Luck in the Shadows (61 page)

“Let’s hope Ilendri was one of them,” Alec whispered back.

Strolling up to the quay, they began looking over the various pieces as if considering a purchase. They were still dressed as gentlemen merchants and their respectable coats soon drew the interest of the
Dragonfly
’s captain.

“Are you in the market for stone, sirs? I’ve got some lovely blocks today,” he called from the rail.

“So I see,” Seregil replied, smoothing his
palm over a slab of glittering black granite. “I’m looking for marble, statuary grade.”

“You’re in luck there, sir!” The man clumped down the gangway and led them over to a group of crates. “I’ve got a good selection today: pink, black, grey, and a lovely white pure as a dove’s breast. Let’s see now, where was that Corvinar piece? That’s an especially good one.”

Consulting various emblems branded into the sides of the crates, he pried up lids here and there. “Here’s a fine black, sir, and some of the white. Did you have something special in mind?”

“Well,” Seregil drawled, peering down into a crate, “I don’t know a lot about it, to tell you the truth, but I’ve heard that Ilendri marble is particularly fine.”

“That may have been true in your father’s day, sir, but precious little comes out of there now,” the captain told him with a hint of condescension. “The Ilendri’s mostly played out, though they do still cut some smaller blocks. I’ve a few pieces back here, as it happens, but I think you’d be better pleased with this other.”

“Perhaps,” said Seregil, cupping his chin in one hand, “but I’d like to see the Ilendri—if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Suit yourself.” The captain hunted through the crates until he found a small box half hidden behind several others. Opening it, he showed them a small block of greyish marble shot through with rusty streaks. “As you can see, the grade’s inferior.”

“The quarry’s owned by Lord Tomas, isn’t it?” Seregil asked ingenuously, inspecting the stone with apparent interest.

“No, sir, an old fellow by the name of Emmer. He and his nephews make a small living out of it, cutting blocks like this. It goes mostly for road markers and such like.”

It was a small crate and Alec had to step around the captain to get a look inside. Doing so, he saw for the first time the emblems burned into the side of it; one of them was very familiar—a small, curled lizard.

“What do these stand for?” he asked, trying to mask his sudden excitement.

“Those are shipping marks, sir. We use them to keep track of the cargo. The dragonfly mark is mine, put on when I took the box aboard. The next is from the quarry foreman—”

“And that little lizard?”

Seregil stole a quick glance at Alec, sensing more than casual curiosity.

“That’s the quarry’s mark, sir. The Ilendri newt, we call it.”

“It’s an interesting design—stone, I mean.” He had to get Seregil away from the captain without attracting undue attention. “I think it would do nicely, don’t you, brother?”

“In the garden, perhaps,” Seregil said, playing along. Chin in hand, he narrowed his eyes appraisingly. “Though I know Mother had something larger in mind for the niche in the great hall. And you know how she favors the white these days. Suppose we take this piece and the white one the captain recommends?”

Alec hovered impatiently as Seregil paid for the stone and arranged for delivery, then drew him off down the quay.

“What was that all about?” Seregil whispered. “Ilendri or not, that rock isn’t worth—”

“I didn’t mean for you to buy it!” Alec said, cutting him short. “It was the mark—that Ilendri newt—I’ve seen it before!”

Seregil slowed to a halt. “Where?”

“At Kassarie’s keep. It was on some of the old tapestries in the main hall, like a maker’s mark. I don’t know why it caught my eye particularly, except that I liked the look of it.”

“And you’re certain the tapestries were old? Perhaps several generations back?”

“The tapestries?” Alec asked in disbelief, this was no time for one of Seregil’s artistic tangents. “Well, I think so. They were like the old ones you showed me at the Orëska, with the fancy patterns around the edges. I remembered you saying you liked that style better than the new ones.”

Seregil threw an arm around Alec’s shoulders with a delighted chuckle. “Illior’s Fingers, you’ve got the same rat’s nest of a memory I do! You’re certain this lizard thing was just the same?”

“Yes, but why do the tapestries have to be old?” Alec asked, still puzzled.

“Because new tapestries might have been purchased and the mark would be pure coincidence. Very old ones are more likely to have been made by someone in Kassarie’s family, someone who lived in the keep and wove them there and used the newt as her signature. Care to place a wager on who owned this Ilendri quarry before it was clapped out?”

“I’ll bet you a block of ugly marble it was Lady Kassarie ä Moirian!”

•     •     •

A quick word with the
Dragonfly’
s captain proved Alec right. According to him, Lady Kassarie had awarded the failing enterprise to an aging retainer five years ago in appreciation of his long service. The old fellow still used the “newt” out of respect for his former mistress.

“Looks like we’re headed south again,” Seregil said, rubbing his gloved hands together with a satisfied air as they went back to the inn to collect their horses.

“We don’t need to go to the quarry?”

“No. Thanks to your everlasting curiosity, I think we’ve found the key to our little problem. We can make Watermead before midnight, then it’s Rhíminee tomorrow, and on to Kassarie’s. Looks like that warmhearted little kitchen maid of yours is going to prove useful after all.”

“You’re looking forward to this, aren’t you?” Alec asked with a grin.

Seregil tilted him a dark smile. “Clearing my name was a relief; giving the Lerans a good kick in the slats is going to be a pleasure!”

In their haste and elation, neither noticed the pair of laborers who detached themselves from a work gang to trail after them through the midday crowd.

Crossing the isthmus again, they retraced their route along the coast. There was little trade on the highroad that afternoon, and in several hours’ riding they met nothing but a few wagons and a garrison patrol.

Shortly before sunset they came around a sharp bend in the road to find their way blocked by fallen rocks. It was passable, but it meant riding precariously close to the edge of the cliffs. The way was especially narrow here, with sheer rock face to the landward side and a nasty drop to the sea on the other.

“This slide must have just happened.” Frowning, Seregil reined in to inspect the rubble. “That patrol we met would have cleared it, or warned us.”

Alec eyed the few yards of open ground between the tumbled rocks and the cliff edge. “We’d better walk the horses.”

“Good idea. Throw your cloak over Patch’s eyes so she doesn’t shy. You take the lead.”

Wrapping the reins more securely around his fist, Alec coaxed the nervous mare along with soothing words as her hooves struck loose stones. From behind he could hear Seregil doing the same in Aurënfaie. He was within ten feet of safety when he heard the first telltale rattle of stone against stone overhead.

“Look out!” he shouted, but it was already too late. Rocks came crashing down all around them. Patch let out a frantic whinny, pulling back against the reins.

“Come on!” he cried, wincing as a shard of rock cut his cheek. He could hear Scrub rearing behind him, and Seregil shouting some unintelligible warning.

With a sudden toss of her head, Patch threw off the cloak and bolted. Unable to free his hand from the reins, Alec was jerked off balance and swung out over the cliff edge.

For a sickening instant he hung in space, looking down at the waves crashing against the cliffs a thousand feet below; at the same moment he glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye as something—man, beast, or boulder—plunged down into the abyss.

Before he had time to do more than register the movement, Patch reared again, snapping him against her neck like a hooked fish against the side of a boat. He grabbed wildly for purchase, found her mane with his free hand, and clung on in numbed terror as she plunged away down the road, miraculously dragging him to safety. He managed to get astride her at last and reined her in.

They’d ridden out of sight of the slide. Heart hammering in his throat, Alec turned Patch and galloped back to find Seregil.

The road was completely blocked now; this last slide had left a great heap of broken rock that slanted down to the very edge of the cliff. Neither Seregil nor his horse were anywhere in sight.

“Seregil! Seregil, are you there?” yelled Alec, praying for some answer from beyond the crest of the heap. He couldn’t yet bring himself to look in the more probable direction.

As he cast around in rising desperation, a bit of color caught his eye in the slide where the jumbled rock pile met the cliff face. It appeared to be a scrap of cloth, red cloth, the same as the coat Seregil had been wearing.

Scrambling up, he found Seregil curled on his side, half buried in skree and dust. Blood seeped slowly down over his forehead from a scalp cut; another trickle oozed at the corner of his mouth.

“Maker’s Mercy!” Alec gasped, pushing at the rocks on Seregil’s chest. “Don’t be dead! Don’t you be dead!”

Seregil’s right hand twitched and one grey eye flickered open.

“Thank the Four!” cried Alec, nearly weeping with relief. “How bad are you hurt?”

“Don’t know yet,” Seregil rasped, closing his eyes again. “I thought you went over—”

“I thought you did!”

Seregil let out a shaky breath. “Scrub, poor Scrub—”

With a queasy shudder Alec recalled the falling object he’d glimpsed as he swung out over the edge of the cliff.

“Had that horse eight years,” Seregil groaned softly, a hint of moisture darkening the dust beneath his eyes. “Bastards! Ambushers killed my best horse.”

“Ambushers?” Alec asked, wondering if Seregil was fully conscious after all.

But the grey eyes were open now, and alert. “When the rocks started falling, I looked up and saw a man silhouetted against the sky.”

Alec risked an uneasy glance of his own but saw nothing. “When I rode back just now, I noticed a little switchback trail leading up the rocks. It’s just around that next bend. He could have gotten up that way, I bet.”

“That would explain a lot.”

“But if they’re still up there they’ll have seen me come back! We’ve got to get out of here.”

“No, wait.” Seregil lay quiet a moment, thinking. “Whoever they are, they seem to know their business. If we run they’ll just track us and finish the job.”

“What about the highroad garrisons? We must be within five miles of one by now.”

“More than that, I think. With only one horse and night coming on, I doubt we’d make it.”

“Then we’re trapped!”

“Quiet, Alec, quiet. With a little luck, we can lay a trap of our own right here. It’s going to take a bit of acting on your part, though.” He shifted slightly, feeling under his left thigh, then
gave a soft, anguished groan. “Oh, hell. I’ve lost my sword. It must’ve torn loose as I scrambled up here.”

“I’ve still got mine,” Alec assured him, fearful that Seregil was in serious pain after all. “I had it strapped behind my saddle.”

“Fetch it, but cover your actions. Make it look like I’m dying and you’re starting to panic.”

“Lure him down to finish us off, you mean?”

“Exactly, though there’ll be more than one of them, I suspect. Let them believe they’re up against a distraught boy and a dying man. Reach in my boot. Is my poniard still there?”

“It’s there.”

“Then I’m not completely fangless, anyway. Go on now, we may not have much time.”

Alec slid back down to the road, expecting every moment to feel an arrow strike him between the shoulder blades. Doing his best to act panicked, he kept his sword concealed beneath his blanket roll as he carried it and a water skin back to Seregil.

Badly battered as Seregil was, he seemed to have escaped with no broken bones. With the sun sinking into the sea in front of them, they settled down to wait. Alec hunkered down with his back to the cliff, his sword unsheathed and hidden against his outstretched leg. Seregil lay propped up slightly, dagger in hand beneath the blanket.

They hadn’t long to wait. As the last ospreys winged off to their nests, they heard the sound of hooves against stone. Riders were approaching from the expected direction, beyond the curve of the road to their left.

A moment later two men rode into sight, coming on at a steady walk. Studying them in the red sunset light, Alec could see that they were hard-faced characters in rough traveling garb. One was lean, with ragged, greying hair and a long, somber face. His companion was round and red-faced, his shiny bald pate fringed with curly brown hair.

“This will be them,” Seregil murmured beside him. “Play your role well, my friend. I doubt we’ll have more than one chance.”

The riders made no pretense as to their intentions. Reaching the edge of the slide, they dismounted and drew swords.

“How’s your friend, boy?” The bald one asked, leering up at him.

“He’s dying, you rotten son of bitch! Can’t you leave him in peace?” Alec spat back, letting some genuine fear show in his voice.

“Wouldn’t be kind to let him linger, now would it, lad?” the other replied placidly. He had the same air of dispassionate assurance Alec had seen in Micum Cavish; this was a killer who knew his business. “And then there’s the matter of you, isn’t there?”

“What do you want with us?” Alec quavered, tightening his grip on his sword hilt.

“I’ve nothing against you or your friend,” the greying man replied, taking a step up the pile. “But there are those who don’t like having their business nosed into. Now be a good lad and I’ll make a quick job of it. You’ll be dead before you know it.”

“I don’t want to be dead!” Alec rose and threw a rock at the men with his left hand. They ducked it easily and Alec backed away as if to bolt.

“Get the other one, Trake,” the grey man ordered, pointing to Seregil who still lay as if dying. “I’ll take the whelp here.”