“Slavery, actually,” Alec told him.
Rhal shook his head. “Well, that’s a new one.”
“You are lords and thieves?” asked Rieser.
“Depends on the company,” Seregil replied.
Their cabin was more luxurious than Alec recalled. The wide bunk was fitted out with a red velvet coverlet with silver fringe, and an ornate lantern on the hook overhead cast fretwork shadows across the small polished table, the velvet tufted chairs, and the silver cups and crystal decanter in a fancy leather box on the narrow sideboard.
“What happened here?” asked Seregil. “It looks like a Street of Lights whorehouse.”
“We’ve had good fishing,” Rhal replied with a wink as he poured them cups of fine Zengati brandy.
“So Dani said. Have you given the queen her share?”
“Of course, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep the best back for myself. And you, of course, as our patron. I’ve sent your share in coin to your man in Wheel Street.”
“Thank you.”
Alec knew that Seregil never asked for an accounting; he had more gold than he knew what to do with in various Rhíminee money houses, under various names. He did the same with clothing and traveling gear; he had caches all over the city in sewer tunnels and abandoned houses, always ready for a quick change or escape.
Rhal and Rieser remained standing as the others found places on the room’s two chairs and the bed. “So, where are we bound this time?”
“Riga,” Alec told him.
Rhal raised an eyebrow. “That’s a tall order. The Overlord has half his navy anchored there, and most of the ships are full of marines.”
“You can put us ashore outside the city where you’ll draw less attention,” said Seregil.
“It still means changing the sails. We’ll have to put in at one of the Strait Isles for at least a day.” He’d captured a set of striped Plenimaran sails soon after the Lady first sailed and often used them to slip into enemy waters. “I can have you across in a week, if the winds cooperate. In the meantime, if the shape in that bag of yours is what I think it is, perhaps you and Lord Alec can provide us with some entertainment during the crossing.”
Seregil reached into the bag at his feet and took out the harp Adzriel had given him. He plucked a few notes and grimaced. “After a bit of tuning.”
Alec reached into his own bag and took out one of the iron collars. “We need another of these, too.”
“I’ve got a collection of them, taken off the poor bastards we found on some of the ships we’ve taken,” said Rhal. “Now, for accommodations. There isn’t room for all of you in here.”
“I’ll berth with the crew, if they have an extra hammock,” said Micum.
“There’s no need for that. Take the third cabin, next to mine.”
“I will sleep on the deck,” Rieser told him.
“You don’t know ships,” said Micum. “You’d be lucky not to get washed overboard if a storm comes up. You take the cabin. I’ll stay with the crew.”
Alec couldn’t tell if Rieser was more surprised by Micum or himself as he nodded slightly and muttered, “Thank you.”
Morthage had a been a crew member on the Lady for over a year now, and liked his captain and the work. So he felt a bit guilty as he slipped below to his billet and took out one of the bespelled message sticks his other employer supplied him with. Breaking it, he whispered, “Lord Seregil and Alec have returned to the ship—”
When he was done, a little ball of magic light sped away through the thick planking of the hull.
CHAPTER 24
Return to a Dead Man’s house
THE SHIP’S lantern swung on its hook as Ilar clung to the heavy bench fixed to the floor beside the little table in Ulan’s cabin. The White Seal was a large merchant ship, broad in the beam and built to cross stormy seas, but the rolling of the floor under his feet was still alarming. The rains had come their second day out from Virésse—and the swells that had kept Ilar bent over the rail for most of that day, until he grew accustomed to the rocking of the ship. But even that did not match the torture of being trapped on this vessel with so many strangers—men who seemed to look right through him to the shame and weakness he carried in his heart. Without the khirnari to protect him, he wouldn’t have dared venture out of the cabin they shared. Ulan was coughing more, too.
They were already under way when word had come from Ulan’s spy that Lord Seregil’s privateering vessel, the Green Lady, had docked at Beggar’s Bridge, and that Seregil was aboard, together with Alec—who’d shorn his hair and dyed it brown—a Tír named Cavish, and a ’faie with the odd name of Rieser. There was no mention of the rhekaro, or the Tír wizard who’d been with them in Gedre.
“That is troubling, yet fortune has smiled on us all the same, Ilar,” Ulan had told him. “If they have gone all the way to Beggar’s Bridge, then they may well be going back to Riga on the same errand as ours. Do you think Alec knows about the books?”
“He could have seen them, as I did.”
“Assuming that he does, then we’ve still stolen a march on them. We’ll have the books, and perhaps Alec, as well. And if so, we shall learn what has become of the rhekaro.”
“What if they aren’t going there?” asked Ilar.
“One step at a time, dear fellow,” Ulan had said with a smile.
Ilar gripped the bench until his fingers ached, trying to rein in the hope and excitement that overwhelmed him again. Please, Aura, let them come to us in Plenimar!
“Come now, dear boy, and pay attention,” Ulan chided gently, tapping the drawing spread between them on the table.
“What? Oh, yes.”
At the khirnari’s request, Ilar had drawn the outline of each floor of his former master’s workshop, and marked out the contents of each room as well as he could remember.
“You are certain this is where the book your master showed me is kept?” Ulan asked, tapping a finger on the X Ilar had labeled for him.
“Yes, in the little painted tent.”
“And if it is not there?”
Panic tightened Ilar’s chest. “There are other books. Shelves of them, Khirnari. He might have hidden the books I saw among them. I’m sure I can find them!”
Ilar didn’t dare ask what would happen if he failed, knowing how close they would be to the slave markets of Riga. Why would this great man keep him if Ilar proved himself worthless? He had nightmares every night: the horrors of the slave markets, the cruel masters he’d survived before Ilban Yhakobin had taken pity on him, and always the terrible night that Ilban had him whipped and said he was going back to the markets …
Those dreams had not gone away, but now he also dreamed of those days abandoned in the wilderness after the slave takers had caught up with them. He didn’t know how long he’d spent lost in the cold rain with no shelter, no food, and no water but what he could suck from a depression in a stone or a muddy rill. He didn’t know how many days he’d wandered, shaking with hunger and certain every moment that the slave takers would find him. How could they not, with their dogs?
Instead, Ulan’s men had found him dying in a ditch. He still carried that coldness, that fear, deep in the core of his soul, and nothing could ever take it away. Except, perhaps, to find Seregil and beg for … He still could not decide what it was he wanted, but the hunger was eating away at his mind. The thought of being alone in the world again froze him with terror.
The White Seal made port at Riga in fair weather, but Ilar felt sick. Hiding in the cabin, he peered out the porthole as the cargo was unloaded at one of the many quays. A land breeze brought him the scent of the city—the smoke and reek of it—and he thought he could even smell the sweat and despair of the slave markets. It was something he knew all too well. Only when Ulan came looking for him was he able to leave the cabin. Ilar was dressed in Aurënfaie style, and a Virésse sen’gai covered his cropped hair, but he also wore a lace-edged slave veil tied securely to hide all of his face below his eyes.