"Aye, and one he'd be none too happy to miss, if you take my meaning." Grinning, Alec made a lewd two-fingered sign.
"All right, then, but it's on your heads," the smith growled, finding opinion against him. "Sit on the end of that cart, you, and don't stir."
Alec's champions lost interest in him as soon as they'd had their victory. Perched on the back of the open cart, he swung his feet idly and hunted imaginary lice among his rags.
The cart was loaded with iron grates. These were simple, sturdy affairs of upright bars and crosspieces. Apparently they were made at the shop in the upper city, then carried down for final fittings here. At the forge, the smith and his helpers were putting the last touches on one, trimming the crosspieces to fit caliper measurements and fashioning hot iron from the forge into the final bars.
When they'd finished with that, heavy metal flanges were fastened to the outermost uprights, top and bottom. The lower flanges had heavy pins protruding down from them; the upper did not.
Presently several workmen came out of the tunnel.
Their faces were covered with the vinegar cloths, but one was noticeably taller than the rest, and bushy blond hair showed beneath the rim of his leather cap.
"Ordo, we'll want those rivets when we go back in," he called to the smith at the forge.
"Are they hot yet?"
"Whenever you're ready for 'em, Master Rythel. And this young fellow's been waiting for you." The smith hooked a thumb in Alec's direction, adding pointedly, "Sergeant Durnin said it was all right."
Rythel pulled off his face cloth and scrubbed a hand over the thick, well-trimmed beard beneath it. "What do you want?"
Alec jumped down and bobbed an anxious bow.
"I've a message for you, master, from a woman."
The man's scowl lessened appreciatively.
Waving for Alec to follow him, he moved away from the others.
"What woman and what message?" he asked.
"A dark-haired bawd in the Street of Lights, master. She says she prays you remember her fondly, and that you'll come back to her soon as ever you're able."
"Did she give her name?" Rythel asked, looking pleased.
"No," Alec told him with a worried frown, then, as if suddenly remembering, added, "but she's in the House of the Swans."
"I know the one," Rythel said, recognizing the name of Eirual's establishment. "Anything else?"
"That's the whole of it, just as she sent. And if may say, master, I was lucky to find you—"
"Yes, yes!" Reaching into a wallet at his belt, Rythel dropped a few coins into Alec's outstretched palm. "Tell your lady I'll see to her when I can. Now off with you."
"Maker's Mercy to you," said Alec, hurrying away. As he passed the soldiers he looked at the coins Rythel had paid. They were all coppers.
Showing them to the grinning soldiers, he spat sideways and muttered, "Stingy son of a bitch. Let him carry his own messages."
Their laughter followed him up the gully.
At the boulder Seregil fell into step beside him and Alec told him all he'd seen as they walked back along the track.
Seregil rubbed his hands together with satisfaction.
"Well, now we know what our noser looks like."
"We still don't know much about him, though."
"But if that woman at the shop is anyone to go by, I think we can find those willing to gossip. You carried that off well, as usual. I think maybe we'll use you for the jilt again tonight."
Alec grinned happily at the praise. "What will I be this time?"
"A doughty, fresh-faced country lad, looking for an apprenticeship and a few friends."
Alec's grin widened. "That has a familiar ring to it."
Standing at the end of Ironmonger Row, the Hammer and Tongs was a traditional gathering place for the smiths in that part of town. Most outsiders were actively discouraged by that close-knit fraternity, who considered the alehouse their personal sanctuary and unofficial guildhall, but no one objected to the little wayfaring minstrel who came in out of the storm that evening. Such musicians, hardly more than beggars, were common enough in the city, playing for pennies in taverns and market squares. His cloak, stitched all over with scraps of colored cloths and cheap beads, and the flutes protruding from various pockets granted him entrance and a place near the fire.
Selecting a long wooden flute, Seregil piped out a simple tune and then sang the verse in a voice that would have made Rolan Silverleaf cringe.
Fortunately, his present audience was less discriminating and a small crowd had soon gathered at his end of the room. Rythel was not among the company, but he soon found Alec, looking the perfect bumpkin with his homespun tunic and scrubbed, beardless face. The boy gave a slight nod, signaling that all was well.
From his seat by the fireside, Seregil could see that Alec had been adopted by a group of drinkers, and that the woman they'd spoken with at Quarin's shop was among them. Judging by how they included him in their jests, he had obviously made a favorable impression.
Seregil piped on, keeping an ear open for useful tidbits of conversation around him until Alec left. He played a few short ditties, collected his coppers, and followed.
Alec was waiting for him at the public stable where they'd left horses. Stripping off their disguises in the shadow of an alley, they put on plain clothes and rode to a dram house near the north wall of the Ring.
"I didn't have much luck, unless you want to know the current price of pig iron," Seregil said as they sat down at a corner table. "How did you make out?"
"You were right about noses being out of joint among Quarin's people," Alec told him. "Maruli and some of the other smiths gave me a real earful. Not only is Rythel Quarin's nephew, but he hasn't been with him that long. He had a shop of his own down in Kedra, but it burned four months ago. That's when he showed up here."
"Is Quarin fond of his nephew?"
"Not anymore. Old Alman Blackhand told me things were friendly at first, but that there've been hard words. Quarin's hardly spoken to him since he handed him the sewer job. And some think it's strange that Rythel lodges apart from his uncle."
"Interesting. were any of those you spoke with part of Rythel's crew?"
"A few, and they don't much like him either. He has a sharp tongue and treats them like first-month apprentices, always looking over their shoulder. Early on in the job he found fault with the way the grates were being secured. Now he does most of the final fitting himself."
Seregil raised an appraising eyebrow. "I'll just bet he does."
"They've been at it for a little over three weeks. All the old grates had to be pulled out and the masonry knees repaired. That's why the guards are there. They're putting in the new grates now. Alman is in charge of measuring the part of the sewer tunnel where the grate will be, so that the flange pins and holes will set in properly, but Rythel does the final seating and pinning. And the grates are fixed, not gated. That's about it, except that I've been told to see Quarin about an apprenticeship."
"Hopefully it won't come to that."
Alec leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Do you think Rythel could be tampering with the grates?"
"Judging by his behavior, we can't afford to overlook the possibility. The question is how, and whether any of the other workmen are in on it. And who's backing this whole thing, of course."
"It's got to be the Plenimarans."
"I mean specifically who, and whether or not Rythel knows who's running the show. We've got to move very carefully, Alec. We don't want another cock-up like the raid at Kassarie's. We got the big snake there, but all the little ones slithered safely away. We'd better go talk to Nysander. This looks to be Watcher business."
He must still be keeping company with Ylinestra, Alec thought wryly as Thero let them into Nysander's tower. Several long scratches were visible on the young wizard's neck just above the collar of his robe. She'd left similar marks on Alec during their single encounter.