Luck in the Shadows (55 page)

Nysander made his way to Silvermoon Street immediately upon leaving Seregil and the others. The streets were quiet at this hour and he met only one other person as he neared Barien’s house, a hasty rider whose passing tore at the stillness of the night with a clatter of harness and hooves. The sound passed away with the rider, and he could hear the annoyed grumbling of the guards at the palace gates ahead.

He was surprised to find Barien’s gate locked for the night and the lantern over the door extinguished. The Vicegerent shared Nysander’s preference for the late hours and seldom retired so soon after midnight. Dismounting, Nysander rapped at the gate until the watchman appeared at the postern.

“Good evening to you, Lord Nysander,” the man greeted him, accustomed to the wizard’s odd hours. “

“Good evening, Quil. I wish to speak with the Vicegerent.”

“Sorry, my lord, but Lord Barien’s abed already. He left instructions not to be disturbed by anyone but the Queen herself. He was quite firm about it, too. And just between you and me, sir, the chamberlain said the master didn’t look well when he retired. He’d been out to dinner but come back early looking right peaked.”

“I see,” said Nysander. “Poor fellow, I hope it was nothing he ate. Where did he dine?”

“Chamberlain didn’t say, my lord, only that Lord Barien wasn’t to be disturbed on any account.”

“Then I suppose I must call again tomorrow. Please give your master my respects.”

Continuing along Silvermoon to a nearby fountain, Nysander sat on its rim and sent a sighting back to Barien’s villa.

The Vicegerent was indeed in bed, thumbing listlessly through a small book lying open on the counterpane. Nysander recognized the book with a pang of sadness; it was a volume of bardic poetry he himself had given to Barien some years before. He seemed to settle at last on a page and Nysander shifted his sighting to read it.

“Break, Noble Heart. Dissolve to ashes if thy Honor impugnéd be,”
Nysander quoted silently, recognizing a line. A swift, tactful brush across the surface of Barien’s mind revealed a deep, weary melancholy, nothing more.

It would have been simple enough to translocate himself the short distance to Barien’s chamber, but a moment’s deliberation left Nysander disinclined to do so. Neither Barien’s mood nor current activity warranted such an impertinent intrusion. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

Seregil and the others spent a cheerless night beneath the trees, awakening at dawn to find one of Nysander’s blue spheres hovering in the air just over Seregil’s head. Passing his hand through it, he released the message.

“Learn whatever you can there, but return to the city as quickly as possible. Come directly to me.”

Despite the muted affect inherent in the spell, there was an unmistakable hint of distress in the wizard’s disembodied voice.

“What do you suppose that’s all about?” yawned Micum, brushing damp leaves from his cloak.

“He must have gotten something out of Barien,” said Seregil. “Let’s see what there is to uncover here and get back.”

A quick reconnaissance up the fir tree showed little change in the keep yard, though by daylight they learned the reason for the one dark tower.

The tower overlooking the gorge was in ruins. One side of its flat top had been struck by lightning and stood open to the sky. Judging by the weathered look of the broken stone, together with
an overgrowth of branching, winter-browned tendrils of some creeping vine, it must have been in this condition for some years. It stood out against the solid symmetry of the surrounding structure like a rotten tooth in a sound mouth.

Waiting for a plausible hour of the morning, they proceeded with their first plan. Changing his Orëska tunic for a workman’s smock, Alec set off with another fictitious summons for Teukros. Leading his horse back through the trees, he reappeared far enough down the road to give the appearance of having just ridden up the hill.

“I’ve a message for Lord Teukros,” he told the gatekeeper, holding up the letter Seregil had prepared.

“You’ve wasted a long ride, lad,” the man informed him. “Lord Teukros ain’t here.”

“But I was told he was spending the night here,” Alec pressed, trying to act like a servant who’d just learned he’d ridden a long, hard way for nothing.

“Don’t know about that,” the man grunted, starting to swing the gate closed again.

“Wait,” called Alec, dismounting before the heavy door could slam in his face. “I’ve got to take some answer back.”

“That’s nothing to me,” said the gatekeeper, eyeing Alec’s purse meaningfully.

A discreet coin rendered the man instantly more agreeable.

“Perhaps you’d be wanting to speak with our lady?” he suggested.

“I probably should.”

Alec followed the man across the yard, taking in as many details as he could along the way. Three fine horses stood saddled and ready near the front door. Two of them had panniers tied behind the saddles. The third was caparisoned for a lady’s hunting.

At the keep door, an elderly house servant eyed Alec disdainfully, asked his business, and left him standing in the middle of the hall with a look that said as clearly as words,
Don’t steal anything while I’m gone
.

The furnishings of the vaulted hall were costly and in excellent condition. Silver urns and bowls gleamed on the mantelpiece without a hint of tarnish, and the rushes strewn over the floor were crisp and fragrant.

Splendid old tapestries covered the stone walls and these, too, had been lovingly maintained. Alec turned slowly, admiring as he
always did the Skalans’ taste for fantastic landscapes and creatures. One in particular caught his eye; it was designed to look like a window casement, out of which one could see a pride of griffins prowling an orchard against a mountainous backdrop. The piece was over twenty feet wide and bordered with elaborate designs. Scanning it with admiration, Alec was surprised to find one discordant element embroidered in the lower right-hand corner, the stylized figure of a curled lizard. Looking around, he saw that many of the other hangings had some sort of device in one corner, like a maker’s mark—a rose, a crown, an eagle, a tiny unicorn, the curled lizard—a number of the larger ones had several marks together in a row. He was just bending down to study these more closely when he sensed movement behind him and turned, steeling himself to face the old manservant’s renewed disapproval.

There was no one there.

It might have been a draft, Alec reasoned, taking a second glance around. Then again, any of the larger tapestries could easily conceal a passageway. Whatever the case, he suddenly had an uncomfortable sense of being observed. Unsure if it was instinct or fancy, he nonetheless did his best to appear as innocuous as possible, just in case.

The old man soon shuffled back in to announce his mistress, the Lady Kassarie ä Moirian. Kassarie swept in behind him, pulling on a hawking gauntlet as she entered. She was somewhere over forty years of age, with a broad, stern face and a manner to match. Alec stooped forward at once in a halting bow.

“What’s all this about Lord Teukros?” she demanded impatiently.

“I’ve a message for him, my lady—” Alec began, showing the packet again.

“Yes, yes,” she snapped. “But what possessed you to seek him here?”

“Well, my lady, I called at his house first thing this mornin’ and was told by Lady Althia that he’d meant to ride out here last night. That’s as much as I know of it.”

“Dear me, that doesn’t bode well,” she said with evident concern. “He certainly never arrived, nor did I receive any word from him that he meant to come. Did you see anyone on the road this morning?”

“No, my lady.”

“How very puzzling. I must send word to Althia at once. You can carry it back for me, boy. Who sent you, by the way?”

“Master Verik of Canvass Lane,” Alec replied. Seregil had given him the name; Verik, a merchant of genteel but common birth, was a business associate of Teukros’.

“Very good, then. I’ll just dash off that note.” Having settled the matter to her own satisfaction, Kassarie turned briskly to the old retainer still hovering at her elbow. “Illester, take the lad to the kitchen while I prepare the letter. He ought to at least have a bit of hot food for his troubles.”

Illester turned Alec over to a younger servant and sent them both outside again to come in at the back door.

“He’s a sour old stick,” Alec remarked when they were out of earshot.

“That’s not for the likes of you to comment on,” the servant returned stiffly.

Passing several small herb beds and a great black kettle hung steaming over an open fire, they came round to the kitchen door. Inside, two women were hard at work over wooden bread bowls.

“Kora, her ladyship wants this messenger boy fed,” snapped the manservant. “See to it he stays put until he’s called for.”

“As if we don’t have enough to occupy us this morning, and us up to the tits in flour,” huffed the taller of the two women, pushing a lank strand of hair back with her forearm. “Stamie, Stamie girl! Where the blasted hell are you?”

A thin, pockmarked girl of seventeen or so staggered out of a pantry room with an immense ham in her arms. “What is it now, Auntie? I’s just out to boil the ham as you told me.”

“Put that aside for a moment and set this lad up in the chimney nook with a bite of tucker. There’s some rabbit pie at the back of the larder needs eating. That’ll do well enough for him.”

Retreating meekly to his corner, Alec was quickly ignored by all but plain Stamie, who seemed to be the only friendly inhabitant of the place.

“You just let me heat this up for you,” she said, setting the pot of leftovers in the coals. “Do you fancy a pint of beer with your food?”

“Yes, please. It’s a long ride all the way up here from Rhíminee.”

“Rhíminee, you say?” she exclaimed softly, stealing a glance in her aunt’s direction. “Gods, what I wouldn’t give to find service
in the city! But you’ve a country accent yourself. How’d you manage it?”

“My position, you mean? Well now, there’s not a lot to tell,” Alec stammered; he’d been sent in as a simple messenger, for the Maker’s sake! It hadn’t occurred to any of them that he’d need some detailed history. “Master Verik knew my father, that’s all.”

“Lucky you. I was born into this lot, stuck out here in the williwags, same old faces day after day.” Her callused hand brushed across his as she reached to stir the coals, and hectic patches of color fleeted across her sallow cheeks. “What’s your name, stranger?”

“Elrid. Elrid of Market Lane,” Alec replied, noting both her blush and the striped bead she wore on a bit of red yarn around her neck. It was a common country charm to attract a lover.

“Well, Elrid of Market Lane, it’s a fair pleasure to see someone new for a change. At least someone I don’t have to wait on hand and foot!” she added, rolling her eyes.

“Lady Kassarie’s got guests, then?”

“Oh, yes, but even they’re the same old lot. I spent half last night trying to keep old Lord Galwain’s footman out of my skirts, as usual. Why is it never the one you want that takes the liberties, eh?”

This observation, together with the warm look that accompanied it, left no doubt where Alec stood in her estimation.

“You’d best be seeing after that ham now, Stamie,” her aunt interrupted gruffly. “I’m sure this great big lad don’t need you spooning his food into him. Off with you, now! And no mooning about.”

With a resentful roll of her eyes, Stamie hefted the ham again and disappeared into the yard. Bolting down his pot of tepid scraps under Kora’s watchful eye, Alec greeted Illester’s reappearance with considerable relief.

The old man dourly handed him a sealed scroll and a silver coin. “See that you put that letter into Lady Althia’s hands yourself, boy. Your horse has been watered. Off with you now!”

Message in hand, Alec galloped half a mile down the road before doubling back through the trees to where Seregil and Micum were waiting.

“Well?” Seregil demanded.

“I spoke to Lady Kassarie. She claims he never came and that
she wasn’t expecting him. The watchman said the same when he let me in.”

“She didn’t pretend not to know him, though?” asked Micum.

“No, she just seemed surprised and a bit worried over the whole business. She gave me this note to carry back.”

Lifting the seals with his knife, Seregil read the letter. “Nothing unusual here. She sends her regards and hopes that Lady Althia’s husband turns up soon. There’s no sign of a hidden message or cipher.”

“She did ask me if I’d noticed anyone on the road this morning,” Alec told him.

“Nothing suspicious in that,” said Micum. “What was the household like?”

“I only saw the hall, kitchen, and part of the yard. She has some other guests, though. I saw two horses saddled for traveling and the scullery maid mentioned a Lord Galwain.”

“Well done,” Seregil said, clapping him on the back. “What about Kassarie and her people?”

“She’s civil enough, I guess. She sent me to the kitchen for something to eat while she wrote out the note. The servants, though! They all treated me like something they’d scraped off the bottom of their boots. Illester, the head manservant, seemed to think I was there to steal the silver and muddy up the carpets. The cooks were the same. The only one who was friendly at all was the scullery maid.”

“Took a shine to you, did she?” asked Micum with a knowing look.

“I think she’s just lonesome, and no small wonder. She asked how I got service in the city. I had to make up a bit, but—”

“Hold on,” Seregil interrupted. “This girl who made eyes at you, did you get her name?”

“Stamie. She’s the head cook’s niece.”

“Good work. She could be our key to the back door if we ever need one.”

“So what do we do now?” Micum asked restlessly. “Alec can’t show up to romance the girl when he’s supposed to be on the road back to Rhíminee.”

“I know.” Running a hand back through his hair, Seregil encountered Thero’s cropped curls and dropped his hand with a grimace. “So far we only have Alec’s guess that the papers came
here at all. Barien’s serving maid could just as well have taken them when she met up with Teukros’ man in the tavern.”