Luck in the Shadows

32 Nasty Surprises

As 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 Orлska tunic.

"I've been away from the city. What's the news?" he asked.

"It's the Viceregent," 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 Viceregent was found dead this morning."

"Many thanks," Micum said.

Kicking their horses into a gallop, they rode for the Orлska 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, was "Know that I, Barien i 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 Rhнminee."

"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 i Tolomon, and Lady Royan a 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, was "Lord Seregil i Korit Solun Meringil Bokthersa, now of Rhнminee, 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."

"You've little enough to be vain of," Thero shot back tartly, returning to his supper.

Still grinning, Seregil tugged at the lacings of his shirt. "I don't know why you have to wear everything so tight, though—"

Alec was the only one who noticed the momentary faltering of his friend's smile. Before the boy could ask what was wrong, however, Seregil locked eyes with him, discreetly motioning silence.

"What did the two servants have to say?" Micum was asking, impatient for details.

"They weren't there," Seregil replied, pulling the lacings shut again. Again his fingers brushed the rough tissue of the scar, which had somehow reappeared. The feel of it made his skin crawl.

"Now there's a surprise," Micum said glumly.

"Did you learn much from the others?"

"We had the same story from both households," said Nysander. "The footman Marsin and Barien's maid Callia had been lovers for some time. Their fellow servants assume they have run off together."

Micum raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Bit too coincidental for my taste. What about the wife?"

"Even less helpful," said Seregil. "Lady Althia's a silly, harmless girl, still content after a year's marriage to be her husband's poppet. All she knows of his business is that it keeps her in jewels, gowns, and horses."

"Then we're right back where we started!" groaned Alec. "Marsin, Teukros, and that girl were our only connection, and now we can't find any of them."

"We should check the charnel houses next," said Seregil. "If any of them were murdered in the city, the Scavengers may have found them by now. Alec, Micum, and I will have to handle that since we're the only ones who know what they look like. And speaking of corpses, what's going to happen to Barien?"

Nysander gave a troubled sigh. "According to the law, he will be flayed, disemboweled, and hung on Traitor's Hill, then cast into the city pit."

Micum shook his head. "To end up like that after all the good he's done over the years. It's him I have to thank for Watermead; he suggested it to the Queen."

"At least he's already dead," Seregil said with a shudder, all too aware that he'd faced a similar fate only a few days ago without such benefit.

At the moment, however, he had a more pressing concern. "Before we all go our separate ways, Nysander, I'd like a private word."

Leading the way to the library across the corridor, Seregil closed the door carefully, then tugged open his shirt to show Nysander his chest. The circular brand left by Mardus' wooden disk stood out a sinister reddish-pink against his fair skin.

"The transference magicks must have disrupted the obscuration," said Nysander. "Though I have never known such a thing to happen before."

"There's more to it than that and you know it," Seregil said going to a small mirror on the wall for a better look. The patterns in the scar tissue were more distinct than ever.

"Could Thero have something to do with this?" he demanded. "That dream I had—"

"Certainly not!" Nysander retorted, reaching to touch the tiny ridges of stiffened flesh. "He would certainly have noticed it when he bathed, and told me of it. It must have happened as I performed the restoration. I shall have to cover it again."

Seregil caught Nysander's wrist and held it.

"What is this mark?" he said, searching the old wizard's face. "What does it mean that you want so badly to keep it hidden?"

Nysander made no move to free himself. "Have you recalled anything else of that nightmare? The one with the headless horse?"

"Not really. Only being in Thero's body and seeing the eye in my chest. And flying. For the love of Illior, Nysander, are you going to tell me what this really is or not?"

Nysander looked away, saying nothing.

Releasing him, Seregil strode angrily toward the door. "So, I'm going to go the rest of my life with this burned into my skin and you're not going to tell me a damn thing!"

"Dear boy, you would do better to pray that you never find out."

"That's never been any prayer of mine and you know it!"

Seregil spat back. For an instant anger made him reckless. "As it happens, I know more about it than you might think. I'd have told you already if it wasn't for—"

The words died on his lips. Nysander had gone ashen, his face a mask of anger. At his swift incantation, the room went dim and Seregil knew from past experience that Nysander had sealed the room against intrusions of any kind.

"By your honor as a Watcher, you will tell me everything," Nysander ordered and the barely suppressed fury in his voice struck like a blow.

"It was the night Alec and I left the Orлska," Seregil told him, his mouth suddenly dry. "Later that night I went to the Temple of Illior."

"Alone?"

"Of course."

"What did you do there?"

Seregil's skin prickled coldly; he could almost see the black waves of anger radiating out from Nysander. The room went darker still, as if the lamps were dying. Steeling himself, he went on.

"I'd made a drawing of this." Seregil pointed to the scar. "Before you obscured it that first time I used a mirror and sketched as much detail of the design as I could make out. At the temple I showed it to Orphyria. Nysander, what's wrong?"

Nysander had gone greyer still. Staggering to a chair, he sank his head in his hands. "By the Light," he groaned, "I should have guessed. After all I said—»

"You told me nothing!" Seregil shot back, still angry in spite of his fear. "Even after I almost died, after Micum brought word of the massacre in the Fens village, you told us nothing! What else was I to do?"

"You headstrong fool!" Nysander glared up at him.

"I suppose you might have heeded my order. My warning! Tell me the rest. What did Orphyria say?"

"She couldn't make anything of it, so she sent me down to the Oracle. During the ritual, he handled the drawing I'd made. He spoke of an eater of death."

Nysander suddenly grasped Seregil's wrist, pulling the younger man to his knees in front of him and

staring intently into his eyes. "He said that to you? What else? Do you remember his exact words?"

"He said "death," and repeated it. Then "Death, and life in death. The eater of death gives birth to monsters. Guard well the Guardian. Guard well the Vanguard and the Shaft."

"Those were his exact words?" cried Nysander, squeezing Seregil's arm painfully in his excitement. The anger was gone now, replaced by something that looked very much like hope.

"I'd stake my life on it."

"Did he explain what he meant by these words? The Guardian? The Shaft? The Vanguard?"

"No, but I remember thinking that he must be referring to specific people—especially the Guardian."

Releasing Seregil, Nysander sat back with a harsh laugh. "Indeed he was. Is there anything else, anything at all? Think carefully, Seregil. Omit nothing!"

Seregil rubbed his bruised wrist as he concentrated. "In the course of the divination he picked up a harp peg and sang a tune I'd composed as a child. He kept that. Then there was a bit of Alec's fletching—he spoke of Alec as being a child of earth and light and said that he was my child now, that I was to be father, brother, friend, and lover to him."

He paused, but the wizard simply motioned for him to continue.

"Then came the eater of death business, and finally he looked me right in the eye, handed me back the scroll, and said, "Obey Nysander. Burn this and make no more."

"Sound advice indeed. And did you heed it?"

"Yes."

"That is a wonder. Have you spoken of this to anyone else? Alec? Micum? You must tell me the truth, Seregil!"

"No one. I told no one. I'll swear an oath on it if you like."

"No, dear boy, I believe you." A little color had returned to the old wizard's cheeks. "Listen to me, I implore you. This is not a game. You have no idea the precipice you have danced along, and I am still bound not to tell you— No, no interruptions!

"I want no oaths from you now, but a promise made on your honor—on your love for me if nothing else—that you will be patient and allow me to proceed as I must. I swear the wizard's oath to you, by my Hands, Heart, and Voice, there is no doubt now that I shall reveal everything to you one day. You have my word. Can you abide by that for now?"

"I will." Still shaken, Seregil clasped Nysander's cold hands between his own. "By my love, I will. Cover the damned thing up!"

"Thank you, my impatient one." Nysander embraced him tightly for a moment, then placed his hand on Seregil's chest. The scar melted from sight beneath his fingers.

"You must tell me at once if it reappears," he cautioned. "And now you had best be about the business at hand."

"The others must be wondering what happened to us."

"Go on. I shall sit here quietly a moment longer. You gave me quite a turn!"

"I suppose I'll understand that, too, at some later date. Well, we're off to tour the charnel houses now. We'll be back before dawn, but I doubt any of us will be wanting breakfast."

"Probably not. And Seregil?"

"Yes?"

"Watch your back, my boy, and Alec's, too. Now, more than ever, I pray that you will live by your natural caution."

"I generally do, but thanks for the warning." Seregil paused, his hand on the latch. "You're the Guardian, aren't you? Whatever that means—and I'm not asking—but it was you the Oracle meant, wasn't it?"

To his great surprise, Nysander nodded. "Yes, I am the Guardian."

"Thank you." With a last thoughtful look, Seregil went out, unaware that his dearest friend had, for a fleeting instant, been his sworn executioner.