"Anything wrong?" asked Seregil.
"Thought I heard something." Alec nudged the horse into a walk.
Seregil bunched the stolen cloak out of sight beneath his own. "I suppose we really should return this. I don't want any of Eirual's women getting into trouble on my account. I don't suppose you'd mind going back there twice in one night?"
Alec couldn't see his friend's face, but he could tell by his voice that he was grinning.
"Me? Where will you be?" asked Alec.
"Oh, not too far away."
Alec shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. "You're going back to Azarin's."
He heard a throaty chuckle behind him. "Fowl never tastes as savory when you're hungry for venison."
At least you know what you want, Alec thought grudgingly.
16
Cilia was just stirring up the fire when Seregil returned to the Cockerel the next morning. "Is Alec back?" she asked.
"I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon. You haven't gone and lost him, have you?"
"Let's hope not." Grabbing a few apples from a basket, he headed for the back stairway.
"Hang on, I've got something for you," Cilia called after him. She pulled a small, sealed packet from behind the salt box on the mantel and gave it to him. "Runcer sent this over from Wheel Street. A regimental courier from the Queen's Horse delivered it there."
Pocketing the apples, he examined the packet as he continued upstairs. The folded parchment was sealed with candle drippings and covered in smudged finger marks. Directions to Lord Seregil's house were written across the front in Beka Cavish's impatient, upright hand.
Opening it, he read the brief letter inside.
Dear S. and A.
Dostin-Have reached Isil. Tomorrow we move into Mycenian territory. One of the other turmae lost a rider at bridge over the Canal at Cirna when his horse bolted and threw him over the edge. Horrible.
The weather is foul. It's still very much winter up here.
The worst enemy we've faced so far is boredom.
Capt. Myrhini and some of the other officers break the monotony with their war stories. Some of the best come from the sergeants, however.
Billeted tonight in stables of Baron of Isil's estate. The glory of a soldier's life, eh, Seregil?
— B. Cavish
Reaching their rooms, he found Alec asleep on his narrow cot, clothes dropped in a careless heap on the floor. Seregil sat down on the clothes chest at the end of the bed and tapped him on the foot.
"Good morning. We've got news from Beka."
Alec growled something into the pillow, then rolled over. He blinked sleepily at the morning light streaming in at the windows, then at Seregil. "You just getting in?"
Seregil tossed him an apple. "Yes. Tirien asked after you, by the way, and sends his regards."
Alec shrugged noncommittally and bit into his apple. "What's Beka say?"
Seregil read him the letter.
"Maker's Mercy!" Alec muttered, hearing of the man lost off the Canal bridge. He disliked heights and Seregil had to coax him across the bridge the first time he'd traveled over it.
"Let's see," said Seregil when he'd finished, "if they were in Wyvern Dug two weeks ago and headed southeast from there, they could be across the Folcwine River by now."
"Sounds like she's doing well with it all."
"I wouldn't expect anything else of her. Beka's as good with people as she is with horses and swordplay. I'll bet you a sester she's wearing a captain's gorget the next time we see her."
If we see her again, skittered at the back of his mind as he said this, but he pushed the doubt away. He thought he saw a shadow of the same thought cross Alec's face, and the same quick denial.
"Where do we start today?" Alec asked, pushing a handful of tousled hair back from his eyes.
Seregil went to the hearth and stirred up the remains of last night's fire. "I'd like to find this Master Smith Quarin first. Unfortunately we don't know what kind of a smith he is, do we? Goldsmith, silversmith, swordsmith, blacksmith—"
Alec chewed thoughtfully, watching him. After a moment he said, "How about an ironsmith?"
Seregil glanced down at the poker in his hand, then saw that Alec was looking at it, too.
"You said Lord Zymanis is in charge of the lower city defenses, so he's more likely to need an ironsmith than a goldsmith, right? And Eirual said he had rough hands."
"You've got a clearer head than I do this morning," Seregil said, chagrined not to have thought of it himself.
"I imagine I got more sleep."
Seregil glanced over at him in surprise, fancying he heard an edge of disapproval in Alec's tone. After last night's evident success with Myrhichia, he'd assumed the boy was cured of any undue scruples.
Evidently he still retained his Dalnan attitude toward establishments like Azarin's.
Well, that's just too damned bad for him.
"There are ironsmiths scattered all around the city but they all belong to the same guild," he said aloud, letting the moment pass. "I'll have Thryis send one of the scullions over to ask after Quarin. In the meantime, I think I'll have a bit of a rest."
By midday they'd learned that Master Quarin's shop lay in Ironmonger Row near the Sea Market Gate. They set off soon after, dressed as ragged cripples.
Alec's face was half-obscured by a dirty bandage. Seregil wore an old wreck of a hat tied on with a scarf so that the brim curved down to his chin on either side. Their disguises had the desired effect. As they crossed the back court Rhiri saw them and shook a rake threateningly in their direction.
"Ah, the ubiquitous beggar," Seregil chuckled when they'd scuttled out the gate. "No one is ever surprised or glad to see you anywhere in the city."
Begging bowls in hand, they set off for Sheaf Street, the broad avenue that ran through the city between the Harvest and Sea Market gates.
As expected, they attracted little attention as they made their way through the crowded streets. Carts and wagons rumbled past endlessly. Tinkers and knife grinders chanted their availability in singsong voices. Dirty children dodged through the crowds, chasing dogs or pigs or each other.
Soldiers were everywhere, along with malodorously genuine beggars and a few early whores importuning passersby.
Watching for their chance, they stole a ride on the back of a hay wagon and clung to the tail posts as it jolted over the cobbles.
"Look there," said Seregil, pointing behind them.
Alec looked and winced inwardly. Half a block back, five heads swayed on pikes set upright in the back of a rough wooden cart surrounded by a grim formation of the City Watch. He'd seen such displays before; this was the fate of traitors and spies in Rhiminee. Their decapitated bodies would be lying in the cart below, on their way to the city pit.
"Maker's Mercy, that's getting to be a common sight," he muttered. "If we're right about our man—"
"Then he'll come to the same end." Seregil eyed the heads impassively. "I wouldn't dwell on that, if I were you. I don't."
Especially since you came within spitting distance of ending up that way yourself. Alec thought grimly. He still had nightmares about that sometimes, and what would have happened if he and Micum had failed to clear Seregil's name from the Leran's carefully contrived treason charges. He wondered if Seregil did, too.
As soon as the brightly colored awnings of the Sea Market came into sight, Seregil jumped down from the cart and led the way into Ironmonger Row, a twisting side street of open-sided workshops and smoke-stained buildings. Playing his role, he doubled over into a crabbed, sidelong limp and grasped Alec's arm.
In spite of the name, metal workers of all sorts plied their trade here, taking advantage of the proximity to both the port and the marketplace.
Acrid fumes stung Alec's eyes as they made their way through the din. Inside the workshops he could see half-naked men silhouetted against the red glare of the forges, looking like vengeful demons as their hammers struck sparks from glowing metal.