"There's blood on the eaves above the window. He must have cut himself breaking in."
Mardus looked down at the dead man again.
"Two thieves in as many days? Rather a lot, don't you think, even for this part of the city." He watched with satisfaction as a fish hook of anxiety tugged in the necromancer's cheek. "A pity we weren't here the night our young friend made his visit," he continued.
"Then it could have been him lying here dead and unable to be questioned, instead of this useless piece of meat. Get rid of it before it attracts any attention."
Vargul Ashnazai muttered a summons through clenched teeth and the darkness beside them convulsed. A second dragorgos materialized, a wavering, faceless presence that hung like smoke for an instant before streaming down into the dead man's mouth and nose. The body gave a convulsive jerk, then lumbered clumsily to its feet. There was no semblance of life in the face; the dead glazed eyes remained fixed, the one on the ruined side of the head bulging grotesquely from its smashed socket.
Mardus regarded the thing with detached interest. "How long can you maintain it in this state?"
"Until it decomposes, my lord, but I fear it would be of little use. So much of the magic is consumed simply to animate it that it lacks the dragorgos' strength. That, of course, will not be the case once our purpose has been accomplished."
"Indeed not." Mardus touched a gloved hand briefly to the corpse's chest, feeling the black emptiness of death within—such power in that void, and so nearly in his grasp.
The necromancer spoke another command and the corpse loped away in the direction of the nearby harbor.
Still cloaked by the necromancer's spell, they rode up to the main city. The few folk they passed in the streets at that hour were aware of little more than a momentary chill, a fleeting bit of movement caught from the corner of the eye.
"It's of little consequence really, even if they do discover Rythel's work in the sewers," Ashnazai ventured nervously as they rode down Sheaf Street toward their lodgings near the Harvest Market. "The map is the important thing, and we have that. Still, it's unsettling, having the two of them both nosing around Rythel."
"On the contrary, I see the hand of Seriamaius at work in it," said Mardus. "It seems our journey has been a long spiral path, one narrowing quickly now to tighten around our quarry. You may have been correct after all about these thieves being of some importance, Vargul Ashnazai. They wouldn't be crossing our trail so often unless there is some greater purpose in it. We have only to bide our time until the others arrive. Meanwhile, I think it's time to deal with Master Rythel. Arrange something unremarkable, would you?"
Nearing the market, Mardus reined in. "I'm to meet with our new friend, Ylinestra. I shouldn't be long."
"Very good, my lord. I'll check on Tildus and the others at the inn."
Parting ways with the necromancer, Mardus turned his mount down a side lane. Halfway down it, he glanced at the fine pair of brass cockerels decorating the entrance to an inn of the same name.
He'd passed through Blue Fish Street several times since arriving in Rhiminee and the figures, each holding a lantern suspended from an upraised claw, often caught his eye.
22
A Watcher password got them by the guards at the same postern gate Alec had used as a refuge a few months before. Riding through the palace grounds, they dismounted at a tradesman's door near the Ring wall of the Palace.
"I feared you would not come," Nysander said, hurrying them inside. As he reached to close the door behind them, Alec noticed the hem of a finely embroidered robe beneath the wizard's plain mantle.
"You caught us in the middle of a job," Seregil told him.
"I suspected as much, but I had no choice. Come, there is little time."
Nysander inscribed a faint sigil in the air over their heads, then led the way silently down a servant's passage. They hadn't gone far when a serving woman came around a corner ahead of them carrying an armload of linen. She looked directly at Alec as she passed, but gave no sign that she'd seen him.
Magic?
Alec signed.
Seregil motioned him onward with an impatient nod. still hope I don't have to find my own way out of here, Alec thought as Nysander hurried them up stairways and through more corridors and increasingly lavish public rooms. Climbing a final, curving stairway, they reached a closed door. Nysander took a key from his sleeve and let them into a long, dimly lit gallery.
An ornate balustrade screened by panels of wooden fretwork ran the length of the right side of the room. Light streamed up through the openings, casting netted patterns on the ceiling overhead.
Nysander raised a finger to his lips, then drew them to one of the panels. Putting his face close to the fretwork, Alec found himself looking down into a brightly lit audience chamber.
He'd seen Queen Idrilain only once before, but he recognized her at once among the small knot of people gathered around a wine table at the center of the room. Phoria sat at her left with several other people in Skalan court dress. To Idrilain's right sat a man and two women dressed in a fashion he'd never seen before.
All three wore tunics of soft white wool accented only by the polished jewels glowing on their belts, torques, and broad silver wristbands.
Two of them, the man and the younger woman, wore their long dark hair loose over their shoulders beneath elaborately wrapped head cloths. The older woman's hair was silvery white, and on her brow was a silver circlet set with a single large ruby in a fan of blade-shaped gold leaves.
Intrigued, Alec turned to Seregil but found his friend pressed rigidly to the screen, his face a mask of anguish washed with stippled light.
What's he seeing?
Alec wondered in alarm, looking down at the strangers again. Just then, however, the younger woman turned her head his way and Alec felt his breath catch in his throat as he recognized the fine features, dark shining hair, and large, light eyes.
Aurenfaie.
Still staring down, he reached for his friend's shoulder, felt the slight trembling there before Seregil shrugged him away.
The conference below continued for some time. At last the Queen rose and led the others out of the chamber.
Seregil remained where he was for a moment, forehead resting against the screen as a single tear inched down his cheek. Wiping it quickly away, he turned to face Nysander, who'd stood silently behind them all the while.
"Why are they here?" Seregil asked, his voice husky with emotion.
"The Plenimaran Overlord died today," the wizard replied. "The Aurenfaie had the news before we did and translocated a delegation here tonight. There is still no official alliance between Plenimar and Zengat, but both Aurenfaie intelligence and our own suggests that secret agreements have in fact been made."
"What's that got to do with us?" Seregil's face was stony now, the naked sorrow too thoroughly erased.
"Nothing, as yet," said Nysander. "I summoned you here because the lia'sidra has granted permission for you to speak with her briefly. There is a small antechamber just through that door behind you."
Still rigidly expressionless, Seregil stalked away into the next room.
As soon as he was gone, Alec let out a pent-up gasp. "Illior's Hands, Nysander-Aurenfaie!"
"I thought you should see them, too," Nysander said with a rather sad smile.
"Who's he meeting?"
"That is for Seregil to tell you. And with any luck, before you wear a trench in this excellent carpet."
Seregil paced the small, well-appointed sitting room, one eye on the side door. And as he paced, he fought to maintain some semblance of inner calm. There was a looking glass on the wall and he paused in front of it, ruefully inspecting his reflection. His hair was tangled and windblown, and a week of puzzling over Rythel had left dark circles under his eyes. The old surcoat he'd thrown on that evening was frayed at the cuffs and one shoulder was torn.