“There’s Thryis. She runs the place,” he said, putting his mouth close to Alec’s ear.
Thryis’ heavy face was deeply seamed with age and her braid was the color of iron. In spite of the heat, she wore a thick embroidered shawl over her woolen gown. The briskness of her voice belied her gnarled appearance, however. Rapping out orders over the hectic clatter from the scullery, she kept servers, cooks, and kitchen maids scurrying about under her shrill direction.
She seemed strangely familiar to Alec; after a moment’s puzzled thought he realized that she must have been the model for the disguise Seregil had assumed when he booked their passage in Boersby.
“How many leeks did you put into the stew, Cilla?” she was demanding of a buxom young woman stirring a pot. “It smells weak to me. It’s not too late to add another. And a pinch more salt. Kyr, you lazy pup, get that platter out there! Those draymen will box your ears for you if you make them wait any longer for their supper, and so will I! Has the wine gone out to the merchants in the side room? Cilla, has it?”
Everyone in the kitchen seemed accustomed to their mistress’ sharp tongue and bustled about their duties with an air of busy contentment. Cilla, the apparent second in command, moved serenely among the servants, pausing occasionally to look into a cradle near the hearth.
Motioning for Alec to follow, Seregil made his way around the long tables without either of the busy women noticing his approach. Coming up behind Thryis, he surprised her with a quick peck on the cheek.
“By the Flame,” she exclaimed, pressing her free hand to her cheek. “So here you are at last!”
“It’s only been half a year,” Seregil replied, smiling down on her.
“If only you’d sent word I’d have had something special for you! All we have tonight is red fire beef and lamb stew. The bread is fresh, though, and Cilia’s made mince tarts. Cilla, fetch a plate of tarts for him to start with while I put together something.”
“There’s no need for that just yet. Both of you come into the lading room for a moment.”
Catching sight of Alec, Thryis paused and looked him over with a sharp eye. “Who’s this?”
“I’ll explain in a moment.” Taking a small lamp from the mantel, Seregil led Alec and the two women through a side door into the lading room. The broad door Alec had seen from the outside stood barred at their left. To the right, a wooden stairway led to the second floor.
“Thryis, Cilla, this is Alec,” Seregil told them when he’d closed the kitchen door. “He’ll be living upstairs now.”
“Welcome to the Cockerel, Lord Alec,” Cilla greeted him with a warm smile.
“It’s just Alec,” he said quickly, liking her kind face at once.
“Is that so?” Thryis said, giving him a decidedly sharp look, though Alec couldn’t imagine why she should be suspicious of him.
“Alec’s a friend,” Seregil told her. “Everyone here will accord him the same respect that they do me, which in your case is little enough. He’ll come and go as he pleases and you’ll answer no questions about him to anyone. Inform Diomis and the others.”
“Just as you wish, sir.” Thryis gave Alec a final dubious glance. “Your rooms are just as you left them. Shall I send up wine?”
“Yes, and some cold supper.” Turning back to Cilla, Seregil wrapped an arm about her waist, making her blush. “I see you’ve regained your maidenly shape. How’s the baby?”
“Young Luthas is well. He’s a sweet one, no trouble at all.”
“And the business?”
Thryis pulled a long face. “A bit slack. But Festival time isn’t far off. I’ll have an accounting ready for you in the morning.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.” Seregil turned to head up the stairs, then paused. “Is Ruetha around?”
“That animal!” Thryis rolled her eyes. “Disappeared soon as you left, same as always. I even put out cream for her this time, but the ungrateful wretch never showed so much as a whisker. Now that you’re back, she’ll probably be in by breakfast like always.”
“Thryis never changes,” Seregil said with a hint of fondness, leading Alec up the back stairs. “Whether I’ve been gone for two days or-six months, she always tells me I should have let her know I was coming, which I never do; apologizes for the menu, which is never necessary; promises an accounting, which I never look at; and then complains about my cat.”
At the second floor, the stairs turned sharply and continued up to what appeared to be an attic. A short, dimly lit corridor, broken only by a few closed doors, ran in the direction of the main building.
“That door at the end opens into the main inn.” Seregil pointed down the hall. “It’s kept locked at all times. This door closest to us is a storeroom, the next are the rooms of Diomis and the women. Diomis is Thryis’ son and Cilla is his daughter.”
“What about Cilia’s husband?” Alec asked.
“No woman ever needed a husband to have a baby. There was talk of conscription last year, and Cilla simply made certain she wouldn’t be eligible. She even offered me the honor, which I politely declined. Sometime later she turned up with a big belly. Thryis was a sergeant in her younger days, and none too pleased with her granddaughter, but the damage was already done, so to speak. Now come this way and pay close attention. I have a few things to show you.”
The attic stairway was steep. Holding up the small lamp, Seregil went halfway up and pointed to the bare plastered wall on the left.
“Listen and watch the wall,” he said softly. “Etuis miära koriatüan cyris.”
For a brief second, Alec caught the soft glow of magical symbols like those he’d seen at the Orëska House. They were gone too quickly for him to see them clearly or be certain of how many there had been, but as they vanished a narrow section of the wall swung back like a door. Seregil motioned him through, then closed the door firmly after and continued up a precariously steep set of steps ending at a blank wall. At the top of the stairs Seregil stopped and said, “Clarín, magril, nodense.”
Another door appeared and Alec felt air moving against his face as they stepped into a cold, dusty room.
“Almost there,” Seregil whispered. “Watch your step.”
Picking their way among the crates and boxes jumbled around the floor, they reached the far wall.
“Here we are. Bôkthersa!”
A third door opened in the seemingly blank wall, revealing another dark room beyond.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Seregil said, ushering him through with a crooked grin.
Stepping in, Alec barked his shin against a stone basilisk beside the door. Reaching out to steady himself, he felt thick wall hangings beneath his hand. He could make out little in the darkness, but this place smelled of things more exotic than dust.
“Better stay put until I get some more light,” Seregil advised. The little lamp bobbed this way and that as he crossed the room, revealing tantalizing glimpses of polished wood and patterned carpet. Suddenly it jogged to one side and Alec heard the sound of something heavy falling over, immediately followed by a muffled curse. The light bobbed precariously, then came to rest on a cluttered mantelpiece where its light was reflected in a hundred hues by a pile of jewels spilling from a half-open box that stood there.
Rummaging around for a moment, Seregil found a jar of fire stones and shook one out onto the wood laid ready on the hearth. Flames crackled up at once and he went around the room lighting candles and lamps.
Alec stepped forward with a soft exclamation of wonder as the room brightened. The place glowed with the rich colors of tapestries and easily rivaled Nysander’s workroom in the variety and disorder of its contents. Slowly turning about, he tried to take it all in.
Shelves packed with books and racks of scrolls covered half the wall opposite the door. More books were stacked on the dining table that stood in the center of the room, and still more on the mantel. An immense carpet woven in patterns of red, blue, and gold lay between the central table and
the hearth. Rush matting covered the rest of the floor.
Spaced along the wall to his right were two small windows facing out over the back court; a small writing desk stood under the right-hand one, the pigeon holes in its low back holding a neat collection of pens, inks, drawing quills, rolls of vellum and parchment, and wax tablets. The desk, along with most of the other furniture in the room, was made of a pale wood inlaid with darker bands along the edges. The design, pleasing in its simplicity, was noticeably different from the ornate furnishings of the Orëska.
A long, scarred table beneath the second window was littered with locks, tools, stacks of books, what appeared to be a small forge, and dozens of half-assembled things that defied immediate description. Shelves holding a bewildering assortment of objects framed the window and filled the remaining wall. More locks, more tools, rough chunks of metal and wood, and a number of devices whose uses Alec could not guess were mixed indiscriminately among masks, carvings, musical instruments of all descriptions, animal skulls, dried plants, fine pottery, glittering crystals—there was no rhyme or reason apparent in the arrangement. A broad collar of gold and rubies caught the light from the lamp on the desk, sending ruddy spangles of light across a large lump of baked mud that might have been either a crude bowl or some sort of nest.
On the section of wall that jutted into the room to the left of the entrance hung a collection of weapons, mostly swords and knives, apparently chosen for their unusual design and ornamentation. Beyond it, near the corner, was another door. Trunks and chests stood everywhere—along the base of walls, stacked in corners, under tables. Statues peered out from odd corners some lovely, some grotesque. Eclectic to the point of eccentricity, the overall effect of the room was nevertheless one of warmth and cluttered, haphazard grace.
“This is like the Orëska House museum!” Alec exclaimed, shaking his head. “Where did you ever get all this?”
“Stole some of it.” Seregil settled on the couch in front of the fire. “That statue by the front door came from an ancient temple Micum and I unearthed for Nysander, up in the eastern foothills of the Asheks. That one there by the bedroom door was the gift of an admirer.” He pointed out a beautifully rendered mermaid of marble and green jade. The sea maiden rose from the crest of a wave that partially covered her scaled lower body, one hand across her breast, the other sweeping her heavy hair back from her face.
“The red tapestry there between the bookcases I found among the possessions of a Zengati bandit I killed after he ambushed me,” Seregil continued, looking around. “Those locks over the table? You’ll get to know those well enough before I’m done with you. As for the rest—” He gave a rather rueful smile. “Well, I’m a bit of a magpie. I just can’t resist anything unusual or shiny. Most of it’s trash, really. I keep meaning to chuck most of it out. The only thing of true value is one you can take away with you in a hurry.”
“At least there aren’t any crawling hands.” Alec glanced over at the shelves again. “Are there?”
“I’m no more fond of that sort of thing than you are, believe me.”
Still gazing around, it occurred to Alec that something was wrong with the room.
“The windows!” He leaned over the desk to look out. “I didn’t see any windows from outside.”
“Nysander did an obscuration on them, like with the scar on my chest,” explained Seregil. “The windows are undetectable from the outside, unless you happened to climb out through one. And even then it would look like you were coming out the side of the building.”
“There must be a lot of magic in the city.”
“Not really. It doesn’t come cheap, and the Orëska wizards won’t hire out to just anyone. But you do run into it now and then, so it’s always wise to be careful.”
The room was beginning to warm up now. Dropping his cloak over the mermaid’s upraised arm, Seregil picked up a small silver lamp and opened the room’s other door. “Come in here, there’s something else I need to show you.”
The room was a bedchamber, though its dimensions were hard to guess, crammed as it was with wardrobes, chests, crates, and still more books. An ornate bed hung with gold and green velvet stood against the wall in the far corner.
“That’s yours?” Alec asked, never having seen the like.
“Won it in a dice game.” Wending his way across the room, Seregil looked around for a place to set the lamp, finally balancing it on a pile of books crowding the back of the washstand.
“That’s the garderobe there, by the way.” He indicated a narrow door barely visible between a wardrobe and a stack of boxes, watching with amusement as Alec explored the wonder of an indoor privy. “Mind you don’t drop anything down the hole; if it goes through the grate, it’s straight down to the sewers below. Here, this is what I wanted to show you.”
Climbing across the enormous bed, Seregil hauled up the velvet curtain and guided Alec’s hand between the mattress and the wall. A small knob was hidden in the woodwork of the paneling. Alec pressed it and heard a faint click; the section of paneling in front of them swung back, letting in a puff of cold air from the darkness beyond.
“This is the back door, in case you ever need it.” Seregil climbed through the opening into another attic storeroom. “You have to know the command word to get into the bedroom from this side. It’s norásthu caril vëntua.”
“I’ll never remember all that!” Alec groaned, following.
“Oh, you’ll learn,” Seregil assured him, going to a door in the left wall, “or you’ll spend the rest of your life sleeping in the kitchen. Damn, I’ve forgotten the key.”
Producing a pick, he threw the lock and stepped out onto an attic landing. A wooden tray lay on a crate at the top of the stairs; on it were two bottles of wine, a plate of tarts, cheese, bread, and an enormous, long-haired cat. At their approach the cat left off gnawing at the cheese and padded over to Seregil with a loud trill. Purring raucously, she wound about his ankles, then rose on her hind feet to thrust her head against his hand.
“So there you are!” Seregil grinned, scooping the cat up. “Alec, meet Ruetha. Ruetha, this is Alec. Don’t eat him in the night, he’s a friend.”
Dumping the heavy creature unceremoniously into Alec’s arms, Seregil picked up the tray and headed back the way they’d come. Still purring, Ruetha regarded Alec with lazy green eyes. She was a handsome creature. Her silky coat was striped with black and brown except for a white ruff and feet. One ear was deeply notched; otherwise she was immaculate.
Back in the sitting room Seregil rummaged a moment in his pack, then retrieved his cloak from the mermaid and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Alec asked in surprise.
“There’s a little matter I need to look into tonight. Make yourself at home. Here’s the key to the attic door. You don’t know the command words yet, so if you need to leave just use the back way. Don’t go out unless you absolutely have to, though. You won’t be able to get back in without me. Don’t even try. You could get badly hurt. I’ll probably be gone most of the night, so don’t wait up. Oh, damn!”
Seregil paused, frowning. “I forgot to have them send up a bed for you. Use mine for tonight, and we’ll figure out something tomorrow. Good night!”
Alec stared at the door for a moment, stunned by Seregil’s abrupt and unexpected departure. For weeks they’d seldom been out of each other’s sight, and now this! Left so unceremoniously by himself in unfamiliar surrounding, he felt abandoned.
He wandered aimlessly through the rooms for a while, trying to interest himself in the various oddments scattered about. This pastime only made him feel more like an interloper, however. Under different circumstances, he might have gone down to the bustling warmth of the kitchen again, but Seregil’s warning about the glyphs ruled out that slight solace. The thought of lying alone in Seregil’s ornate bed was equally intimidating.
The same unsettled loneliness he’d experienced at the Orëska House came flooding back all at
once. Blowing out the lamps and candles, he settled morosely on the couch by the hearth. With Ruetha purring contentedly on his lap, he stared into the flames and wondered yet again what he was supposed to do with himself in this incomprehensible place.
Riding through the darkened streets, Seregil was glad he’d resisted the urge to take Scrub on the trip north. He’d gone through half a dozen mounts during his travels and it would have pained him to have lost so good an animal. Scrub’s gait matched his nature: solid, dependable, and easy to get along with.
And of course, thinking about Scrub was far more comfortable than acknowledging the growing gnaw of guilt in his belly. Not only over what he was about to do in the way of disobeying Nysander, either. It took several minutes of determined riding before he was ready to face the fact that seeing Alec standing there in his own private sanctuary, he’d suddenly panicked. And fled.
It had nothing to do with Alec himself, of course. But it still wasn’t a very pleasant feeling. Better to ignore it, he decided.
He made a quick circuit of several places where word might be left for the “Rhíminee Cat” that the services of a thief were required.
The first was the Black Feather, a brothel owned by an old sailor who liked gold well enough not to ask questions. A carving of a ship stood on the mantel in the front room of his establishment; if the proprietor was holding a message for the Cat, the prow would be turned to the left. Rhiri usually collected the sealed missives, but Seregil often made the rounds to see if any signals were showing.
As he approached, a group of drunken men came boiling out roaring heartfelt farewells to their weary paramours. Through the open doorway Seregil saw that the little vessel on the mantel faced to the right. Other signals at a Heron Street tavern and a respectable inn near the Queen’s Park were equally disappointing.
The wind gusted down the street, whipping his hood back to comb icy fingers through his hair. No use putting it off any longer, he thought. Nudging Scrub into an unhurried amble, he headed for the Temple Precinct.