"If word of this business should get out to the people, especially about Vardarus, I shudder to think of the reaction."
Idrilain waved a hand impatiently. "It's the tracking I'm concerned with. There's no room for failure. Barien, Phoria, leave us."
Accustomed to such peremptory dismissals, the Princess Royal and Viceregent withdrew at once. Nysander watched them go, troubled by something in Barien's manner.
"He's been terribly upset by this whole business," said Idrilain. "I wish you'd mentioned your concerns about the Lerans to him before. He's always found the whole idea so upsetting."
"My apologies," Nysander replied. "It was simply a stab in the dark."
"But a good one, the more evidence I see. Damn it, Nysander, if those traitors have grown strong enough for something like this, then I want them destroyed! This delivery has to be handled perfectly, and anyone who can get their hands on a Queen's Warrant may well know the faces of my spies. Your people are another matter; even I don't know who most of them are."
Nysander bowed deeply, relieved that she'd reached the desired conclusion on her own. "The Watchers are at your command, as always. Have I your permission to pursue the matter in my own fashion?"
Idrilain clenched a fist around the hilt of her sword. "Use whatever means you see fit. Whoever this traitor is, I want his head on a pike by week's end!"
"As do I, my Queen," replied Nysander, "though I will be surprised if there is only one."
29 An Abrupt Change of Scenery
Caught in midpace, Seregil ran headlong into something in the darkness. Backing up hastily, he could just make out two tall forms that had somehow materialized in the cell. For a chilling instant, his mind skipped back to the lonely Mycenian inn and the dark presence he'd grappled with there; then he caught the familiar smell of parchment and candle smoke.
"Nysander?"
"Yes, dear boy, and Thero." Drawing Seregil to the back of the cell, he spoke close to his ear.
"Thero has come to take your place."
"How?"
"No time for explanations. Join hands with him."
Biting back a flood of questions, Seregil did as Nysander asked. Thero's hands were cold but steady in his as Nysander took them firmly by the shoulders and began a silent incantation.
The transformation happened with dizzying swiftness. For an instant the shadows of the cell seemed to brighten, swirl, engulf them all-and when Seregil's vision cleared, he found himself on the wrong side of the room facing a slim, all-too-familiar figure.
Raising a hand to his face, he felt a coarse mat of beard covering a gaunt cheek.
"Bilairy's Balls and Kidneys—"
"Quiet!" hissed Nysander.
"Take care with my body," Thero warned, touching his own new face.
"I'm more anxious to trade back than you, believe me!" Seregil shuddered, swaying a little in his new, taller frame. He could guess what was next and dreaded it.
Nysander slipped a firm hand beneath his arm and led him to the back wall of the cell. Reluctantly, Seregil took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward into the aperture that yawned, blacker than darkness and staggered out again, blinking and gagging, into the sudden brightness of Nysander's casting room.
"Steady now, I've got you," Micum said, catching him as his knees gave way. "Alec, the brandy. And the basin, too, by the looks of him,"
Seregil crouched over the brass basin for a moment, fighting down the intense nausea brought on by the spell; translocation spells had by far the worst aftereffect. Settling back on his heels, he gratefully accepted a cup of brandy.
Alec stared at him, goggle-eyed. "Seregil, is that really you in there?"
Seregil examined the pale, bony fingers wrapped around the cup, then knocked back the fiery liquor in a single gulp. "Gruesome, isn't it?"
"Thero was no more pleased than you by the prospect," sighed Nysander. "He was, however, a good deal more gracious."
"Forgive me," Seregil retorted. "I'm just not myself tonight."
Alec was still staring. "You've got Thero's voice, but somehow—I don't know, it still sounds more like you. Is it different than when you changed into an otter?"
"Decidedly." Seregil looked down at his new body warily. "It's like wearing an ill-fitting suit of clothes you can't take off. He wears his linen rather tight, too. I didn't know you could do this, Nysander!"
"It is not a practice of which the Orлska particularly approves," replied the wizard with a meaningful wink. "As it was successful, however, I should like to undertake a brief experiment. Do you recall the spell for lighting a candle?"
"You want me to try it while I'm in this body?"
"If you would."
Nysander placed a candlestick on the casting table.
Getting to his feet, Seregil held his hand over the candle.
Micum gave Alec's sleeve a surreptitious tug, whispering, "You might want to stand back a bit, just in case."
"I heard that," Seregil muttered. Centering his concentration on the blackened wick, he spoke the command word.
The results were instantaneous. With a rending groan, the polished table split down the middle and fell apart in two neat halves. The candle, still unlit, clattered to the floor.
They all regarded the wreckage in silence for a moment, then Nysander bent to finger the splintered wood.
Seregil sighed. "Well, I hope that answered your question."
"It has answered several, the most significant being that the transformation of magical power was complete.
Thero should be fairly safe, providing we proceed with all possible haste. There is a great deal to discuss before Alec returns to Wheel Street."
"I have to go back tonight?" Alec asked, clearly crestfallen at the prospect. "But Seregil only just got—" Seregil gave him a playful cuff.
"Appearances, Alec, appearances! You're the master of the house in my absence, as well as a possible suspect by the sound of things. We can't have you dropping out of sight with no explanation."
"Quite right," Nysander agreed. "But we shall lay our plans before you go. Come down to the sitting room, all of you. I expect Seregil would like a decent supper. Thero ate almost nothing tonight."
"I can feel that!" Seregil patted his lean belly wryly. Following the others downstairs, he touched his face again. An unruly hair on his upper lip tickled a nostril and he smoothed it impatiently.
"Amazing," he muttered. "I've never cared much for all this hair you people have sprouting out of your faces anyway, but now that I've got it myself-it's absolutely revolting!"
Micum proudly stroked his heavy red mustache. "For your information, we consider it a sign of virility."
"Oh?" Seregil snorted. "And how many times have I sat waiting in the middle of nowhere while you scraped away at your chin with a knife and cold water?"
"It's my fashion," Micum said, giving Alec a wink. "Kari likes it this way—smooth cheeks with a bit of tickle thrown in."
"It itches," Seregil complained, scratching under his nose again. "Teach me to shave, will you?"
"You most certainly will not!" Nysander said sternly.
During supper the others outlined their recent activities for Seregil. He chuckled appreciatively over their adventures in Hind Street but grew serious at Nysander's report.
"Forging a Queen's Warrant? No wonder Barien was upset. Except for the Queen and Phoria, he's the only person with access to the necessary seals."
"Rightful access," Micum amended. "What do you suppose this ship, the White Hart, ended up with in
her hold?"
Seregil looked to Nysander. "I could probably find out. Three years is a long time, but records would be kept in the shipping master's offices at her port of call. It won't show us her real cargo, I'm certain, but it would be a start."