Luck in the Shadows (56 page)

“That’s not what it all sounded like to me,” Alec maintained stubbornly, nettled at this sudden doubt.

“Yes, but you only caught a few words. It’s unwise to base assumptions on scant evidence. You end up leading yourself into all kinds of blind alleys.”

“But what about the horses I saw in the yard?”

“Were any of them white?”

“Well, no. But Teukros could have changed mounts there.”

“And ridden home on a different one?” Seregil cocked a skeptical eye at him. “To what end if he’s already made no secret of his destination?”

“But the fact remains that we
did
see Teukros ride out last night,” Alec insisted. “And he
did
tell his wife he was coming here.”

“A lie to cover his tracks perhaps,” suggested Seregil. “There’s no reason to assume that he’d tell her the truth.”

“Maybe we should head back to the city and see what Nysander’s turned up,” suggested Micum.

“You mean we’re just going to leave?” asked Alec. Nysander or not, he’d been inside the place and didn’t like the feel of it.

“For now,” Seregil said, heading for the horses. “You did a fine job, If nothing else, it was good practice for you.”

Thoroughly let down, Alec stole a last resentful look at the keep looming over the gorge, then hurried away after the others.

A
s they reached the Sea Gate that afternoon, Seregil was the first to notice that the guard had been doubled.

“Something’s happened,” he murmured as they rode into the crowded square.

“You got that right,” said Micum, looking around. “Let’s see what it is.”

Tight knots of people stood everywhere among the booths, heads together, faces serious. Ignored by their elders, gangs of children ran about wildly, teasing each other and daring their fellows to nick sweets from the unattended stalls.

Riding up to a small group of gossips, Micum threw back his cloak to show his red Orëska tunic.

“I’ve been away from the city. What’s the news?” he asked.

“It’s the Vicegerent,” a woman told him tearfully. “Poor Lord Barien’s dead!”

Alec let out a gasp of surprise. “Illior’s Light! How did it happen?”

“No one’s certain,” she replied, wiping her eyes with a corner of her apron.

“He was murdered!” exclaimed a rough-looking character beside her. “Them Plenimaran bastards will be behind it, just you wait and see!”

“Oh, shut your hole, Farkus. Don’t be
spreading rumors,” growled another man, nervously eyeing Micum’s livery. “He don’t know nothing, sir. All anyone’s heard for certain is the Vicegerent was found dead this morning.”

“Many thanks,” Micum said.

Kicking their horses into a gallop, they rode for the Orëska House. Nysander looked pale but composed when he let them in at the tower door.

“We heard Barien’s dead. What happened?” asked Seregil.

Nysander walked across to his desk and sat down, hands folded on its stained surface. “It appears to have been suicide.”

“Appears?” Seregil sensed some strong emotion behind his friend’s carefully controlled manner, but could not guess what it might be.

“He was found lying peacefully in his bed with his wrists cut,” Nysander continued. “The blood had soaked down into the mattress. Nothing appeared amiss until the bedclothes were thrown back.”

“Did you talk to him last night?” asked Alec.

Nysander shook his head bitterly. “No. He had gone to bed before I arrived. It was so late and there seemed to be no danger of him bolting. I actually—”

Breaking off, he handed Micum a parchment. “I suppose he was composing this when I looked in on him. Read it out, if you would.”

Barien’s last, brief missive was as formal as any of the thousands of state documents he’d drawn up over the course of his long career. The handwriting flowed in dark, perfect lines across the page without a blot or waver, devoid of the slightest hint of hesitation.

“ ‘My Queen,’ ” read Micum, “ ‘Know that I, Barien í Zhal Mordecan Thorlin Uliel, have in these last years of my service to you committed high treason. My actions were deliberate, considered, and inexcusable. I offer no justification but pray you to believe that in the end I died the Queen’s man.’ He’s signed it ‘Barien, Traitor.’ ”

“Illior’s Eyes, how could I have been such a fool?” groaned Nysander, pressing a hand to his brow.

“But this proves nothing,” Seregil exclaimed in exasperation. “There are no details, no names, no specifics of any kind.”

“Idrilain is aware of our investigations. I believe she understands the import of this letter,” replied the wizard.

“Oh, that’s fine then,” Seregil snapped, pacing to the far end of the room. “Unless she suddenly begins to wonder why he died
immediately
after you began looking into his activities. Suppose she begins to question whether your loyalty to me is greater than to her? That’s still
my
body there in the Tower, you know. I want it back in one piece!”

Micum looked the letter over again. “Couldn’t this be a forgery? Sakor’s Flames, we’ve just been dealing with some of the best forgers in Rhíminee.”

“And what about Teukros?” added Alec. “It’s his word against Kassarie’s that he intended to go there at all. He could have gone to Barien’s instead. He could have gotten into the house easily enough, being family. Once in, he kills his uncle, drops the note, and slips out again. I told you before, Barien was angry with him over something.”

Nysander shook his head. “There were no signs of violence or magic on Barien’s person or in the room.”

“Doors?” interjected Seregil.

“Locked from within. And as for the matter of Teukros’ disappearance, if a man of Barien’s stamp believed his nephew had betrayed the family’s honor, he himself may have taken steps to remove the young man, a last act of family duty. There is ample precedent for such practices among that class. But the fact remains that whatever Alec heard them arguing about last night, it must surely have contributed to Barien’s death.”

“What about Phoria?” asked Micum. “It appears she was one of the last people to see him alive, and at his summons, too. Has anyone talked to her?”

“By all reports, the Princess Royal is in deep mourning and is seeing no one,” answered Nysander.

“That’s vague enough,” mused Seregil. “Do you think she’s involved?”

“Before Barien’s death I should not have thought so. Now I fear we must admit the possibility. If that does somehow prove to be the case, you may be certain it will be dealt with by higher authorities than you or I.”

Seregil continued his uneasy perambulation around the room. “Which still leaves us with one man dead and one missing. Have their houses been tossed?”

Nysander nodded. “A small cache of forged shipping manifests was uncovered at Teukros’ villa. With them were found
copies of several seals, including yours and those of Lord Vardarus, Birutus í Tolomon, and Lady Royan ä Zhirini.”

“My seal and that of Vardarus; that’s clear enough.” Seregil picked up a sextant from one of the tables and fidgeted absently with it. “What about these others? I’ve never heard of them.”

“Minor nobility with minor commissions. Lady Royan oversees the port of Cadumir on the Inner Sea just north of Wyvern Dug. The commission is an hereditary one appended to her holding. Young Sir Birutus was recently appointed to a post with the sutler corps—something to do with meat, I believe.”

“They don’t sound like the sort to bring the government toppling down,” Micum said, perplexed.

“And just where was all this damning evidence found?” asked Seregil, coming to a momentary halt by the desk.

“An interesting point, that,” Nysander said with a mirthless smile. “Everything had been concealed beneath the floorboards of Teukros’ bedchamber.”

“The floorboards,” Seregil exclaimed in disgust. “Bilairy’s Codpiece, even a green thief knows better than that. You might as well nail it to the front door! This snarl of events just isn’t making sense. Barien certainly had access to the royal seal, but to have handed it over to such a dolt as that? It’s absurd.”

“You said he had a blind spot for his nephew,” Alec reminded him.

Seregil stabbed a finger at Barien’s letter. “A man who composes as cold-blooded a suicide letter as that would
never
be so careless. Mark my words, there’s more to this than we’re seeing.”

The four fell silent for a moment, mulling the seemingly contradictory evidence.

“What about those servants we followed?” Alec asked at last.

“What about them?” Seregil muttered, still scowling down at the letter.

“Well, I don’t know about the girl, but that man of Teukros’ seemed to know where to deliver the papers. He offered to go, remember? But Teukros said he’d do it himself.”

The others stared at him a moment, then exchanged chagrined glances.

“By the Light, how did we ever overlook such an obvious point?” cried Nysander. “The members of both households have been taken into custody. They are all being held in Red Tower Prison. Come along, all of you!”

“Bless the day I dragged you out of that dungeon,” laughed Seregil, throwing an arm around Alec’s neck as they dashed for the door.

Nysander had the Queen’s authority to question the prisoners and, as Seregil was still in Thero’s form, no one challenged his right to accompany his master. Leaving them to their task, Alec and Micum went off to see how the real Thero was faring.

As luck would have it, the warder was the same one whom Alec had met on his first visit to the Tower.

“Poor fellow!” The warder shook his head regretfully. “Prison’s been damned hard on ‘im, Sir Alec. First day he was gracious as you please, a real gentleman. But he’s gone sort of sour since. We’ve hardly had a word out of him in a couple of days, and what he has said ain’t been hardly civil.”

Reaching the cell, he took up his post at the end of the corridor. “Visiting rules same as before, young sir. Keep your hands away.”

Alec peered through the grille. “Seregil?”

“Alec?”

“Yes, and Micum.”

A pale face appeared at the bars and Alec experienced a familiar sense of incongruity. The features and voice were Seregil’s; the expressions and intonation were not. The overall effect was reminiscent of Seregil’s Aren Windover persona.

“How are you holding up?” asked Micum, standing with his back to the guard.

“It’s been a most unusual experience,” Thero replied grimly. “They’ve left me alone for the most part, though, and Nysander sent some books.”

“Have you heard about Barien?” whispered Alec.

“Yes. Frankly, I’m not certain—”

“Good news! Good news, Lord Seregil!” the warder interrupted, heading their way with a bailiff in tow.

Thero pressed his face to the bars. “Is that my release?”

“It is indeed, my lord.” The warder rattled the lock open with a flourish.

Standing by the cell door, the bailiff unrolled a scroll and droned out, “ ‘Lord Seregil í Korit Solun Meringil Bôkthersa, now of Rhíminee, the charge of treason laid against you has been
rescinded. Your name is cleared of calumny. By the Queen’s grace, step forth and be free.’ ”

“I can’t tell you how happy I am, sir,” the warder said as Thero stepped blinking into the relative brightness of the corridor. “It would’ve been damned hard to give you over to the inquisitors, like they was talking at first. Damned hard, sir.”

“Harder for me than you, I’m sure,” Thero snapped, striding off without a backward glance.

Cocking an eye at Alec, the warder spread his hands. “You see what I mean, sir?”

Alec and Micum caught up with Thero on the stairs.

“You might have handled that a bit more smoothly,” Micum whispered angrily. “You’re supposed to be Lord Seregil, after all.”

Thero shot him a sidelong glare. “After two solid days of rats and platitudes, I doubt he’d have been a great deal more gracious.”

For appearance’s sake they went directly to Wheel Street. Runcer met them at the door with his usual lack of surprise.

“We had word, my lord,” he said gravely. “Your bath has been prepared, if you’d care to go up?”

“Thank you, Runcer, I will,” Thero replied, attempting Seregil’s easy manner. “Let me know the minute Nysander arrives.”

Runcer’s wrinkled face betrayed little as he watched Thero march off up the stairs, but Alec thought he caught the hint of a cryptic frown before the old servant doddered off toward the kitchen.

Upon their return from the Tower, Seregil and Nysander found the others just starting on a hot supper at Seregil’s bedroom table.

Face-to-face for the first time since the exchange of bodies, Seregil and Thero inspected each other in silence.

Seregil slowly circled his counterpart, amazed by the sight of his own familiar face settled into Thero’s guarded expression.

“Say something,” he prompted at last. “I want to hear what I sound like with someone else doing the talking.”

“This throat’s been doing a great deal less talking since
you’ve been gone,” Thero retorted. “I suppose I’ll be quite hoarse when I get my body back from you.”

Seregil turned to Alec. “You were right. The timbre of the voice is the same, but the speech patterns make all the difference. What an interesting phenomenon!”

“But one which we have no time to explore,” Nysander interjected. “You must both be restored to your proper forms.”

Joining hands with the greatest eagerness either of them was ever likely to exhibit, Seregil and Thero stood motionless while Nysander performed the spell.

The magic was indiscernible, the effect instantaneous. Restored to his own body, Seregil went a clammy greenish-white. Releasing Thero, he staggered to the fireside armchair and sank down, head between his knees. Alec grabbed up a bowl and hurried to his side.

Thero doubled over, too, grimacing as he grasped his leg.

“What have you been up to?” he demanded, pulling up his robe to examine the swollen knee.

“Up to?” Seregil managed a faint laugh between gasps. “It was—more the down part we had trouble with.”

Flexing his long fingers, he rubbed his hands over his smooth cheeks and hair. “By the Four, it’s good to get back into my true form! And I’ve had a bath and clean clothes, too. I’m in your debt, Thero. I just hope you didn’t enjoy the soaping up too much.”