Luck in the Shadows (16 page)

Her dress, her manner, the large garnet ring she wore on one gloved forefinger, all confirmed her a lady of quality, but Rhal found himself again wondering about her reasons for traveling. She’d come aboard with nothing but a large hamper and one none-too-heavy trunk. The squire had a battered old pack that
weighed nearly as much; hardly the baggage of a gentlewoman. That, together with her lack of women servants and the late hour at which her passage was booked, suggested a more interesting possibility. Could it be she was a runaway wife? One could always hope, and, by Astellus, he had a week to find out!

While Seregil would have been more than pleased with the impression he had made upon the captain, his pensive mood was no ruse.

The previous night, he’d found suitable clothing for himself and Alec, then checked Micum’s wound and tried unsuccessfully to get him to take the bed. When all efforts had failed, Seregil had tumbled into it beside Alec and fallen asleep almost at once. Aside from the fact that he was worn out from the events of the last few days, he knew it was the only way to escape Micum’s thunderous snoring.

Sometime later, he’d awakened with the sense of something amiss. A strong wind had come up in the night. It gusted around the corners of the building, sighing through the cracks in the walls. The firepot had died to a dim glow and he was cold except for the warmth of Alec’s naked back resting lightly against his own. This in itself was odd, he’d thought, because together with the fact that he didn’t remember disrobing, the boy’s persistent modesty would hardly have allowed him to sleep naked with anyone else.

Yet that wasn’t it, he decided sleepily. By the faint light of the firepot, he could make out Micum’s bulk on the pallet by the door. Something wrong there, something obvious—if only his foggy brain would clear.

Sliding out of bed, he crossed softly to where Micum lay, disliking the feel of the rough, cold boards under his bare feet. The sense of unease grew stronger as he crouched beside him; he had never known Micum to sleep so quietly.

His friend lay curled on his side, facing away from Seregil so that he could scarcely hear the man’s breathing. In fact, he couldn’t hear any breathing at all.

“Micum, wake up,” he whispered, but his throat was so dry that hardly a sound came. Dread—thick and palpable—pressed around him and he grasped his friend’s shoulder, suddenly desperate for him to wake up, to speak.

Micum was as cold to the touch as the floor beneath Seregil’s feet. Jerking his hand away, he found it darkly stained with blood. Micum slumped slowly onto his back, and Seregil saw the gaping wound in his friends throat where his own poniard was still lodged. Micum’s eyes were open, his expression one of terrible surprise and sadness.

An anguished cry welled in Seregil’s throat. He lurched back and pushed himself away from the body, snagging tender skin on the rough planking.

The wind mounted a sudden assault on the house, slamming one of the window shutters back in a frigid blast of air. Fanned by the draft, the coals blazed up for an instant, and by their brief illumination, Seregil caught sight of a tall figure standing in the corner nearest the window. The man was closely muffled from head to knees in a dark mantle but Seregil recognized the implacable straightness of back, the slightly inclined head, the sharp thrust of a cocked elbow under the cloak as an unseen hand rested on belt or pommel. And, with an utterly unpleasant mingling of precognition and memory, he knew exactly how their conversation would begin.

“Well, Seregil, this
is
a pretty state I find you in.”

“Father, this isn’t how it appears,” Seregil replied, hating the pleading note he heard in his own voice—the very echo of a past self who’d uttered these same words in a situation not unlike the present one—but powerless to sound otherwise. But his older self was also uneasily aware of his empty weapon hand.

“It
appears
that you have a dead friend on your floor and a catamite in your bed.” His father’s voice was just as he remembered: dry, sardonic, full of calculated disapprobation.

“That’s only Alec—” Seregil began angrily, but the words died in his throat as the boy rose naked from the bed with a wanton grace completely unlike his usual manner. Coming to Seregil, he pressed warmly against him and exchanged an arch glance with his father.

“Your choice of companions has not improved.”

“Father, please!” A dizzying sense of unreality closed in on Seregil as he sank to his knees.

“Exile has only strengthened your baser tendencies,” his father sneered. “As ever, you are a disgrace to our house. Some other punishment must be found.”

Then, with that rare gentleness that had always taken Seregil off guard, he shook his head and sighed. “Seregil, my youngest, what am I to do with you? It has been so long! Let us at least clasp hands.”

Seregil reached to take his father’s hand. Shameful tears burned his eyes as he peered up into the depths of the hood, hoping for a glimpse of the well-remembered face. Yet even then a tiny, sickening tendril of doubt uncurled at the back of his mind. Alec’s hands tightened on his shoulders as his father’s hand closed around his.

“You’re dead!” Seregil groaned, trying too late to pull away from the fleshless grasp that held him. “Nine years ago! Adzriel sent word. You’re dead!”

His father nodded agreeably, pushing back his hood. A few strands of dark hair clung to the shriveled scalp. The sharp grey eyes were gone, leaving two black craters in their place; the bridge of his nose was eaten away. Shriveled lips twisted into the parody of a smile as he inclined his ruined face, engulfing Seregil in a sullen, mouldy odor.

“True, but I am still your father,” the thing went on, “and you shall be properly punished!”

A sword flashed from under the cloak and he stepped back, holding Seregil’s severed right hand in his—

—and Seregil had bolted up in the bed, drenched in sweat, clutching both hands to his heaving chest. There was no wind, no open shutter. Micum’s snoring rose and fell in a comforting rumble. Beside him, Alec stirred and mumbled a question.

“It’s nothing, go back to sleep,” Seregil whispered, and with his heart beating much too quickly, he’d tried to do the same.

Even now, with the sunlight glancing off the water and the rapid chuckle of the current beneath the bow, the ominous, disorienting feel of the dream haunted him. He’d certainly had nightmares before but never about his father, not since he’d left home, and never one that had left him with such a throbbing headache the next day. A cup of mulled wine at the tavern had helped, but now it was creeping back, hammering at his temples and bringing a bitter taste into his throat. He wanted desperately to rub his eyes, but the carefully applied cosmetics prevented even this slight relief.

“Are you still unwell, lady?”

Seregil turned to find the captain towering over him.

“Just a bit of headache, Captain,” he replied, modulating his voice to the softer tones he’d adopted for this particular role.

“That’s probably from the sun off the water, my lady. Come around behind the mast. You’ll still feel the breeze, but the sail will shade you from the glare. I’ll have one of the men heat some wine for you; that should put you right.”

Offering his arm, Rhal led his fair passenger back to a bench attached to the deckhouse. To his ill-concealed annoyance, Alec followed them back and took up a station at the starboard rail.

“That boy keeps a close watch on you,” Rhal observed, seating himself next to “Gwethelyn” rather more closely than the span of the bench required.

“Ciris is a kinsman of my husband’s,” Seregil replied. “My husband has entrusted him with my safety. He takes his task very seriously.”

“Still, it doesn’t seem that a slip of a boy could be much protection.” A sailor appeared with a pitcher of wine and a pair of wooden cups. Rhal served Seregil himself.

“I’m certain you have nothing to fear on my account. Ciris is a fine swordsman,” Seregil lied, sipping delicately at his wine; it had not escaped his notice that his cup was a good deal fuller than the captain’s.

“Just the same,” Rhal replied gallantly, leaning closer, “I’m making it my duty to watch over you until we reach port. If there’s any service I can render, day or night, you’ve only to call on me. Perhaps you would do me the honor of taking supper with me in my cabin tonight?”

Seregil lowered his eyes demurely. “You’re very kind, but I’m so weary from my journey that I shall retire quite early.”

“Tomorrow night, then, when you’re rested,” the captain parried.

“Very well, tomorrow. I’m sure you’ve many tales that will entertain my squire as well as myself. We will be honored.”

Captain Rhal rose with a slight bow; the fleeting look of frustration Seregil caught as he turned away assured him that, at least for the moment, he’d held the day.

•     •     •

“Captain Rhal’s out to seduce me,” Seregil announced in their little cabin that evening, applying fresh cosmetics while Alec held the lantern and a small mirror.

“What are you going to do?”

Seregil winked. “Go along with him, of course. Up to a point, anyway.”

“Well, you could hardly let him, you know—” Alec gestured vaguely.

“Yes,
I
know, though I rather wonder if you do.” Seregil raised an appraising eyebrow at his young companion. “But you’re right, of course. Letting him under my skirts now would certainly spoil the illusion I’ve worked so hard to create. Still”—dropping into the manner of Lady Gwethelyn, he looked up at Alec through his lashes—”this Captain Rhal is a handsome rogue, wouldn’t you say?”

Alec shook his head, unsure whether Seregil was being serious or not. “Are you going to sleep with all that on your face?”

“I think it might be wise. If the man is determined enough to invite a married woman to his cabin on the first day, I certainly wouldn’t put it past him to find some excuse to wander in here during the night. That’s why I’m also going to wear that.”

He gestured toward the fine linen nightgown on the bed. “The key to successfully traveling in a disguise is to maintain it at all times, no matter what. Unlace me.” Standing up, he held his hair to one side while Alec undid the back of the gown. “The practice may come in handy for you someday.”

From this angle, Alec was uneasily aware of the completeness of Seregil’s disguise. Throughout the day, watching from across the deck as Seregil played Gwethelyn for the captain and crew, he’d been halfway taken in himself.

The illusion was considerably diminished, however, as the gown fell away and Seregil began untying his false bosom. It was his own creation, he’d explained proudly—a sort of close-fitting linen undershirt, the modest breasts consisting of domed pockets stuffed with balls of soft wool.

“Better than some real ones you’ll run across,” he said with a grin. “I think I can do without that for now, though.” He tucked the garment carefully away in the chest. “As the defender of my honor, it’s up to you to keep our good captain from discovering their loss, should he appear.”

“You’d be safer with Micum along.”

“Micum hates working with me when I go as a woman. Says I’m ‘too damned pretty by half’ and it makes him nervous.”

“I can understand that,” Alec replied with a self-conscious grin. “Lady Gwethelyn” sounded a troubling chord in him, as well. Seregil’s convincing illusion stirred up a confusion that Alec hadn’t the philosophy to put into words.

“You’ll do fine. Besides, a lady is allowed some protection of her own.” Smiling, Seregil pulled a small dagger from the sleeve of his discarded gown and tucked it under his pillow. “I’ve heard that Plenimaran women are expected to use these on themselves if some stranger invades their bedchamber, so as to protect their husband’s honor. I call that adding injury to insult.”

“Have you ever been to Plenimar?” Alec asked, sensing the opening for a tale.

“Just along the borders and territories, never into the country itself.” Seregil pulled on the nightdress and set about braiding his hair over one shoulder. “Strangers don’t pass unnoticed there. Unless you have some good honest reason for going there, it’s better to stay away. From what I’ve heard, spies there have extremely short lives. I find more than enough to keep me busy in Rhíminee.”

“Micum says—” Alec began, but was interrupted by a heavy knock at the door.

“Who’s there?” Seregil called in Gwethelyn’s voice, wrapping himself in a cloak and signaling for Alec to retreat to the curtained servant’s alcove.

“Captain Rhal, my lady,” came the muffled reply. “I thought some tea might help you to sleep.”

Alec peeked out of his alcove, and Seregil rolled his eyes. “How very thoughtful.”

Alec stepped forward on cue as Rhal came in, taking the steaming pitcher with a bow that effectively blocked further progress into the room.

“I was just about to put out the candle,” Seregil said with a yawn. “I shall have a cup, and I’m sure I shall go directly to sleep. Good night.”

Rhal managed a strained bow and left, but not before shooting a decidedly unfriendly glance in Alec’s direction.

Alec closed the door firmly and turned to find Seregil shaking with silent laughter.

“By the Four, Alec, you’d better watch your back,” Seregil
whispered. “My new swain is jealous of you! And the way you met him at the door—”

He broke off, wiping his eyes. “Ah, I’ll sleep soundly tonight knowing my virtue is so well guarded. But I believe your constancy deserves a reward. Pour the tea and we’ll have a tale!”

When they’d settled comfortably on either end of the bunk with their cups, Seregil took a long sip and said expansively, “So, what would you like to hear about?”

Alec thought for a moment; he had so many questions, it was difficult to know where to begin. “The warrior queens of Skala,” he replied at last.

“Excellent choice. The history of the queens is the essence of Skala itself: You recall me saying that the first of these queens appeared during the first great war against Plenimar?”

Alec nodded. “Queen Gera-something.”

“Ghërilain the First. The Oracle’s Queen, she’s sometimes called, because of the circumstances of her crowning. At the start of the war Skala was ruled from Eros by her father, Thelátimos. He was a good leader, but Plenimar was at the height of her strength and by the tenth year it looked as if Skala and Mycena were going to fall. Plenimar had overrun Mycena as far as the Folcwine River years before and controlled the farmlands and territories to the north. With their superior sea power and ample resources, they had every advantage.”