A shutter slammed back just above his head and an old woman popped her head out, glaring down indignantly.
"Leave off with that or I'll have the Watch down on you," she screeched, swinging a stick at his head. "This is an honest house."
"I'll leave off when I've got his throat in my hand," Seregil yelled, kicking the door again.
"You're drunk. I can smell you from here!" the old woman said scornfully. "Who is it you're after?"
Just then, the grey jerked its head down in another racking cough.
"There, you hear that?" Seregil roared. "How in the name of Bilairy am I supposed to explain this to my commander, eh? Your leech has ruined the beast. Gave him a dose of salts and half killed him. I'll run my sword up his arse, that pus-faced clod of shit! You send out the leech Rythel or I'll come in after him."
"You whoreson drunken mullet!" The old woman took another swing at him with her cudgel. "It's Rythel the smith that rooms here, not Rythel the leech."
"Smith?" Seregil goggled up at her. "What in the name of Sakor's Fire is he doing dosing my horse if he's a smith?"
Lurking in the shadows at the mouth of the street, Alec shook with silent laughter. It was as good a performance as any he'd seen at the theater.
"Half the men on the coast are called Rythel, you fool. You've got the wrong man," the old landlady sputtered. "Smith Rythel is an honest man, which is more than can be said for you, I'm sure."
"Honest man, my ass!"
"He is. He works for Master Quarin in the upper city."
She disappeared and Seregil, no doubt with knowledge born of long experience, reined his horse out of the way just as she emptied a chamber pot over the sill at him.
Seregil made her an ungainly bow from the saddle. "My humblest apologies for disturbing your rest, old mother."
"You'd best sleep on your belly tonight," the old woman cackled after him as he rode unsteadily away.
"That wasn't exactly subtle," Alec observed, still laughing as they headed back to the Harbor Way.
"A drunken soldier making a ruckus at the wrong house in the middle of the night on Sailmaker Street?" Seregil asked, looking pleased with himself. "What could be subtler than that? And successful, too. Now we know that this Rythel is a journeyman smith of some sort. Which leaves us still asking what he's doing with gold enough for the Street of Lights and a lord's papers in his pocket."
"And why he had that much gold on him with the papers still in his pocket."
"Exactly. And what does that suggest?"
"That he's been up to whatever he's doing for a while already," replied Alec, looking back toward the waterfront. "We'll have to get into his rooms, and we'd better find out who Master Quarin is."
"We'll start tomorrow. Hold up a minute."
Seregil's grey was wheezing dejectedly now.
Reining in by a lantern at the foot of the Harbor Way, he dismounted and took the animal's head between his hands. "I'd better ride double with you, Alec. This poor old fellow's at the end of his strength. I'd better change cloaks, too."
Alec kicked a foot out of the stirrup and held his hand down. Grasping it, Seregil climbed up behind him and wrapped an arm around his waist.
Alec felt another unexpected twinge of sensuality at his touch, faint as a bat's whisper, but unmistakable. There was certainly nothing seductive in the way Seregil gripped a handful of his tunic to keep his balance, yet suddenly he had an image of that same hand stroking the head of the young man at Azarin's brothel, and later embracing dark-eyed Eirual.
Seregil had touched him before, but never with anything more than brotherly affection. Alec had seen tonight what sort of companions his friend chose-Wythrin and Eirual, both of them exotic, beautiful, and undoubtedly skilled beyond anything Alec could conceive of.
What's happening to me? he wondered dejectedly. Maker's Mercy, he could still smell Myrhichia's lush scent rising from his skin. From some neglected corner of his heart, a small voice seemed to answer silently, You're waking up at last.
"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."