The night was overcast but the clouds were broken and fast-moving, letting enough starlight through to make out Ilar, still huddled beside the post. If there were guards posted to watch him, Seregil couldn’t see them from this angle.
Slow and careful, now. He climbed out onto the walkway roof and set the grille back in place. His bare feet made barely a whisper as he retraced his steps around the small courtyard to the edge of the workshop garden.
From here he could see the pair of sentries at the arched entrance leading back to the house. Leaving his bundle on the roof, he crept along the wall to a dark corner furthest from Ilar and the guards, dropped silently into an herb bed, and drew Alec’s dagger and his poniard. He had one chance at this, and he meant to make it count.
The two men were standing together just inside the entrance to the garden. One was smoking a pipe and the sweet smell of the tobacco permeated the night air. Keeping close to the wall, Seregil silently closed in on them, glad their attention was focused on conversation rather than paying attention to their work. As he got closer, he saw with a certain degree of satisfaction that these were the men who’d beaten him so badly.
Perhaps Yhakobin had his best men out on the hunt. These two went down without a sound. He cut one throat, then the other before either of them realized what danger they were in, then stabbed each one through the heart. The death rattles were hardly over before he’d stripped them both of their sword belts and buckled one on. When he was done he arranged the bodies slumped against the wall, as if they’d fallen asleep on duty. With a last glance into the central courtyard of the house, he retrieved his bundle from the roof and ghosted across to the workshop door.
“Seregil…” Ilar rose unsteadily to his knees and held out both hands to him, whispering, “Seregil, please…help me.”
Seregil walked back to him, sword in hand. “Help you?” he whispered in disbelief.
“Kill me, then! I can’t face the markets again.” He broke off with a strangled little sob. “Please, Haba, take your revenge, I beg you!”
Why am I hesitating? Seregil wondered. Isn’t this what I’ve dreamed of, all these years?
But this wasn’t how he’d imagined it, with his prey already bound and humbled by another’s hand. Just be done with it. It’s a kindness if nothing else…
As he raised the blade, a hand closed over his wrist.
Badly startled, Seregil whirled around, ready to strike.
But it was Alec. The younger man was dressed in an ill-fitting robe and armed with a kitchen knife. Seregil slapped the blade aside and grabbed him in a desperate kiss, knowing they could both be dead before the night was out. Alec’s fingers dug into his back as the younger man clung to him.
It took an act of will to pull away, but Alec’s lips tasted of metal and Seregil quickly checked him for blood. “Are you hurt? How did you get out?”
Alec took what looked like a hairpin out of his mouth. “I used this. I heard a ’faie had escaped and hoped it was you,” he whispered back. “Why were you going to kill Khenir?”
This was no time for proper introductions. “He asked me to. You heard what Yhakobin said.”
“I know. That’s why we’ve got to take him with us.”
“I can help you,” Ilar quavered. “I know a way out of this house. Under the workshop.”
“And you never used it?” Seregil muttered, skeptical.
“I didn’t dare. Not alone. I—I took care of Alec. I protected him!”
“He did,” said Alec. “I can’t just leave him.”
“He’s in no condition…” Seregil began, then gave up. It would be quicker and safer to get them all inside, then see if Ilar was lying.
That was what Seregil told himself, anyway.
Alec kissed him again and thrust the makeshift pick into his hand. “Meet you in there. I have to get something.” He disappeared into the workshop as silently as he’d come.
Seregil rounded on Ilar again. “And I’m supposed to trust you? So you can get back into your Ilban’s good favor by betraying us?”
“He can’t go back on his word. It’s the law,” Ilar whispered, clutching Seregil’s knees. “And the men who will buy me…Oh Aura! If you won’t take me, then kill me!”
This was the moment. He could kill Ilar or leave him to his fate in the markets.
Only he couldn’t do it.
“Shut up and hold still!” The lock was simple and the hasp gave quickly.
“Thank you, Haba!” Ilar gasped as the chain fell away.
Seregil yanked him to his feet by his collar. “Call me that again and nothing will save you,” he hissed, their faces almost touching. Satisfied with the fear in Ilar’s eyes, he pulled him by the collar into the workshop.
Inside, the large athanor was burning and threw just enough light for him to see that Alec wasn’t alone, either. He held a young child by the hand—a thin, pale little thing, in a ragged, oversized robe and head scarf.
“Bilairy’s Balls, Alec! Are you going to take the whole damn household?”
“Trust me. I’ll explain later.”
That makes two of us, talí.
Seregil gave Alec the pick, his dagger, and the other sword, then unrolled his bundle and handed him the clothing he’d prepared for him in the attic. Alec pulled his robe off, and Seregil satisfied himself that, apart from some bruises, he wasn’t injured. Between the two of them, Alec appeared to have been handled more gently, except for those times in the cellar. He pulled on the new clothing quickly, slipped his dagger into the top of one stolen boot, and looped his sword belt over his shoulder.
While Alec changed, Seregil started to help Ilar roughly into Alec’s discarded robe, but stopped at the sound of the man’s strangled whimper. The stripes on his back weren’t deep, but they were bloody, and still crusted with salt. Every movement must be agony.
A water bucket stood by the athanor and Seregil used it to rinse away what he could from the wounds. Ilar trembled but stayed silent.
Seregil pulled the loose robe over the man’s head, keeping the fabric from pulling at the wounds as best he could, and handed him the worn pair of shoes Alec had discarded. “Now, where’s this escape route?”
Ilar went to one of the smaller anvils near the forge. “Here. Underneath.”
Seregil grabbed it by the horn and heel, and strained to lift it. It tilted slightly, and a crack of darkness appeared under the section of floor it was bolted to. Alec joined him, pushing from the other side and together they tilted the trapdoor back until the edge of the anvil was resting on the floor. The underside was sheathed crossways with wooden planks, with a large iron ring in the middle. A small, timber-braced shaft led straight down into darkness. A wooden ladder was bolted to one side.
“I overheard Ilban telling the children about it,” Ilar explained. “It goes down to a tunnel leading away from the house, in case of invaders.”
Seregil turned to look for something useful to take, but Alec held up a bundle of his own. “We’re ready.”
Alec had also fashioned a cloth sling like the ones northland farmwomen used to carry their small children on their backs as they worked the fields. He hoisted the child into it and showed Seregil how it left both his hands free. The boy clutched the back of his coat, skinny bare legs dangling against Alec’s hips.
Seregil sighed. Sling or no sling, sooner or later the little one would be a hindrance. But at least he was quiet; he hadn’t made a sound.
Seregil pushed Ilar toward the trapdoor. “You first.”
The man gave him a shaky nod, then grasped the top of the ladder and slowly began the climb down, pain clear in every move. Little spots of fresh blood had already soaked through the back of his robe.
Alec went next, moving as if the child weighed nothing at all. The child didn’t so much as whimper as Alec started down.
When the others were out of sight, Seregil slung his own sword belt over his shoulder, tucked the neck of his bundle through his belt, and
set his feet on the ladder. It took both hands and all his weight to pull the heavy door down, and then he narrowly missed being brained as it fell heavily back into place. He ended up hanging by one hand from the iron ring in total darkness. He found the ladder with his foot and quickly made his way down by feel.
The shaft was very deep. He had splinters in both hands by the time he saw a faint light below.
Ilar stood at the bottom with the others, holding up a candle. The space here was not much bigger than the shaft itself, but just behind him was a sturdy-looking oak door.
“It’s locked,” Alec told him, yanking at the iron handle above a keyhole.
“Give me your pick.”
“I tried it. It won’t budge.”
Seregil held out his hand and Alec shrugged and gave him the metal pin.
Kneeling, Seregil probed the wards inside. “Tricky.”
“You cut your hair,” Alec noted, running his fingers through the uneven fringe at the nape of Seregil’s neck.
Seregil’s skin tingled at the touch but he kept his mind on the business at hand. “Assuming I get this open, where does it lead?”
“I don’t know,” Ilar replied.
“Bastard!” Seregil growled, still grinding away. “Why am I even listening to you?”
“Because I’m the only bastard you have?” Ilar replied with just a hint of his old smugness.
Seregil’s fingers clenched on the pick. “Hold the light over this way.”
“Well, it must lead away from the house,” Ilar offered weakly as Seregil went back to work on the lock. “Alec, I think you should leave that behind. Master Yhakobin will stop at nothing to get it back.”
“Shut up!”
Seregil looked sharply over his shoulder. “Stop at nothing to get what back?”
Just then the muffled sounds of footsteps and shouting echoed down the shaft from the workshop. Seregil gave the lock a last careful tweak and the door swung inward on what looked like the promised passageway.
Seregil stood back and made Ilar a mocking bow. “After you.”
Alec gave them both a confused look as he followed with his candle.
When the others were safely through Seregil fastened the door again and turned to follow Alec. As he did, the light fell across the child’s upper face, and his slanted, silver eyes.
Seregil caught Alec by the elbow. “This is what Yhakobin wants, isn’t it? What the hell is it?”
“A rhekaro,” Alec answered quietly, pulling his arm free.
The pick slipped from Seregil’s fingers. “This is what I saw in that cellar, under the dirt?”
“No, that was the first one Ilban made,” Ilar replied.
“You were there?” asked Alec, turning to face Seregil full on.
“Yes.” Because Ilar wanted me to see you like that, damn it! “Why are you dragging it along?”
“Yhakobin tortured the first one he made to death,” Alec told him, clutching the straps of the sling. “If I leave him, he’ll die!”
“Let it.”
The shouting above was getting louder.
“He comes, or I stay,” Alec said flatly. “I’ll explain later. We need to go!”
Seregil snatched up the fallen pick. “Come on then, before someone figures out which way we went.”
Alec slipped past him to follow Ilar. “Thank you, talí.”
Don’t thank me yet, Seregil thought darkly, sword in one hand, the poniard in the other.
The passageway was shored with timber and brick-paved. Nothing moved around them but their shadows, and there was no sound but the whisper of shoe leather against the bricks and Ilar’s labored breathing.
Seregil had ample time to study the rhekaro as they went, or at least the back of it. Its thin legs looked bone white in the candle’s wavering glow. A lock of hair had escaped from the scarf; it hung below the thing’s waist and shimmered like silver.
What in Bilairy’s name are you? he wondered, thinking of the writhing pile of dirt, stained with Alec’s blood. No good could come of that! Why was Alec so adamant on having it?
Because it looks like a child, of course. And Alec had seen one tortured to death. No wonder he’d refused to abandon this one. Trust me, he’d said. And Alec had never given him reason not to. Ilar was a different matter, and Seregil kept a close eye on him.
The way ran more or less level for some time, and then began to slant up sharply. Seregil guessed they’d gone nearly a mile by the time the passage ended at a door similar to the one they’d left behind. The lock was the same and Seregil soon tickled it open.
“Put out your light.”
When it was dark, he softly opened the door a crack and peered through. It was just as dark beyond, but a slight breeze carried the smell of horses.
A shaft like the one in the workshop led up to a trap door. Seregil pushed it up just enough to see. It was heavy, and the smell was much stronger now.
They were in a large stable. A flyspecked lantern on a nail illuminated the glossy haunches of several horses in stalls. Shit apples and straw covered the floor and the trapdoor. Bits of muck fell down the shaft, eliciting mutters of protest from below.
He lifted the trapdoor up a little further, braced for an outcry, but heard nothing but the night sounds of the horses.
“Stay down,” he whispered to the others, then pushed the trap all the way back and climbed up.
The stable spoke of money and title, and the horses were good ones. Treading softly, he discovered a young ostler asleep with a jug in a stall near the door. Seregil could smell the wine on him from two yards off.
He crept back to the shaft and motioned the others up. Ilar came first, then Alec, straining a little now under the slight weight of the rhekaro.
Seregil pointed to the drunken ostler, and then motioned for them to follow him out. He kept a close eye on the drunkard, poniard at the ready, but the man never stirred.
Outside they found a well-kept farmyard and corral, and a slope-roofed little cottage with darkened windows. A larger house stood on a nearby rise—a hunting lodge, perhaps, and also dark. This Yhakobin fellow was well prepared for a hasty departure should he ever need to make one.
Wary of watchdogs, Seregil led the way across a small onion patch and an herb garden, and into the shadow of a small orchard just beyond. A few apples still hung from the branches. They paused here and picked a few, letting the juice soothe their dry throats.
Ilar plucked nervously at his slave collar as he ate, as if the weight of it pressed on him more now that they were fugitives. Alec unwrapped the rhekaro from its sling and set it on its feet. It hunkered down beside him, completely still.
Seregil wanted more than anything to grab Alec, check him for damage, and never let go. After all the weeks of uncertainty and abuse, he ached to hold him and be held. If Ilar and the rhekaro hadn’t been there, he probably would have, and damn the danger.
It hurt a little that Alec seemed more engrossed in caring for the unnatural creature. Seregil watched jealously as he bit off a small piece of apple and offered it to the rhekaro. The creature just stared at it, as if it had never seen food before.
As Seregil watched, Alec took out his knife and nicked the end of his own finger, then held it out. The creature grasped it eagerly and sucked it like a teat.
Seregil grimaced. “It eats blood?”
“His name is Sebrahn.”
“Oh lovely. You’ve named it.”
“That’s right. And it’s my blood he eats. Just mine. That’s why I couldn’t leave him. He’d starve. It’s all right, though. He never needs very much. See? He’s done.”
The rhekaro sat back and licked a last dark smear from its colorless lips. Its tongue looked grey in this light.
“Bilairy’s Balls.” Seregil leaned over and pulled off the rhekaro’s head scarf. Silvery white hair tumbled down its back, so long it brushed the ground behind it. “More hair to cut.”
“I’m not sure it will do any good.”<
br />
“Oh?”
“Things—grow back.”
The child-like thing was watching Seregil now, its eyes white and blank as a corpse’s in the starlight. Seregil’s every instinct warned him to get Alec as far away from it as possible.
“Why didn’t you kill the ostler so we could steal the horses?” Ilar whispered, eyeing them both as if they’d gone mad.
“If I wanted to leave no doubt of where we’d been, that’s exactly what I’d do,” Seregil snapped, taking it out on him. “Next you’ll be leading us back to the seaport to find a ship. And eat that apple core or bury it. They’ll have trackers on us soon enough.”
“Where are we going, then?”
“Let me worry about that.”
“You still don’t trust me? I helped you!”
Seregil bit back an angry retort. If it had been just the two of them, he could have just stuck a knife in the man and been done with him. Ilar had served his purpose, after all. He was nothing but useless baggage now. Still, hiding the body would be a bother, not to mention the time it would take to calm Alec down.
“We’ve got to get as far as we can tonight and find a good place to lie up. And get these off.” He tugged irritably at the iron collar around his neck. “Is there any magic in them?”
“Not that I know of,” Ilar replied. “But you won’t find a smith who’ll do the job.”
“I’m pretty handy with a chisel. We just need to find the tools. And what about these?” He pulled his sleeve back, uncovering the brand. “I suppose we could cut them off. Or burn them over.”
“That’s the first thing a slave taker looks for. When a slave is freed, that mark is branded over with another, larger one, to prove he’s free.”
“What sort of mark?” asked Alec.
“The crest of his master.”
Seregil ran a hand back through his ragged hair. “No easy solution there, then, unless we can find one to steal. Stay here, both of you.”
Leaving Alec to keep Ilar under control, Seregil made his way back the way they’d come. After some searching, he found the tools he needed in a lean-to next to the cottage. If there were dogs here, they certainly weren’t worth much as guards.