Stalking Darkness

25

Clutching the stolen loaf beneath his shirt, Skut sprinted through the late afternoon crowd filling the marketplace.

Behind him he could hear the furious bread seller shouting, "Stop him, stop thief!" A few people made halfhearted grabs at him, but the sympathy of the waterfront crowd was obviously with him.

Reluctant to leave his wares open to further depredations, the bread seller quickly gave up and returned to his handcart.

Hunger knotted Skut's empty belly. Tym's death had thrown him off his game for three days now, and he'd had almost nothing to eat. Grabbing the loaf had been a desperate move, but he couldn't stand the gnawing ache in his gut any longer.

Keeping one eye out for trouble, he threaded his way through filthy alleys to a ruined warehouse on the western fringes of the lower city, his current home.

One wall had burned and fallen in and the whole place reeked of old smoke, but an attic loft was still sound. Picking his way over the rubble, he climbed the makeshift ladder leading up to it.

Sunset light spilled across the floor below but the back of the loft was already lost in shadow. The grey doves roosting overhead shifted suspiciously as he peered over the edge of the platform.

"Kaber, you here?"

There was no answer.

That was a relief. He hadn't seen Kaber in a week and good riddance. The older boy had provided a certain amount of protection, but he was lazy and had lately taken to punching Skut when he didn't bring home enough for them to eat.

He went to the rusty brazier at the center of the loft and felt for the fire makings. His hand had just closed around the tinder bowl when suddenly he sensed movement behind him.

Skut was a quick lad, but not quick enough this time. Before he could stand up someone had thrown a heavy cloak over his head and pinioned his arms.

Snuffers!

Skut thought desperately.

He squirmed wildly, struggling for his life, and felt his foot hit something with satisfying force. There was a soft grunt of pain, but strong arms caught his flailing legs. His captors lifted him off the floor, holding him so tightly he could scarcely wiggle.

"We're not here to harm you," said the one holding his arms. It was a man's voice, and soft. "I want to know about Tym."

"Don't know nothin"!" Skut whimpered, bucking helplessly.

"Oh, let's not go down that route, shall we? Word is you're the one who saw it happen. I only want to talk to you about it. Settle down now and I'll make it worth your while."

Skut resisted a moment longer, his thin body taut as a bowstring, then gave in. Whoever had a hold of him clearly wasn't about to let go.

"All right then, I'll tell you. Only let me down."

"Put him down."

Skut felt his legs released, though the one behind him maintained a strong hold around his chest and arms.

"Are you going to behave yourself?"

"Said I would, didn't I?" Skut mumbled, heart hammering in his throat.

"Sit down where you are."

Skut obeyed, then cried out in fear as something heavy settled on his thigh. Looking out from under the edge of the cloak, he saw that it was a rough sack.

"Go on, open it," the man urged, still behind him. He could see the boots of another just in front of him, the one who hadn't spoken yet.

With trembling hands, Skut opened the bag and was amazed to discover a small sausage, a wedge of cheese, and half a dozen boiled eggs. The toothsome aroma was unbearably good, but he was still suspicious. The one doing all the talking had a highborn sound to him. What'd he want with Tym?

"It's all right," said the second one, speaking for the first time. Another man. "Go ahead and eat. You look like you could use it."

The smoky garlic scent of the sausage was too much.

Praying it wasn't poisoned, Skut took a cautious nibble, then another.

"What happened to Tym?" asked the first one.

"Fell off a roof, that's all," Skut replied around a mouthful.

"Tym

fell?"

Skut shrugged, peeling one of the eggs with dirty fingers. "Saw him go over. He didn't yell or nothin', just toppled down."

"No one's found his body. Are you certain he was dead?"

"Course!" Skut snorted. "Think I wouldn't make sure? The bastard hadn't paid me yet. His head was all stove in and broken. He didn't have so much as a groat on him, neither, not even his knife."

His unseen interrogator seemed to consider this for a moment. "What were you doing there? What was it he was going to pay you for?"

"Well—" Skut hesitated. "I guess I could say, since he's dead and all. I was watching a house for him, the one he fell off of."

"What house?"

"Tenement house in Sailmaker Street. Tym said I was to keep an eye out for any shady sorts, especially breakers and gate-runners. And Scavengers, too."

"How long did you watch?"

"Most of a week." The sausage was good, best he'd ever tasted. On the strength of this, he added helpfully, "I seen one, too. Pry the Beetle come by day before Tym fell."

"Did Tym say why he wanted you to watch for these fellows?"

"No, and I didn't ask. When Tym wanted something done, you done it, that's all," Skut told him, adding somewhat pointedly, "Would've paid me, too, if he hadn't gotten his self killed."

The man chuckled in a friendly way. "A true man of honor, our Tym. Did you see anyone on the roof, or hear anything strange before Tym fell?"

Skut absently cracked a louse on his sleeve as he thought hard. "No, nothin'."

"What was he doing up on the roof in the first place?"

"Said he was going to have a listen on the feller he was watching, lived up on the top floor. That's where he went over, right at that window. You ain't going to kill me or nothing, are you?"

"No, but I'll give you a word of advice. Keep low and stop blabbing. You don't know who else might take an interest in you. Now I want you to sit tight awhile, until you know we're gone. I wouldn't want to have to hurt you after you've been so helpful."

"I won't twitch!"

A strong hand clamped menacingly down on Skut's shoulder. "And not a word to anyone about this little visit, right?"

"Right! You wasn't never here," he whispered, suddenly fearful again.

The hand withdrew. Skut heard a shuffle of boots, the creak of the ladder, then silence. He made himself count to a hundred twice before he dared pull the cloak off his head. When nothing stirred, he scrambled to kindle a light and found a sturdy dagger and a small cloth purse lying on the brazier grill. The bag held at least a sester's worth of pennies.

Highborn or not, those gents knew a thing or two, Skut thought wonderingly. Showing gold or silver around these parts could get you killed right quick, especially a skinny brat like himself. But a few coppers here and there were safe enough and a stash like this could keep him going a month or more. He turned the knife over with something like reverence, testing its wicked edge against his thumb. Just let Kaber try knocking him around again! Gathering what few belongings he owned, together with anything of Kaber's that struck him as useful, he set off in search of new lodgings.

"Sounds like an accident," Alec said as soon as they were well away from the ruined warehouse. "He must have slipped coming down those slates, just like I did."

Seregil looked doubtful. "It's hard to believe Tym could fall. He's been over those roofs all his life. And the missing knife, that bothers me. Tym only drew his blade when he meant to use it. If it was in its sheath when he fell, Skut would have taken it. He said himself it wasn't there. Besides, if Tym had gone clattering over the slates, the boy would have heard it."

"And what happened to the body?" mused Alec.

They'd already made the rounds of the charnel houses.

"From the sound of it, he didn't just get up and walk away."

Seregil shrugged. "There are plenty strange characters in Rhiminee who'd pay for a corpse."

Alec grimaced. "Like who?"

"Oh, the mad and the curious, mostly. There was one man, a lord, no less, who wanted to determine which organ contained the soul. Artists have been known to use them, too, sculptors in particular. I recall a woman was executed after it was discovered that she'd used human skeletons as armatures for statues she was casting for the Dalnan retreat house.

According to the story, a priest stopped by her shop to see how the work was coming along and inadvertently knocked over one of the life-size clay models. The head struck the floor at his feet and split open to reveal an all too lifelike mouthful of teeth."

"You're joking!"

"It's the Maker's truth. Valerius has told that story a hundred times. "Burn 'em or leave 'em alone!" was generally the moral of the tale. As for Tym, though, it could be necrophiles or just some poor starving sod—"

"Enough, I get the idea," Alec growled. He had no idea what a necrophile was and didn't think he wanted to know; the thought of cannibalism was nauseating enough all by itself.

"What? Oh, sorry. All that aside, I think it's more likely that Rythel or some of his associates caught Tym spying and wisely disposed of the body. We'd better have a look up there ourselves."

They waited until it was full dark, then rode down to Sailmaker Street. The inhabitants of the house were still awake and at their suppers; their own clatter would cover any noise Seregil might make going over the slates.

With Alec on watch below, he climbed the rickety stairs at the back of the house and pulled himself onto the roof. Looping a rope around a chimney pot, he crept cautiously down to the eaves just over

Rythel's window.

He spotted the knife at once, its naked blade gleaming cleanly in the gutter.

Stretched out on his belly, face just inches from the knife, Seregil regarded it for a moment, wondering how Tym—quick, clever, deadly Tym—could have been caught out on the edge of a bare roof and not drawn a drop of blood before he died.

You were good, Tym, but it looks like we all meet our match sooner or later, he mused, reaching for the dead thief's knife. The thought sent a brief chill up his spine as he grasped the scarred hilt. Hurrying on its heels, however, came the still more chilling memory of sending Alec to burgle the room by himself. Was it any more than Illior's luck that whoever Tym had run afoul of had not been on hand for Alec's visit?

Tucking the knife into his belt with a silent prayer of thanks, he worked his way back the way he'd come and found Alec waiting across the street.

"I checked the yard," he told Seregil. "All I found was this." He held up a small, fancy button of carved bone. "Anytime I saw him, his clothes were pretty fancy under the dirt."

Seregil nodded. "True enough. What about bloodstains?"

"Too much rain and foot traffic. Did you have any luck?"

Alec's eyes widened a bit at the sight of the knife. "I'll be—But where does that leave us?"

"Nose deep in the shit heap, I suspect,"

Seregil sighed. "I expect that map is long gone, and it's two more days before we can check. Rythel will be done with his good work in the sewers by then and we still don't have a clue who's behind him on this. Now the bastard's cost me a good thief to boot."

Alec looked up at the place Tym had fallen.

"If Nysander hadn't called us away that night—"

Seregil shook his head. "Then we'd be wiser or dead, too. It's useless to speculate. It's time to grab our man, but we've got to do it quick and proper. And for that, we'll need a wizard's help."

He touched Tym's dagger again. "Maybe Nysander can get something out of this, while we're at it. Let's see if he's home."

Galloping up the Harbor Way, they rode at full tilt through the streets toward the Oreska House. Catching sight of its high spires looming ahead of them at last, they were relieved to see a light burning in the east tower.

They found Nysander and Thero at work over a malodorous collection of bubbling limbics and crucibles. At one end of the worktable a handful of unpolished broad arrow points lay in a little heap on a leather pad.

Seregil saw Alec's eye stray toward these, but they had more pressing matters at hand.

"Can you get any sort of a sighting off this?" he asked, showing Nysander Tym's dagger.

Wiping his hands on a stained rag, Nysander took it and turned it over in his hands for a moment, then grasped it and closed his eyes.

After a moment, however, he shook his head and handed it to Thero. "There is a faint trace of magic about it, but I cannot say what sort or how long it had been there."

"Objects seldom retain much," Thero observed. "His body would have told us more."

"Obviously someone else knew that," Seregil muttered, dropping onto the nearest bench with a disgusted grunt. "We're getting nowhere! Let's just reel Rythel in. Week's end is the night after tomorrow. I say we keep a close eye on him, and hit him then."

"That would appear to be the next logical step," Nysander agreed. "What will you need?"

"A translocation key. Make it something small I can hand him without raising suspicion. A rolled document should do the trick. As Lord Seregil, I can talk it up to be a salable item. I think we can count on our man's greed."

"Excellent. And I shall make arrangements with the warder at Red Tower Prison. We will pop him into a cell before he can wiggle loose."

Seregil turned to Alec, hovering expectantly beside him. "You'll nip in and toss his room as soon as he leaves for his weekly whoring. Even if the map's gone, there may be something else incriminating lying around. We don't want to give anyone else time to clean up after him once we've got him. As soon as you're done there, meet us at the prison."

Alec grinned, ready for the hunt. "This shouldn't take too long."

Seregil grinned back, glad to see an end to this particular job. "Hell, we'll probably be able to catch the second performance at the Tirarie Theater!"