“I don’t like it,” said Seregil. “What more obvious crumb could we leave in our trail than having someone make Plenimaran slave collars all the way over here?” He turned to Thero again. “Nysander was pretty handy with metal. Do you know any of that magic?”
“He did teach me some, as one type of the transformations. I only mastered it on gold, silver, and iron, though.”
Seregil weighed his purse in one hand. “Not enough gold or silver, and Micum probably doesn’t look rich enough to have slaves of that quality.”
“Rather you don’t look like you’re good enough quality,” Micum shot back with a grin.
“Indeed,” Thero said with a dry smile. “As for the collars, if I’m to work metal, I’ll need some rest first. You lot are very demanding!”
Seregil chuckled at that, then disappeared downstairs, returning a few minutes later with a pair of kitchen shears. With a resigned sigh, he cut Alec’s braid off just below the nape of his neck, then trimmed up the ragged ends. “It’s shorter than mine now. But you’re right, it would have gotten you noticed.” He paused and yawned. “You three get some sleep. I’ll take the first watch. I have some thinking to do.”
He wrapped himself in his cloak and made his way downstairs to the mostly deserted taproom. Sitting by the hearth nursing an ale, he waited until the servants and the few lingering rum pots had gone to bed, then pulled a chair over to the west-facing window. Snow was falling again, and clouds covered the moon, making it too dark to see much. He kept watch, anyway, as his thoughts turned again to the strange masked riders and that arrowhead.
I hope we did kill you, you bastards, whoever you are!
CHAPTER 19
Useful Magic
THERO WOKE at dawn to find the others already awake. A sooty fire poker and a rusty crowbar lay on the bed beside him.
Seregil was sitting near the window with his bare feet propped on the sill and his fingers laced around a steaming mug, looking pleased with himself. “These were the best I could find, unless you can work with a sack of horseshoe nails.”
“I could do with some tea first,” Thero grumbled, sitting up and combing his fingers back through his disheveled curls.
Micum handed him a mug and Thero gratefully inhaled the steam, which smelled of a passable quality leaf. “So, can you tell me exactly what you want them to look like?”
Seregil smoothed a square of stained blotting paper out on the bed. On it were drawn two fairly detailed collars, each open on one side, with flattened ends and rivet holes, presumably where the thing would be fastened around the unfortunate slave’s neck. Seregil was a more than passable artist, and Thero could make out the simple patterns he’d decorated them with. “I didn’t know they could be so fancy.”
“The type of collar speaks to the owner’s means and taste,” Seregil explained. “A rich man’s favorite could have a gold or silver collar, decorated quite nicely. You almost forget it’s not just jewelry.”
Setting his mug aside, Thero picked up the poker and ran his hands over it, familiarizing himself with the metal. Iron was less malleable than gold or silver, but not as resistant to magic as silver. He continued stroking the poker as he closed his eyes and began to visualize what he wanted. He imagined it becoming a long roll of beeswax, and felt the heat under his fingers as the iron responded, beginning to bend. He pulled back a little, not wanting to melt it. Checking the drawing again, he broke off a usable length of it and gently curved it around into an open circle.
Seregil let out an impressed whistle. “I didn’t think it would be that easy!”
“It’s not,” Thero muttered, concentrating to keep the metal workable. It was a small matter to pinch the ends flat and fashion a hole through them large enough for a rivet. With that done, he ran his hand over it again, smoothing the surface, and laying down a vine-like pattern as if it had been incised by some talented artist—which, as it happened, he was. Finished, he passed it to Seregil for inspection.
“Very nice. Do you have it in you to make the other two, or do you need to rest?”
“No, let’s proceed.” There was enough of the poker left to make a little collar for Sebrahn, but he had to work with the crowbar to make the third. This iron had been more crudely refined and took more concentration, but the others were quietly cheering him on and it was surprising how much that helped. Even Sebrahn seemed mildly interested.
The third collar was heavier than the others, with a double line of arrowhead designs. When he was done, Seregil took it and weighed it against the first. “It’s not as fine.”
“It’s the best I can do with the quality of that metal,” Thero told him, at the end of his strength for the moment.
“I’ll wear it,” Alec offered. “After all, I’m a little bigger than you are, Seregil.”
“Stop bragging,” said Seregil, with what might have been a hint of pique. “It’s only an inch of height, and you still have that baby’s face of yours.”
Alec smoothed two fingers over the barely discernible fuzz on his upper lip. “You won’t say that when I’m shaving.”
“I hate to disappoint you, talí, but you’re no more likely to sprout a beard than I am.”
“Are we leaving, or are you two going to stand around preening yourselves all morning?” asked Micum, who was sporting a respectable scruff on his chin and cheeks this morning, in addition to his bushy moustache. Seregil made a rude gesture in his friend’s direction.
Thero watched with amusement and, if he was honest with himself, a bit of affection, as well.
Micum stowed the collars away in a pack while Seregil and Alec dressed in clothing Thero brought from the Wheel Street house. The surcoats they chose were plain but stylishly cut, and the breeches of soft doeskin were just loose enough to ride in. He’d forgotten about boots, which would have been unwieldy to conceal, but those they’d worn from Aurënen were close enough in cut not to be remarked on, especially since the men who wore them were unmistakably Aurënfaie themselves. Thero studied Alec’s face in the morning light; his dark blue eyes gave away his mixed blood, but he still retained the heightened features that had resulted from whatever strange magic the alchemist had put Alec through to purify the strain of Hâzadriëlfaie blood in his veins. At this point Thero was quite sure the change was permanent. He hoped the people who knew him as Lord Alec in Rhíminee would put the change down simply to him growing toward manhood.
“Come on then!” Seregil said, slinging a pack over his shoulder. He’d buckled on his sword, and Thero could see the slight bulge on the outside of Seregil’s right boot, where he always carried the wickedly sharp poniard. Alec had somehow come out of Plenimar with his black-and-silver-handled dagger, too, and wore it in his belt, in a new sheath worked with a ’faie design.
They had breakfast in the tavern, paid their bill, and set off in good spirits, leaving Madlen’s horses with the innkeeper with instructions to sell them and hold the money for their return. Both Seregil and Alec were as delighted to be reunited with their own horses as if they were long lost friends. Thero even caught Alec letting Patch gnaw on a leather wrist guard when they stopped to water them at a roadside spring. But he also saw how watchful Seregil and the others were, constantly checking behind for their masked pursuers. The weather was clear and the terrain flat, allowing them to see for some miles, but still they looked.
“Let me see that arrowhead,” he said at last.
Micum reached into his belt purse and handed it to him. The bloodstains on the broken bit of shaft still attached to it had turned black.
Thero clasped it in his left hand and looked over at Seregil. “This should work.”
“Good. I’m getting a stiff neck looking over my shoulder so much.”
Thero looped the reins over the saddlebow, pressed the arrowhead between his hands, and closed his eyes. The first thing he saw was Alec, thanks to the blood, which he was adept at reading. Things would be much simpler if some of the original archer’s blood was on it, but no such luck. Instead he had a brief, vague impression of a tall man on a tall white horse, traveling across a snowy field. Thero set free the wizard eye and experienced a moment of dizziness as his perception changed to that of a bird, flying high above the surrounding terrain. He saw the inn behind them, and the muddy roads. Moving west, he scanned left and right for signs of riders, but the only ones he found were clearly Skalans abroad on business.