Kari pressed a handful of Beka’s wild, coppery hair to her cheek. “As long as you remember whose daughter you are, I know you’ll be fine.”
“I can’t wait to join you there,” exclaimed Elsbet. “Write as soon as you can!”
“I doubt barracks life will be much like what you’ll get at the temple school,” Beka said with a laugh. Swinging up into the saddle, she gave a final wave and followed Alec and her father out through the palisade gate.
They reached the city just after midday. It was Poulterer’s Day in the outer market, and every sort of fowl—from auroles to peacocks, quail to geese, live or plucked—were on display. Each poultry dealer had a bright pole standard mounted over his wares and these, together with the usual strolling vendors of sweetmeats and trifles, gave the market a festive look despite the lowering sky overhead. Drifts of multicolored feathers blew in the breeze as the three travelers rode through the honking, cackling, twittering din.
Alec smiled quietly to himself, recalling his fears the first time he’d entered Rhíminee. This was his home now; he’d learned some of its secrets already and would soon know more. Gazing about, he suddenly caught sight of a familiar face in the market crowd.
Same protuberant teeth, sly grin, and moldy finery. It was Tym, the young thief who’d cut his purse at the Sea Market. Taking advantage of the slowed traffic by the Harvest Gate, he’d latched on to a well-dressed young man, evidently cozening him with the same tricks he’d used on Alec. A girl in a tattered pink gown clung to the mark’s other arm, aiding in the distraction.
I owe him a bit of trouble, thought Alec. Dismounting, he tossed his reins to Beka.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Just saw an old friend,” he replied with a dark grin. “I’ll be right back.”
He’d already learned enough from Seregil to approach the thieves unnoticed. Biding his time, he waited until they’d lifted the unwitting victim’s purse, then came up behind them and grasped Tym’s arm. His triumph was short-lived, however, and it was Micum’s recent training that saved him.
Newly honed instincts read the thief’s sudden movement just in time. Alec caught at his wrist, halting the point of Tym’s dagger scant inches from his own belly.
Tym’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he tried to jerk free; easy enough to read the message there. The girl stepped in to screen her compatriot’s knife hand and Alec prayed that she wasn’t ready with a blade of her own. In the press of the crowd, she could easily stab him and disappear before anyone was the wiser. She made no attack, but Alec felt Tym tensing.
“We have a mutual friend, you and I,” Alec said quietly. “He wouldn’t be very pleased if you killed me.”
“Who’s that?” Tym spat back, still pulling against Alec’s grasp.
“It’s a trick, love,” the girl cautioned. She was scarcely older than Elsbet. “Do ‘im and move on.”
“Shut up, you!” Tym growled, still glaring at Alec. “I asked you a question. Who’s this friend of ours?”
“A comely, openhanded fellow from over the sea,” Alec replied. “Handy with a sword in the shadows.”
Tym glared an instant longer, then grudgingly relaxed his stance. Alec released his wrist.
“He should’ve told you never to grab a brother from behind like that unless you mean to deal with him!” Tym hissed, yanking the girl to his side. “If you’d done that in a back alley, I’d have you lying dead right now.” Sparing Alec a final scornful look, he and the girl disappeared into the crowd.
“Did you catch your friend?” Beka inquired when Alec reappeared.
“Just for a moment.” Alec mounted and wrapped the reins around his hand. It was still trembling a little.
From the market they turned south to the barracks gate of the Queen’s Park, where Beka showed her commissioning papers to the guards. Giving her father and Alec a final farewell embrace, she rode in without a backward glance.
Micum watched through the gateway until she was out of sight, then heaved a deep sigh as he turned his horse back toward the Harvest Market. “Well, there she goes at last.”
“Are you worried about her?” asked Alec.
“I wouldn’t have been, a year ago when there wasn’t a war brewing for spring. Now I don’t see any way around it, and you can bet the Queen’s Horse will be some of the first into the fray. That doesn’t leave her much time to get used to things. No more than five or six months, maybe less.”
“Look how far I’ve come with Seregil in a few months,” Alec pointed out hopefully as they headed for the Cockerel. “And he had to start from practically nothing with me. Beka’s already as good with a bow and sword as anyone I’ve seen, and she rides like she was born on horseback.”
“That’s true enough,” Micum admitted. “Sakor favors the bold.”
In Blue Fish Street, they slipped in through the Cockerel’s back gate and went through the lading-room door and up the stairs with hoods well drawn up. Micum took the lead on the hidden stairs, speaking the keying words for the glyphs with the same absent ease as Seregil.
Following him in the darkness, it occurred to Alec that Micum, too, had come and gone here freely over the years, always certain of welcome. Everything Alec had learned of the friendship between these two seemed to come together and spin itself into a long history in which he had only the most fleeting foothold.
Reaching the final door, they stepped into the cluttered brightness of the sitting room. A crackling fire cast a mellow glow over the chamber. The place seemed more disordered than usual, if that was possible. Clothing of all sorts hung over chairs and lay piled in corners; plates, papers, and scraps of wizened fruit rind cluttered every available surface. Alec spotted a mug he’d left on the dining table a week ago still standing undisturbed, as if to anchor his right of presence until his return. A fresh litter of metal fragments, wood chips, and scattered tools ringed the forge on the workbench beneath the window.
The only clear spot left in the room was the corner containing Alec’s bed. A suit of fine clothes had been neatly laid out there, and against the pillow was propped a large placard with the words Welcome Home, Sir Alec! written on it in flowing purple letters.
“Looks like he’s been busy!” Micum remarked, eyeing the mess. “Seregil, are you in?”
“Hello?” A sleepy voice came from somewhere beyond the couch.
Stepping around, Alec and Micum found him sprawled in a nest of cushions, books, and scrolls with the cat on his chest.
Seregil stretched lazily. “I see you left each other in one piece. How did it go?”
Grinning broadly, Micum settled on the couch. “Just fine, once I managed to undo all your wrongheaded teaching. You may get a few surprises next time you cross blades.”
“Well done, Alec!” Pushing the cat aside, Seregil stood up and stretched again. “I knew you’d get the hang of things. And not a moment too soon, either. I may have a job for you tonight.”
“A Rhíminee Cat job?” Alec ventured hopefully.
“Of course. What do you think, Micum? It’s just an over-the-sill-and-out-again sort of thing in Wheel Street.”
“I don’t see why not. He’s not ready to storm the Palace yet, but he should be able to look out for himself on something like that if he doesn’t attract too much attention.”
Seregil ruffled Alec’s hair playfully. “Then it’s settled. The job’s yours. I guess you’d better have this.”
With a dramatic wave of his hand, Seregil produced a small, silk-wrapped parcel and presented it to Alec.
It was heavy. Unwrapping it, Alec found a tool roll identical to the one Seregil always carried. Opening it, he ran his fingers over the ornately carved handles: picks, wires, hooks, a tiny lightwand. On the inner flap of the roll a small crescent of Illior was stamped in dull silver.
“I thought it was about time you had one of your own,” said Seregil, clearly pleased with Alec’s speechless delight.
Alec glanced back at the f
orge. “You made these yourself?”
“Well, it’s not the sort of thing you see in the market. You’ll be needing a new history, too. I’ve been giving it some thought.”
Micum nodded toward the placard. “Sir Alec?”
“Of Ivywell, no less.” Seregil dropped Alec a slight bow before collapsing into the couch opposite Micum. “He’s Mycenian.”
Alec went to the bed and looked more closely at the clothing.
“So Lord Seregil will be returning to the city in time to prepare for the Festival of Sakor, as usual?” observed Micum. “And not alone this time?”
Seregil nodded. “I bring young Sir Alec, only child and last surviving heir of Sir Gareth of Ivywell, a genteel but impoverished Mycenian baron. In hopes of giving his scion a chance in life, Sir Gareth has left his son ward to an old and trusted friend, Lord Seregil of Rhíminee.”
“No wonder he died poor,” Micum threw in wryly. “Sir Gareth seems to have been a man of questionable judgment.”
Ignoring this, Seregil confined his attention to Alec. “By situating the now defunct and completely fictitious estate of Ivywell in the most remote region of Mycena, we kill several birds at a shot. Any unusual mannerisms you might display will be put down to your provincial upbringing. There’s also less chance that anyone will expect to know a common acquaintance. Thus Sir Alec’s background is at once suitably genteel and safely obscure.”
“The fact that he’s neither Skalan nor Aurënfaie would make him a tempting target for any Leran hoping to get at Lord Seregil,” added Micum.
“A jilt!” said Alec.
“A what?” laughed Seregil.
“A jilt, the bait,” he explained. “If you want to trap something big, like a bear or mountain cat, you stake out a kid and wait for your beast to show up.”
“All right, then. You’d be our jilt. If any bears do show up, just be your sweet, innocent self, feed them everything we want them to know, and report everything they say back to me.”
“But how would they get to me?” asked Alec.
“That won’t be difficult. Lord Seregil’s a social sort. His house in the Noble Quarter has already been opened and word’s getting around. I’m sure the news will reach the right ears sooner or later. In a few days we’ll throw a big party to introduce you to society.”
Micum favored his friend with an affectionate grin. “You scheming bastard! So what else did you get up to while we were gone?”
“Well, it’s taken until today, but I think I’ve found our forger. You recall Master Alben?”
“That blackmailing apothecary you burgled a few years back during that business for Lady Mina?”
“That’s the one. He’s moved his shop to Hind Street since then.”
“How’d you find him?”
“I was pretty certain Ghemella was our seal forger. Since she also buys stolen papers, I planted some of mine with her and last night she led me straight to him. It’s only a matter now of finding his cache to see if there’s anything useful to be had. If he is the one who forged the letter from me, then my guess is he’s probably made a copy or two for himself just to hedge his bets. And if we can get our hands on those we can squeeze him for names.”
“Is that the job tonight?” asked Alec, an eager gleam in his eye. “The sooner we clear your name, the better.”
Seregil smiled. “Your concern for my tattered honor is deeply appreciated, Sir Alec, but we’ll need another day or so to prepare for that one. Don’t fret, now. Everything’s under control. In the meantime, however, I think you’ll find tonight’s little exercise worthy of your new skills.”
Wheel Street, a quiet, respectable boulevard of modest back garden villas, lay on the fringe of the Noble Quarter. Well dressed so as to attract no attention, Alec strolled along beside Seregil and Micum just after dark—three gentlemen out enjoying the night air.
The narrow houses were decorated Skalan style with mosaics and carvings. The ground level of some had been converted into shops; in the dimness Alec made out the signs of a tailor, a hat maker, and a gem dealer. The street ended in a small circular court in front of a public stable. Riders and carriages bustled in all directions; the sounds of entertainment could be heard here and there as they walked past.
“That’s ours, the one with the grapevine pattern over the door,” whispered Seregil, indicating a brightly lit house across the way. “Belongs to a minor lord with some connection to shipping. No family, three servants: the old manservant, a cook, and the maid.”
Several horses were tethered in front and they could hear the noise of pipes and fiddles being tuned.
“Sounds like he’s having a party,” whispered Micum. “Suppose he’s engaged extra servants, for the evening?”
“Those can be the worst sort, forever bumbling into places the regular staff can be counted on not to go,” Seregil warned Alec. “And guests, too! Keep your ears open and remember, all we’re after is a correspondence case. In and out, nothing fancy. According to my information, he keeps the case in a desk in his study, that room there at the left corner of the second floor, overlooking the street.”
More carriages rumbled by, destined for houses up and down the cobbled street. “It’s too busy out here,” said Alec. “Is there a back way in?”
Seregil nodded. “The house backs onto a walled garden, and a common beyond. This way.”
Crossing the street a few houses down, they went through a narrow alley into the little common. Such areas had been left open throughout the city to assure pasturage in time of siege. At the moment it was occupied by a flock of sleeping geese and a few pigs.
Creeping softly along, they counted gates until they found the one leading into the back garden of the house in question. The wall was high, the gate stoutly barred from within.
“Looks like you’ll have to climb,” Seregil whispered, squinting up. “Be careful going over; most of these places have the walls topped with spikes or sharp flints.”
“Hold on!” Alec tried to make out Seregil’s expression through the darkness. “Aren’t you two coming with me?”
“It’s a one-man job; the fewer the better,” Seregil assured him. “I thought this is what you wanted, a first trial on your own?”
“Well, I—”
“Would I send you in alone if I didn’t think you could handle it?” Seregil scoffed. “Of course not! Best leave me your sword, though.”
“What?” Alec hissed. “I thought I had to be armed so I could do jobs!”
“Generally speaking, yes. But not this time.”
“What if someone sees me?”
“Honestly, Alec! You can’t just go hacking your way out of every difficult situation that arises. It’s uncivilized,” Seregil replied sternly. “This is a gentleman’s house; you’re dressed as a gentleman. If anyone catches you, just act chagrined and drunk, then claim to have stumbled into the wrong house.”
Feeling a good deal less confident all of a sudden, Alec unbuckled his sword and started up the garden wall. He was halfway to the top when Micum called softly, “We’ll meet you back here when you’ve finished. Oh, and look out for the dogs.”
“Dogs?” Alec dropped down again. “What dogs? You didn’t say anything about dogs!”
Seregil tapped himself sharply between the eyes. “Illior’s Fingers, what am I thinking of tonight? There’s a pair of Zengati hounds, snow-white and big as bears.”
“That’s a fine detail to forget,” growled Micum.
“Here, let me show you what to do.” Taking Alec’s left hand, Seregil folded down all the fingers except the index and fourth, then turned the palm downward.
“There. All you have to do is look the dog in the eye, make the sign by snapping the little finger down—like this—and say ‘Peace, friend hound’ as you do it.”
“I’ve seen you do that trick. That’s not what you said,” Alec remarked, repeating the hand sign.
“Soora thasáli, you mean? Well, you can say it in Aurënfaie
if you like. I just thought it might be easier for you to remember in your own language.”
“Peace, friend hound,” Alec repeated, performing the hand sign. “Anything else I should know?”
“Let’s see, the spikes, the dogs, the servants—No, I think we covered it that time. Luck in the shadows, Alec.”
“And to you,” Alec muttered, starting up the wall again.
The top of the wall was indeed set with spikes and thick shards of broken crockery. Clinging to the edge of the wall, he pulled his cloak up from behind and wadded it up on top of the sharp points in front of him. Hooking an elbow over the thick material, he tugged the cloak strings loose from his neck.
The garden below appeared to be empty, though muffled sounds of the familiar kitchen variety issued from a half-open door at the back of the house. Hitching himself swiftly over the top of the wall, Alec lowered himself by his fingertips and dropped down the other side.
The garden centered on an oval pool. Graveled walkways showed pale in the darkness between planting beds and leafless trees. An especially large tree growing close to the carved balcony running the length of the second story looked to provide the easiest way in.
The shadows closed in around Alec as he stole toward the tree. He moved silently, careful to avoid the gravel paths. He was in reach of the trunk when something large stirred just beside him. Hot, wet jaws closed firmly on his right arm, just above the elbow.
The white hound might not have been quite as large as a bear, but Alec was not about to argue the point. The beast did not growl or tear at him, but held him fast, regarding him with eyes that shone yellow in the dimness.
Fighting down the impulse to struggle or cry out, Alec quickly made the left-handed sign and croaked, “Soora, friend hound.”
Not seeming to mind the mixed translation, the dog obliged immediately, padding off into the darkness without a backward glance. Alec was up the tree and reaching for the marble balustrade almost before he realized he was moving again.
Dry leaves had collected in little piles on the balcony. Stepping over these, he inspected the two windows that flanked an ornate door leading into the house; the door was locked, the darkened windows covered with heavy shutters.