Startled, Micum and Alec looked up just in time to catch a faceful of snow from Seregil and Illia, laughing victoriously outside.
"Sneak up on me, will you?" Seregil jeered as he and the girl fled.
"After them!" cried Micum, scrambling out through the window.
An ungainly chase ensued. Illia wisely dodged into the kitchen and was granted asylum by Arna, who brandished a copper ladle at all would-be abductors.
Seregil wasn't so lucky. Never at his best in a daylight fight, he stumbled over one of the excited dogs who'd joined in the hunt and was tackled by Alec. Micum caught up and together they heaved Seregil into a drift and sat on him.
"Traitor!" he sputtered as Alec thrust a handful of snow down the back of his shirt.
Micum cut him short with another handful in the face. "I believe I owed you that," he chortled, "and here's another with interest."
By the time they let him up, Seregil looked like a poorly carved sculpture done in white sugar.
"What do you say to a hunt?" Micum asked, attempting to brush him off a bit.
"Actually, I had more of a quiet day by the fire in mind," Seregil gasped, shaking snow from his hair.
Grabbing him, Micum tossed him easily over one broad shoulder. "Find me a fresh drift, Alec."
"There's a good one right there."
"I'll go, I'll go, damn you!" howled Seregil, struggling.
"What did I tell you?" laughed Micum, setting him on his feet.
"I knew he'd want to."
With dry clothes and a quick breakfast, the three of them set off into the hills above Watermead with bows and hounds.
The dogs struck the trail of a boar first, but Micum called them off that, since they hadn't brought spears.
For the rest of the morning they found nothing but birds and rabbits. At Alec's insistence, Seregil had brought a bow and no one was more surprised than he when he managed to hit a roosting grouse.
They were just thinking of stopping for a midday meal when the dogs flushed a bull elk from a stand of fir. They chased it for nearly half an hour before Alec put a broadhead shaft into the great beast's heart, dropping it in midleap.
"One shot, by the Maker!" Micum exclaimed, swinging out of the saddle to inspect the kill.
"Quick and clean," said Alec, kneeling to inspect the shot. "That way they don't suffer."
Alec had dropped armed men with the same merciful economy, thought Micum, inspecting the red-fletched shaft protruding from the animal's side.
They built a fire and began dressing out the carcass. It was messy work; the snow around them was soon stained a steaming scarlet. Opening the belly, Micum tossed the entrails to the dogs and presented the heart and liver to Alec, his due for the killing shot.
"We'll need more water before we're done," Micum remarked as they set about the skinning.
Alec wiped his bloodied hands in the snow. "We passed a stream a ways back. I'll go refill the water skins."
Seregil paused in his work, following Alec with his eyes until the boy had ridden out of sight between the trees. Beside him, Micum smiled to himself, thinking of what Kari had said.
"He's grown up a lot, hasn't he?" he ventured presently.
Seregil shrugged, going back to his skinning.
"He's had to, running around with the likes of us."
"You've come to think quite a lot of him, I'd say."
Seregil saw through his flimsy words in an instant and his smile faded to hard, flat denial. "If you think I—"
"I'd never think ill of you for the world. I just think that heart of yours leads you down some hard trails, that's all. You haven't said anything to him, have you?"
Seregil's face was a careful mask of indifference, but his shoulders sagged visibly. "No, and I'm not going to. It wouldn't be— honorable. I have too much influence over him."
"Well, he loves you well in his own fashion," Micum said, unable to think of anything more optimistic.
The silence spun out between them again, less comfortable this time. Loosening the last bit of hide, Micum set his knife aside. "Do you have any idea what Nysander is up to? I haven't heard a thing from him since the Festival."
This time there was no mistaking the troubled look in his friend's eyes. "Secrets, Micum. Still secrets. He's driven me half-mad with them," Seregil admitted, warming himself at the fire.
"Have you found anything out on your own?"
Seregil stirred the embers with a branch, sending up a little flock of sparks. "Not much. And I'm oath-bound not to talk about it. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. We both know how the game works. How's Alec handling it, though? He's smart enough to put things together and I'd say he's about as easy to put off a scent as you are."
"True." Seregil gave a humorless laugh. "I'm worried, Micum. Something really bad is coming down the road and I can't tell who's in the way."
Micum hunkered down beside him. "If anyone can look out for him, it's you. But there are some other things you could be telling him. He has a right to know."
Seregil shot to his feet and waved at Alec as he rode out of the trees toward them.
"Not yet," he said, his voice too soft for Micum to tell if the words were a command or a plea.
14
After three days at Watermead, Alec and Seregil returned to the city under cover of night and made their way quietly back to the Cockerel.
Runcer would keep up appearances at Wheel Street; Lord Seregil was in town, but not always available.
Thryis and the others had gone to bed when they arrived, but the aromas still lingering in the darkened kitchen—new bread, dried fruit, garlic, wine, and ashy coals banked on the hearth—were enough welcome for Alec.
Ruetha appeared from somewhere and followed them up to the second floor. Alec scooped her up and held her until Seregil had disarmed the succession of warding glyphs that protected the hidden stairway leading to their rooms. Alec grinned to himself as Seregil whispered the passwords that had once sounded so exotically magical.
The command for the glyph at the base of the stairs was
Etuis miara koriatuan cyris.
"Your grandmother insults the chickens."
Halfway up:
Clarin magril.
"Raspberries, saddle."
For the hidden door at the top of the stairs the word was
Nodense:
"Almost."
The nonsense was intentional, making it virtually impossible for anyone to guess the secret words. Only the final command, the one for the door into the sitting room, had any meaning.
Bokthersa was the name of Seregil's birthplace.
Seregil crossed the room with the aid of a lightstone and lit the fire. As the flames leapt up, he surveyed the room in surprise. "Illior's Hands, don't tell me you cleaned the place up before you left for Wheel Street?"
"Just enough so I could walk across the room safely," Alec replied, going to his neat, narrow bed in the corner near the hearth. He didn't particularly mind Seregil's chaotic living habits, but he did dislike stepping on sharp objects barefoot, or having heavy things fall on him from shelves. Hanging his sword and bow case on their nails above the bed, he stretched out with a contented sigh.
Seregil collapsed on the sofa in front of the fire. "You know, it strikes me that this is all a bit of a comedown for you. After having your own chamber, I mean. Perhaps we should think about expanding our accommodations here. There are empty rooms on either side of us."
"Don't bother on my account." Yawning, Alec crossed his arms behind his head. "I like things just as they are."
Seregil smiled up at the shadow of a dusty cobweb wavering overhead. "So do I, now that you mention it."
Their pleasure at returning to the inn was marred by a sudden scarcity of jobs. The few that had come in during their absence were petty matters, and over the next week new ones were slow to follow. For the first time in their acquaintance, Alec saw Seregil grow bored.