Apprentices ran here and there with tools and hods of coal; others sweated over the bellows, pumping until the forges glowed yellow-white. Pots, swords, tools, and bits of armor hung over doorways advertising the wares being crafted within.
Pausing at the first they came to, Seregil limped up to an apprentice and asked after Quarin.
"Master Quarin?" The boy pointed farther down the narrow lane. "His place is way down near the wall, biggest on the block. You can't miss it."
"Many thanks, friend," croaked Seregil, taking Alec's arm again. "Come along, son, we're nearly there."
For a single, disorienting instant Alec stared down at him. They hadn't discussed their roles in detail—hearing himself unexpectedly called «son» so many months after his father's death sent a sickening chill through him. Guilt followed hard on the heels of it; he hadn't thought of his father in weeks, perhaps longer.
Seregil peered up at him from under his hat, one sharp grey eye visible. "You all right?"
Alec stared straight ahead, surprised at the stinging behind his eyelids. "I'm fine. It's just the smoke."
Dodging heavy wagons and wrathful shouts, they finally located Quarin's shop. It was a huge establishment, much larger than the rest, and housed in a converted warehouse.
Seregil hung back a moment, sizing the place up through the open door. "Two forges that I can see from here," he whispered. "See those fellows with the metal studs across the top of their aprons? They're all master craftsmen. Master Quarin must be well established to have a crew like that under him. Let's go see what he knows of our friend Rythel."
Just inside the door, they found a woman in a studded apron putting the final touches on an elaborately decorated gate. Catching sight of them, she paused, resting her hammer on one knee.
"You want something here?" she called.
Seregil lowered his voice to a windy growl. "Is this Master Quarin's shop?"
"That's the master, there at the back." Hefting her hammer again, she pointed out a bluff, white-haired old man standing behind a worktable with several other smiths, metal stylus in hand.
"It's a Master Rythel we was sent to find," Alec told her. "We've a message to deliver and we was told he works here."
The woman sniffed scornfully. "Oh, him! He and his crew are down at the western sewer tunnel in the lower city."
"Friend of yours, dearie?" Seregil wheedled, giving her a wink beneath the cracked brim of his hat.
"He's nobody's friend here. Upstart nephew of the master, is all. That sort always nabs the plums, and damn all to the rest of us. Be off with you, and I hope you charge him double for the message. The bastard can well enough afford it."
Alec gave her a respectful bob of the head. "Thanks and Maker's Mercy to you. Come on, Grandfather, we've got a long walk ahead of us."
"Grandfather, eh?" Seregil eyed him wryly as they continued on toward the Sea Market.
"You could be anything under there. That smith didn't seem to care much for Rythel, did she?"
"I noticed that," said Seregil, straightening up and stretching his back. "The guild smiths are a proud, stiff-necked lot and seniority is everything to them. Sounds like Quarin put some noses out of joint giving the job to a relative."
"Why would anyone begrudge him working in the sewers?"
"If they're in the sewers, then they must be replacing the iron grates that guard the channels coming down from the citadel. Who do you suppose ordered that job?"
"Lord General Zymanis."
"By way of whatever underlings handle the details, anyway, which would make it a particularly lucrative contract, with extra pay for the smith in charge of the repairs and his crew. She said he'd "nabbed the plums," remember?"
"That still doesn't explain why Rythel would have papers with Lord Zymanis' seal."
"No, but it does establish the beginnings of a plausible connection. The letter he had was addressed to Admiral Nyreidian. We met him at Kylith's gathering at the Mourning Night ceremony, if you recall."
"The lord who'd just been commissioned to oversee the privateers!" Alec exclaimed. "That has to do with the war, too."
"Which means we're probably right about Rythel being a noser of some sort."
They walked on in silence to the Harbor Way.
Presently Seregil looked up again and said, "If we're right, then I may need to play with this Rythel a bit, see what I can get out of him. When we get down there, I'd better stay out of sight and let you play messenger. If he is a fellow professional, then I don't want to chance him recognizing my voice later on."
At the harbor they made their way west beyond the last quays and warehouses to a stretch of rocky land that hugged the base of the cliffs. A freshly rutted wagon track led on out of sight among the twisted jack pines and hummocks. Following it for a quarter of a mile or so, Alec and Seregil found Rythel's crew at the head of a steep, malodorous gully.
From where Alec and Seregil stood, the entrance to the sewer channel was about five hundred feet up the cut. The opening was the same size and shape as an arched doorway, tall enough for a man to walk through without ducking his head. A noisome grey torrent flowed out over its threshold and on down through a stone sluiceway to the sea beyond. A foul odor hung over the rocky cleft and Alec noted that the workmen wore wet rags over their noses and mouths.
Vinegar cloths, he guessed, to protect them from the evil humours of the place.
A forge had been set up near the opening and the black smoke from it collected sullenly on the damp air. A small wagon stood nearby and half a dozen armed bluecoats were lounging against it.
"What are they doing there?" Alec asked as they looked out from behind the cover of a boulder.
"Watching for gaterunners and spies. The sewers go everywhere under the city."
"What are gaterunners?"
"Thieves, mostly, who know how to get past all the gates and grates and travel the tunnels. They know more about where those channels lead than anyone, even the Scavenger Guild. You'd better go have a look."
Leaving Seregil behind the-rock, Alec hugged his rags about himself and followed the stony track up toward the forge.
"What do you want here?" a soldier demanded, looking more bored than suspicious.
"I've got a message for one of the smiths," Alec replied. "Man named Rythel."
"Go on then, but be quick about it," the guard said, waving him on.
At the forge two apprentices were doggedly pumping the bellows, while another held an iron rod in the coals with heavy tongs. Behind them, a smith was shaping a glowing spike of iron on the anvil. Short and dark-haired, he didn't match the description Eirual had given Seregil.
Alec waited until the man paused in his hammering, then stepped up and touched his brow respectfully.
The smith eyed his rags suspiciously. "What do you want?"
"Begging your pardon, master, but I've got a message sent for Master Rythel," Alec replied with a beggar's unctuous civility.
"Tell it quick and be off with you. The guards don't like anyone hanging about."
"That I can't, sir," Alec told him plaintively, twisting the hem of his tunic in his hands. "Begging your pardon, but I was given good silver to deliver it to nobody but Rythel his self. It'd be worth me livelihood if word got around I passed on private messages to anyone as demands to know 'em."
The smith was less than sympathetic. "Bugger your livelihood. Rythel would have my hammer if I let you go wandering around in there."
This exchange appeared to be a welcome diversion for the sentries. "Aw, he looks harmless enough," one called over, taking Alec's side. "Let him wait out here, why don't you? The message is for Rythel, after all."