suffer as his do—I can only imagine how much this business weighs on his mind. I suspect Amali wanted nothing more from Nyal than a shoulder to cry on."

"Try as I may to dislike the man, I hear nothing but good spoken of him," Seregil muttered as they walked back to their room.

"The Akhendi khirnari?" asked Alec.

"No, Nyal. Caring for the lover who threw you over shows more character than I have."

Alec allowed himself a smug grin. "See? I knew you were wrong about him."

Amali huddled in darkness by the bedchamber window, fighting back tears as Rhaish thrashed again in his sleep. He would not tell her what his dreams were, though they grew worse every night, making him sweat and groan. If she woke him he would cry out, glaring at her with mad, sightless eyes.

Amali a Yassara was no stranger to fear; she'd seen her family skirt starvation, driven by it out of the lands they knew to live like beggars in the streets of successive towns and cities across Akhendi. She'd let Nyal heal her fears for a time, but he wanted to take her away, to wander like a teth'brimash again. It was Rhaish who'd saved her, lifted her up and made her proud again to wear the sen'gai of her people. Her parents and brothers ate at the khirnari's table now, and she carried the khirnari's son under her heart. Before the Skalans had come, bearing hope, she had felt safe. Now her husband shouted madness in his sleep.

With a guilty shudder, she felt in the pocket of her nightdress for the warding charm Nyal had given her to mend. It wasn't his, but it was a link to him, an excuse to meet again when she'd finished with it. Her fingers stroked the crude knots of the wristband: a child's work, but effective. Nyal's fingers had brushed her palm as he'd given it to her when they first arrived at the House of Pillars. She let herself savor the memory of that touch, and those that followed; his fingers on her hair, his arms around her, shielding her for a little while from all her fears and worries. It wasn't the Ra'basi she ached for now, but the sense of peace he'd always been able to give her— just never for long enough.

She pushed the charm back into her pocket, her talisman to summon that comfort again if she needed it. Drying her tears, she found a soft cloth and went to wipe her beloved's brow.