Intent on savoring his first night of freedom, Seregil had turned down Nysander's offer of horses, although he did concede to letting Alec carry the pack. As the wind whipped their hair and cloaks about, he was chilled but cheerful.
Rhнminee after dark. Beyond ornate walls and down shadowed alleys lay a thousand dangers, a thousand delights. Passing beneath a lantern, he saw a glimmer of familiar eagerness in Alec's eyes; perhaps, at last, he'd chosen well?
By the time they reached the Circle of Astellus, however, Seregil was forced to admit that his body had not recovered as fully as his spirit.
"I could do with a drink," he said, stepping into the shelter of the colonnade.
The lily-shaped capitals of the marble columns supported a carved pediment and dome.
Inside the colonnade, concentric circles of marble formed a series of steps leading down to the clear water welling up from a deep cleft in the rock below.
Kneeling, they pulled off their gloves and dipped up handfuls of sweet, icy water.
"You're shivering," Alec noted with concern. "We should've ridden."
"Walking's the best thing for me." Seregil sat back on the step and wrapped his cloak around him.
"Remember this night, Alec. Drink it in and commit it to memory! Your first night on the streets of Rhнminee!"
Settling beside him, Alec looked out at the wild beauty of the night and let out a happy sigh. "It feels like the beginning of something, all right, even though we've been here a week."
He paused, and Seregil saw that he was staring toward the Street of Lights. Across the circle, the dark outline of the archway and the colorful twinkle of lights beyond shone invitingly.
"I meant to ask you about something the other day," Alec said. "I'd forgotten about it until just now."
Seregil grinned at him in the darkness.
"Regarding what lies beyond that arch, I presume?
The Street of Lights, it's called. I guess you can see why."
Alec nodded. "A man told me the name the other day. Then he made some joke when I asked what the different colors mean."
"Said if you had to ask you were too young to know?"
"Something like that. What did he mean?"
"Beyond those walls, Alec, lie the finest brothels and gambling establishments in Skala."
"Oh." There was enough light for him to see the boy's eyes widen a little as he noted the number of riders and carriages passing under the arch.
"Oh, indeed."
"But why are the lights different colors? I can't make out any pattern."
"They aren't meant for decoration. The color of the lanterns at each gate indicates the sort of pleasures the house purveys. A man wanting a woman would look for a house with a rose-colored light. If it's male company he craves, then he'd choose one showing the green lamp. It's the same for women: amber for male companionship, white for female."
"Really?" Alec stood up and walked to the far side of the fountain for a better view. When he turned back to Seregil he looked rather perplexed. "There are almost as many of the green and white ones as there are the others."
"Yes?"
"Well, it's just that—"
Alec faltered. "I mean, I've heard of such things, but I didn't think they could be so-so common. Things are a lot different here than in the north."
"Not so much as you might think," Seregil replied, heading off again in the direction of the Street of the Sheaf. "Your Dalnan priests frown on such couplings, I understand, claiming they're unproductive—"
Alec shrugged uncomfortably, falling into step beside him. "They would be that."
"That depends on what one intends to produce," Seregil remarked with a cryptic smile. "Illior instructs us to take advantage of any situation; I've always found that to be a most productive philosophy."
When Alec still looked dubious, Seregil clapped him on the shoulder in mock exasperation. "By the Four, haven't you heard the saying, "never spurn the dish untasted"? And here you haven't even had a smell of the kitchen yet! We've got to get you back there, and soon."
Alec didn't reply, but Seregil noticed him glance back over his shoulder several times before they were out of sight of the lights.
Though they kept their hoods drawn, the occasional glimpses Alec got of his companion's face showed that Seregil was delighted to be back in his own element.
At the Harvest Market. Seregil ducked briefly into a potter's shop. A moment later he was out again without explanation, leading the way into a neighborhood of modest shops and taverns crowded together along the edge of the square. Turning several corners in quick succession, they came out on a small lane marked with a fish painted some dark color.
"There it is," Seregil whispered, pointing to a large inn across the way. "We move quietly from here."
A low wall enclosed the inn's small yard and Alec saw that bronze statues of the inn's namesake, a cockerel, were set on either side of the front gate, each clutching a glowing lantern in one upraised claw.
The Cockerel was a prosperous, well-kept establishment, square built of stone and wood, and three stories high. The small windows on the upper levels were shuttered, but the two large windows overlooking the front court let out a welcoming flood of light through their leaded bull's-eye panes.
"Looks like a busy night," Seregil noted quietly, keeping to the shadows as he led the way into the stable that ran along the left wall of the courtyard.
A young man with a disheveled mop of coarse red hair looked up from the harness he was mending as they came in. Smiling, he raised a hand in greeting.
Seregil returned the gesture and continued on between the stalls.
"Who is that?" Alec asked, puzzled by the man's silence.
"That's Rhiri. He's deaf, mute, and absolutely loyal. Best servant I ever found." Stopping at a back stall, Seregil paused to inspect a rough-coated bay with a white snip.
"Hello, Scrub!" he said, patting the animal's shaggy flank. The horse nickered, craning his neck around to nuzzle at Seregil's chest.
"Where is it?" Seregil teased, throwing his cloak open.
Scrub sniffed at the pouches at his belt and butted at one on the right. Seregil produced the prize, an apple, and the horse munched contentedly, occasionally rubbing his head against his master's shoulder.
A restless shuffling of hooves came from the next stall.
"I haven't forgotten you, Cynril," Seregil said, pulling another apple from the pouch as he stepped around. A large black mare tossed her head and pinned him against the side of the stall as he entered.
"Get over, you nag!" Seregil wheezed, whacking her on the haunch to shift her. "She's half Aurлnfaie, but her disposition certainly doesn't give it away." Despite this, he rubbed the horse's head and nose with obvious affection.
At the back of the stable, a wide door let out into a larger yard behind the inn. A smaller wing at the back of the building housed the kitchen; bright light from an open doorway shone across the paving flags, and with it came the inviting smells and dm of a busy kitchen. To the left of this door was a second, much broader one where casks and barrels of provender were delivered, the remainder of the ground level, and the stories above, were windowless. A lean-to sheltered a well and a wood stack at the angle of the building. The courtyard walls were much higher here, and the broad gateway was stoutly barred for the night.
Slipping inside, Seregil pointed across the crowded kitchen to a stooped old woman leaning on a stick in front of the enormous hearth.
"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.