Cascet of souls

CHAPTER 43. Nightrunning

THAT same night Alec watched with Seregil, Micum, and Thero from the shadows as the last of Atre’s troupe set off in the direction of the theater.

Patch and the other horses were hobbled in the narrow alley behind them, and nickered softly. Among all his other worries, Alec hoped that no one stole Patch.

The house was dark, but a lone watchman with a lantern had been left to guard the place. Seregil had seen the cook and serving girl leave after the evening meal, and none of them had seen any other servants during the day.

All but Thero were armed with swords, and Alec had his Black Radly in case of a chase. He’d taken off the shatta and stuffed a woolen muffler Illia had knitted him inside the quiver to keep the arrows from rattling. And for luck, too, he admitted to himself.

It was a clear night, with a lopsided autumn moon casting bright bars of light between the buildings. There were no walls around the houses in this neighborhood, making it that much harder to approach without being seen, though it was probably just as well with Thero along. The wizard had wisely dressed in breeches and a dark tunic, but he probably wasn’t up to much climbing.

“I’ll do the honors,” whispered Micum, starting away.

Just then, however, a tiny orb of blue light winked into existence in front of Thero.

As the others exchanged puzzled looks, the wizard touched the message sphere gently. To Alec’s surprise, there was no

voice, at least not one that he could hear, as was usual with Thero’s message spells. But clearly Thero could hear something, for his face went very still as he replied softly, “I understand.” The little light sped away with its new message.

“What’s going on?” hissed Seregil.

The wizard gave the sign for Watcher business, then pulled a button from his coat and handed it to Seregil. “Keep this with you. I’ll find you.” With that, he mounted his horse and rode away down the side alley.

“Bilairy’s Balls!” Seregil muttered, staring after him in disbelief.

“What do we do?” asked Alec.

“What we’ve always done.” Seregil carefully tucked Thero’s button away in his belt pouch. “Our job.”

Thero rode in stunned silence as the import of Klia’s message sank in. The queen was dead, the war was won, and Klia would be back in the city, accompanying the fallen queen’s body and bearing the great sword to Elani, in perhaps a week’s time. He was to break the news to Prince Korathan. Immediately.

Sorrow, joy, and relief warred in his heart. He didn’t know how to feel.

At the Palace he drew a few questioning looks given the lateness of the hour and his uncommon clothing, but a page took him at once to the royal residence.

Thero found Korathan alone in the darkened garden. He wore no robes or coat, but sat in his shirtsleeves, with one elbow on the stone table and his head resting on his hand, pale hair loose around his face. A wine bottle and cup stood before him on the table.

Before Thero could even bow, he said softly, “Phoria is dead, isn’t she?”

“You’ve had word?”

But the prince shook his head. “We shared a womb, and a lifetime. I’m told it’s common with twins-to know.” He sat back in his chair and looked at Thero. “The war is lost?”

“No, Highness, it’s won. I’ve had word from Klia herself.

Queen Phoria drove the Plenimarans to their border, then fell on the brink of victory. Princess Klia finished the task.”

“Thank Sakor for that, at least! Is there any suggestion that Phoria’s death was connected to your cabals?”

“None that I know of yet, Highness.”

“Then let it rest. Reltheus and the others have been convicted of conspiracy against the realm and banished.” He sighed. “I suppose we should have a drink. Sit with me, please.”

Impatient as he was to return to Seregil and the others, Thero could not refuse, and not just because of their difference in rank. It was a bittersweet victory for Korathan.

The prince filled his own cup, then pushed the bottle across to Thero. “To Phoria. Astellus carry her softly.”

“To Queen Phoria.” Thero raised the bottle and took a small sip; he had work ahead of him tonight, hopefully.

Korathan raised his cup again. “The queen is dead. Long live the queen!”

“Queen Elani, the Four protect her.”

They drank again.

“And to victory,” Korathan rasped, and Thero could tell the prince had started drinking long before he’d arrived.

“To victory, thank the Flame.”

They sat in silence for a moment, then Korathan cleared his throat and asked, “Phoria- She died well?”

“Yes, Highness, in the thick of battle. Klia said she’d tell you the rest when she returns. She sails tomorrow, bringing the queen’s body and the Sword of Gherilain back to the city.”

“A wise woman, my little sister. This should put an end to any further rumors.” He took another sip. “Between you and me, Thero, I know Elani will make a fine queen, but Klia would have made a great one.”

“She doesn’t want the crown. She’s said so a number of times. She loves soldiering.”

Korathan let out a mirthless laugh. “As do I. Here’s to choosing one’s own path. To Klia.”

“To Princess Klia.”

Silence fell again, and again it was Korathan who broke it.

“You and the others have served Skala well, even when ordered not to.”

“As loyal Skalans-” Thero began, but Korathan shook his head.

“I’m not a stupid man, Thero. The Watchers serve more than just queen and country.”

“But never are those in opposition, Highness.”

“Never?”

“I can only speak for myself, and for Nysander when I knew him, but no. Never.”

“I haven’t told Elani about you yet. What do you think I should do?”

Thero considered this seriously; for one fragile moment they were, if not peers, then two men who held the safety of the nation in their hands. At last he replied, “When the time is right you should tell her, in any way you like.”

Korathan raised an eyebrow. “When the time is right? When will that be?”

“When we are needed.”

“I see. Yes. Well, thank you for bringing word to me.” His face remained a calm mask as Thero rose to go, but the lightest of touches across the prince’s mind revealed a bottomless well of grief.

Thero felt strangely guilty at leaving the man alone, but he’d clearly been dismissed so that Korathan could grieve in private.

As soon as Thero was gone, Seregil gave the signal to Micum to move out. The man disappeared down the shadowy street, only to reappear at the front of the house in time to intercept the watchman and engage him in conversation. Seregil couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the other man appeared glad of a break in the night’s boredom.

Seregil and Alec stole to the back of the house. The back door let into a kitchen, as with most houses, and there were three windows, two to the left of the kitchen door, and one to the right. No light showed there.

The one on the right appeared to let into a dining room and was easily shimmed open. Silent as shadows, they slipped

inside, then Seregil crept to the kitchen doorway; there were no signs of any additional servants.

All the same, they remained cautious as they investigated the room on the far side of the kitchen-a bedroom with two narrow beds and clothing thrown about that spoke of the twins. There were several jewel boxes, but none of the pieces were labeled and without Thero, there was no way of knowing if there was any magic in the room. Instead they had to make a quick and thorough search, but found nothing hidden away or suspicious.

What should have been the main salon at the front of the house was nearly bare except for a few plain chairs and empty crates, and a mattress on the floor. A rack of wooden practice swords stood against the wall.

They found more jewel boxes in another bedroom beyond, which appeared to belong to Zell and Leea, but their takings had been modest. Another frustrating search found nothing of interest. Time was passing too quickly.

“If Thero hadn’t gone haring off, we’d be done by now,” Seregil muttered as they started up the stairs to the second floor.

“It must have been important,” Alec whispered back. “I wonder why he couldn’t tell us? And why we couldn’t hear the message?”

“There are different versions of that magic. Come on.”

The bare treads creaked under their boots as they climbed the steep stairway. It sounded too loud in the empty, silent house. The floor of the upstairs corridor was bare wood, too, and a bit creaky in places. This wouldn’t be a good house to burgle if anyone was home. Seregil far preferred the dependable marble floors and thick carpets in the homes of the rich.

There were more jewels in Brader and Merina’s room, and the children’s. Merina had the largest collection in a chest on her dressing table. Once again, none of the jewels in any of the rooms were locked away with anything but ordinary locks, and none of the pieces were labeled. Seregil glanced out the window and cursed softly under his breath at the span the moon had crossed since they’d begun. As he turned to go he collided with a dark shape that grabbed at him. He was

reaching for his knife when the shape growled, “It’s me, you fool!”

“And about time, too,” Seregil whispered back. “Go downstairs and work your magic. We couldn’t find anything.”

Leaving Thero to it, Seregil and Alec came at last to what was clearly Atre’s room, the best one, at the front of the house. It was lavishly decorated, while the others were much simpler, though well furnished. Atre’s bed was as large as the one at Wheel Street, with ornately carved bedposts and sumptuous tapestry hangings. There was a tall wardrobe, several clothes chests, and an expensive mirror on the wall, as well as an ivory-backed hand mirror on the dressing table. A writing table stood under the window overlooking the street, strewn with parchments. More overflowed from a basket on the floor beside the desk, awaiting scraping to be used again.

Seregil drew the velvet drapes closed and began with the writing table, Alec with the wardrobe, working by the glow of their lightstones.

The desk yielded nothing of note, aside from pages of what looked like a new play and sketches for costumes. Seregil had to stop himself from reading too much, as what he saw was quite good. Evil though he might be, Atre was a man of considerable talents.

He moved on to the dressing table-unusual in a man’s room. It was covered with jars of cosmetics, unguents of various sorts, the hand mirror, and a casket of jewelry. He sorted through them carefully but none of these pieces were labeled, either, and Illia’s ring and Elani’s emerald brooch were not among them. But he did find two pieces he recognized: an ornate woman’s gold hairpin set with a citrine and the ring he’d given to Kylith, who had gifted it to Atre.

As Thero joined them Seregil handed the articles to him. “Thero, look at these.”

The wizard took the pieces and closed his eyes for a moment. “Myrhichia, certainly,” he said, holding out the hairpin. “And Kylith-but the impressions are very weak.”

“I think Atre used these to kill them, then saved them as trophies.” Mouth set in a grim line, Seregil moved on to the

first of the clothes chests, rifling down through the layers of fine wool and silk but finding nothing. He did the same with the next one. Nothing unusual there, either.

Meanwhile Alec had been rummaging about in the wardrobe. Taking out the last of the boots and shoes, he tapped on the wooden panel in the bottom of it. “Hollow.”

Thero drew the orange sigil and they watched as it floated in tendrils past Alec’s shoulder and disappeared through the bottom of the wardrobe.

Alec ran his fingers around the edges of the panel. A moment later Seregil heard the snap of a device and Alec lifted up the panel to reveal the hidey-hole beneath it.

“Ha! Thought so,” Alec muttered. Underneath were a large rectangular leather case and a small strongbox with an ornate lock plate.

“I don’t need a spell,” whispered Thero. “I can feel the magic from here.”

Alec lifted the leather case out first. The padlock securing it was easily picked. Inside, it was divided into twelve sections padded with thick felt, nine of which contained sealed bottles; the remaining three bottles were empty.

“You were right, Seregil,” Alec whispered. “This is how many you thought were missing from Basket Street.”

Seregil pulled out one of the full bottles and held it to his light. It contained a lock of black hair. “Master Atre is very exact in his counting, which is all the more reason to worry about him noticing the missing bottles.”

Thero frowned. “It couldn’t be helped. Without them-”

“I wasn’t criticizing, Thero, just taking stock of the situation. Look for Illia’s ring.”

Seregil picked up another bottle and something clinked inside-a simple unglazed clay bakshi stone, the sort one could find in any of the poorer booths in the marketplaces. It must have been prized by someone. The liquid was clear. He handed it back to Thero, who inspected the wax seal.

“Same as the others,” the wizard murmured. “The ones with no symbol in the center are still clear. And the magic feels the same as those we found before.”

“So you could let the souls out of the clear ones?” whispered Alec.

“Hopefully.” Thero put them back in the case with obvious regret.

Of the other bottles, two were clear: one contained a colorful snail shell, the other a lock of red hair. The others were marked with the central symbol and cloudy, but Seregil could make out a cheap copper earring, a glass bakshi stone, a piece of broken clay with lines scratched into it, and a bit of frayed ribbon.

Thero slid the last one back into place with a sigh. “No ring.”

“We’re not done yet.” Alec carried the casket to the dressing table and held his light close to inspect the lock plate. “I think it’s trapped. Stand back.” Wrapping his hand thickly in the corner of his cloak, he gently inserted the tip of a bent pick into the lock hole. The trap released instantly, and several small needles flew out, propelled by powerful springs or magic. Two caught in the cloth around Alec’s hand. The others flew past him. Thero suddenly cried out and staggered.

Seregil turned in time to see the wizard raise a hand to his neck and begin to fall. Catching him, Seregil lowered him to the floor. A short steel needle protruded from Thero’s neck and Seregil yanked it out, but Thero’s eyes were already glazing over.

“Not much-of a nightrunner-am I?” the wizard gasped.

“I said stand back!” Alec exclaimed.

“What do we do?” Seregil slapped the wizard’s cheeks lightly as the man’s eyes slid shut. “Thero, isn’t there some spell to slow poison?”

“The box,” Thero mumbled. “Open it.”

“We’ve got to get him to Valerius!” said Alec, kneeling beside the wizard and feeling for his pulse. “His heart’s hardly beating.”

“Go fetch Micum.”

Alec dashed away.

“The box,” Thero rasped, and something dark trickled

from the corner of his mouth into his short beard. “Please. Must know.”

With the horrible feeling that he might be granting his friend his last wish, Seregil finished with the lock and opened the casket. Inside were three bottles. He gathered them up and knelt beside Thero. The man’s pupils were huge, his face deathly pale. More of the black liquid ran down his cheek.

“There are three,” Seregil told him, holding them up. “Two are milky and labeled. One says TANIA and the other is EONA. Bilairy’s Balls, Lady Tania died a week ago, now he’s killed Laneus’s widow.”

“Last symbol,” Thero choked out. “Do they have it?”

“Yes.”

“Seals-the soul.” Thero coughed and black spittle speckled his lips and chin. His breath was rattling in his throat. Clutching Seregil’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, he rasped, “Find Illia’s-before he can-”

“Before he can seal it with the final mark. I understand. But what if he does?”

“She’ll die.” He coughed up a black gout and began to choke.

Seregil got an arm under his shoulders and lifted Thero so he could breathe more easily. “Don’t die! You’re just getting the hang of all this.”

The wizard managed what sounded like a chuckle, but he was shivering badly.

Alec hurried in. “Micum’s gone for his horse. He’ll need our help getting Thero on it.”

“What about the watchman?”

“Micum said he’d deal with him.”

They carried the wizard down and found Micum already at the back door with his tall grey.

“Maker’s Mercy!” he exclaimed softly. “Get him over Stormy’s withers so I can keep a hold on him.”

“We’re going to kill him!” whispered Alec.

“He’ll die if we don’t get him to Valerius,” Seregil grunted, helping him sling Thero over the horse like a sack of grain.

Micum swung up into the saddle and took a firm grip on the back of Thero’s coat. “I’ll come straight back.”

“Where’s the watchman?”

Micum winked. “Napping. What are you planning to do?”

Seregil gave him a humorless smirk. “It’s time to drive our prey. Micum, as soon as you get Thero to Valerius, have him send a messenger to deliver this to Korathan.” Seregil gave him the phial with Eona’s name on it. “Tell him to close the city gates and arrest the other players. Atre still has Elani’s jewelry.”

He put a hand on Thero’s shoulder. “Remember what I said. Don’t die.”

Thero’s eyes were closed and more of the black liquid was dripping from his parted lips. But they moved and only Seregil was close enough to hear his parting words: “Save them!”

Back in Atre’s room, Seregil and Alec set about putting things back where they’d found them. When they were done, Seregil set the leather case in the middle of the bed and took out the bottles that were still clear.

“What are you doing?” whispered Alec.

“These children can still be saved. The others can’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s what Thero thinks. Here, you take one and I’ll take one.”

They tucked the bottles under their belts inside their shirts and put the final things right.

Seregil took a last look around the room. “Finding that case out should be enough to flush him.”

“Where do you think he’ll go?”

“Hopefully to wherever he has Illia’s elixir hidden. And I don’t think he has enough of these bottles to last him for very long unless he goes back to his Basket Street cache. In his place I’d gather up as much as I could. If he’s on the run, it will probably be some time before he can reestablish himself in-”

Just then they heard the sound of familiar childish laughter from the street below.

“Bilairy’s hairy codpiece!” Seregil growled, peering out between the curtains. “Out the back, quickly.”

But before they could get downstairs they heard the sound of the front door opening. Hurrying to Brader’s chamber, they threw open a corner window and climbed down the splintery wooden drainpipe. There was no sign of the watchman or anyone else as they stole silently to the corner of the house and peered around. A link boy appeared in the street, lighting his own way. There was light inside the house now, too, and the sound of more laughter and women talking.

Thinking it was safe, Seregil led the way to the front corner of the house in time to hear Zell chastising the watchman for falling asleep at his post. The man quickly resumed his duties, rubbing his head as he did so.

“Do you feel a little bad for the other actors?” Alec whispered when Zell had gone inside. “I hate to think of the children in the Red Tower.”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes.” The fact was, Seregil was uneasy about that himself. He’d come to genuinely like the members of the company. That had probably blinded him to what Atre really was, he thought bitterly.

Leaving Alec to watch the back of the house, Seregil slipped away through the back garden and circled around to their original hiding spot across the street. There he hid the bottles they’d taken from Atre’s room in his saddlebags and hunkered down in the shadows of a silversmith’s shop to await Atre’s reaction to the surprise they’d staged for him.

The moon was sinking behind the clouds. Candles were lit inside the house, then one by one the windows went dark again as the occupants went to bed, and still no sign of Atre.

Perhaps he was spending the night elsewhere. They hadn’t seen who had come back, and Seregil hadn’t noticed Atre’s voice among the others.

Soon after, he heard Micum’s whispered “Luck in the shadows” from a nearby alleyway.

“And in the Light,” Seregil whispered back.

Big as he was, Micum scarcely made a sound as he materialized out of the shadows.

“How is Thero?” Seregil whispered, barely loud enough to be heard.

“I don’t know. Valerius is caring for him personally, though. Did you find Illia’s ring?”

Seregil shook his head and Micum bit his lip in frustration. Clasping his friend’s shoulder, he put his lips close to Micum’s ear and caught him up on the night’s progress.

The stars were beginning to fade and their cloaks were damp with dew when they heard the loud rattle and jingle of a carriage approaching. It rounded the corner pulled by a fine matched pair of white Aurenfaie horses, and although Seregil couldn’t quite make out the escutcheon on the door, the horses alone, together with the glint of gilt on the carved dolphins gracing the four corners of its roof, were enough to tell him that this was one of Atre’s more affluent and high-placed admirers. There were loud sounds of laughter and merrymaking as the coachman reined the horses to a halt in front of the house and they could hear Atre making his farewells as he alighted on the pavement. He paused a moment as the carriage rolled off, looking up at the sky and stretching, then put his key to the lock and disappeared into the house.

Seregil gave Micum a crooked smile. “Here we go.”

Atre wasn’t particularly drunk. He made a point of always keeping his wits about him, even when he went out carousing. Young Marquise Wentira and her friends had been quite amusing in their cups, though, and very generous.

He lit a candle from the small night lantern in the front room and made his way up through the silent house to his bedchamber. Once there, he set the candle on the dressing table and pulled the night’s pretties from his coat pocket. Wentira’s silver locket was very nice, and contained a lovely miniature of her done on ivory, but she’d had it made for him and it was far too new to be of any use. Sweet-faced Lord Byris had unwisely parted with a gold ring set with a ruby that had been given to him by Prince Korathan. That one was best returned. If only he’d had it from the prince himself, what a prize that would have been, surpassing even the pieces he’d had from Elani. He held his right hand out to

admire the amethyst ring she’d given him at their first meeting. He loved flaunting it under the noses of the nobles who used him for their amusement; they hadn’t the slightest idea that he held the heir to the throne’s life quite literally in his hand. She was a vibrant girl, with life connections far beyond her years. An elixir from her ring or the emerald brooch would sustain him for weeks. He kept them about his person at all times.

They were so very tempting.

Of the night’s take, only Duchess Nasia’s chain was of any use. He set it aside for his next visit to Basket Street and placed the rest of the jewels into the casket in front of him. Leaning back in the chair, he yawned and stretched his arms over his head, ready for a good day’s sleep.

Taking up the candle again, he crossed to the bed, then stopped, frozen in shock at the sight of the open elixir case sitting in the middle of the counterpane. Trembling, he placed the candle on the stand by the bed and grabbed the case. Two bottles were gone. Two!

He lit more candles and threw open the wardrobe doors. Everything appeared undisturbed, but he knew better. Tossing shoes and boots aside, he wrenched up the hidden panel beneath and pulled out the locked casket. It wasn’t locked anymore, and the phial containing Duchess Eona’s powerful soul was gone.

Brader!

Not bothering with a candle, he went to his cousin’s room and knocked softly on the door. After a moment Brader opened it. He was in his nightshirt, but his dark eyes were sharp and alert.

“Come with me,” Atre whispered.

He waited until they were safely in his chamber with the door locked, then rounded on the man, who was already taking in the disorder.

“How could you be so careless?” Atre hissed, shaking with anger. “If you needed to drink so badly, why didn’t you say something before we went to the theater?”

Brader’s expression was eerily calm. “It wasn’t me.”

Atre’s disbelief was fleeting, giving way to a cold jolt of fear.

He clenched his fists in rage, fighting down the urge to scream. “No one has ever gotten close enough to find my cache before. No one! And some of the elixirs are gone!”

“I told you we should have moved on sooner.”

“And I told you to kill them!” Atre snarled, pulling a battered old pack from under the bed and dumping the contents of the jewel casket into it.

“I’d have to have found them, wouldn’t I?” That chilling calm was giving way to anger. “Damn you, Atre, you’ve brought this down on us again. On my children, my wife!”

“What? For providing for all of you? For taking a third-rate pack of country mummers and making them the toast of Rhiminee? Or is that your conscience pricking you again? Tired of eating the souls of children, Brader?” Atre sneered as he pulled on a fresh shirt and sat down to pull on a pair of old boots. “Your precious family will be safe once we’re gone.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Get dressed, for hell’s sake! We’ve got to go.” Atre took an old brown tunic from the back of the wardrobe and pulled it on.

“No.”

Atre looked up in disbelief. This was a first. “How long do you think you’ll last without me to sustain you? Don’t tell me you finally mean to give up?”

“Better that than deserting them. I can’t do that. Not like this.”

Atre resisted the urge to cry out What’s so special about this family? But he knew better. He’d feared this day since Merina’s first child was born, perhaps even before that, from the way Brader looked at her. The man had abandoned other children, other wives, but it had changed him a little, every time, until he’d come to loathe the very thing that kept him alive to enjoy his women and brats.

He stood and went to Brader. “But you can do this to me, cousin?” he asked sadly. “After all these years, these centuries we’ve shared, you just leave me to die? You know how

much I need you. You came with me willingly, remember, and you loved this life of ours. The times we’ve had, cousin!” His tone was pleading, but his eyes were hard when he added, “Please, don’t make me threaten them. I still have my special little collection, you know.”

The taller man closed his eyes for a moment. “I’ll help you get out of the city.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask of you. Now hurry and get dressed. We have to get to Basket Street before the sun comes up.”

Brader thought he’d left Merina sleeping, but when he returned to the bedchamber he found her trembling beside the bed, clutching a dagger to her breast. A real one, not a stage prop. Tears were streaming down her cheeks but she looked like fury itself.

He tried to approach her, fearing she’d harm herself, but she shrank back from his touch and raised the knife. “You monsters!”

Brader’s heart lurched in his chest. “Keep your voice down!”

“I followed you, Brader. I listened through the door and heard what he said. Do you think I’m a fool? All these years together, and you looking the same as the day we married. And all the secrets! You and he slipping out when you thought I wasn’t looking, and all the times whispering behind locked doors with your ‘cousin.’ Or is that a lie, too?”

“No. That much is the truth.”

“I thought-Maker’s Mercy, I even hoped you were just lovers, but it’s worse than that. All the times children began to die when we stayed too long in a town. I tried not to think about it, told myself I was seeing something that wasn’t there, but it’s true, isn’t it? What are you?”

“There’s no name for it, as far as I know.”

“You-you eat children’s souls? It’s monstrous!”

“Maker’s Mercy, keep your voice down!”

“Why? Will you eat my soul, too?”

“No, but he will. And the children’s.”

Her eyes widened in horror. “And you’d let him!”

“He’s had a hold on me, through you, all these years. But after tonight he’ll be gone. He’ll give me what I need to protect you, but only if I help him leave the city. I’ll be free of him, and we’ll all be safe.”

She held the knife out in front of her and hissed, “Safe? I never want to see you again! If you ever come near my children, I’ll tell them exactly what their papa does, and I’ll put this knife through your black heart! Get whatever you need and get out!”

Her voice was rising dangerously again. He dressed and packed quickly and buckled on his sword. Then, heart breaking, he turned to her one last time, but the hatred in her eyes sealed his throat.

She pointed to the door. “Don’t come back. If he kills us, our blood is on your hands.”

He knew it was the truth. Shouldering his pack, he went back to Atre.

As he always did.