Stalking Darkness

27

At week's end Seregil and Alec lurked for the last time in the evening shadows across from the smith's tenement. "You don't think he'll, change his pattern, now that the job's finished, do you?" Alec asked for the third time that day. His new cronies at the Hammer and Tongs had passed on the news that the sewer contract had been fulfilled. So far, there was no word of Master Quarin awarding his nephew more work, or of Rythel requesting it.

Seregil stifled an impatient remark.

"Wait another few minutes and we'll know. Hold on, there he is, and dressed fit for a ball, too!"

As Rythel paused by the lantern over his door, they saw the glint of gold embroidery on the coat beneath his fur-trimmed mantle.

"Looks like we guessed right," Seregil whispered.

Under his black cloak he wore one of his finest claret-colored coats, white doeskin breeches, and a weighty purse.

A boy brought Rythel his mount and the man headed off in the usual direction.

"Luck in the shadows," Seregil whispered, quickly clasping hands with Alec. "See you at the prison."

Flashing him a happy grin, Alec ghosted off toward the tenement's back stairs.

Seregil let Rythel round the corner down the street, then mounted Cynril and set out to arrange a chance meeting with his quarry.

Tonight Rythel bypassed his usual haunts and made straight for the Street of Lights.

They must have given you a nice bonus today, Seregil thought, shadowing him to a gambling house called the Golden Bowl.

Perhaps you're even thinking of setting up in a new line of work with the proceeds. I wouldn't make too many plans just yet, my dear fellow.

Reestablishing contact proved an easy enough matter.

Seregil had hardly stepped inside the card room where Rythel was playing before the man was hailing him like an old comrade.

"Sir Rythel, how good to see you again!" Seregil greeted him, shaking hands warmly as he joined him at the table.

This was clearly a triumph of sorts for Rythel; Seregil could see him scanning the other nobles at the table, gauging their reaction to his reception by one of their own.

"Well met, Lord Seregil," Rythel exclaimed, taking up his cards again. "We'll be getting up a game of Coin and Sword next. Perhaps you'd partner me?"

With the subtlest of winks Seregil nodded, bidding his time.

As before, Seregil talked a great deal during the game, interspersing his gossipy chatter with casual references to various business ventures. He could see Rythel rising to the bait; another few rounds and he'd suggest they retire for a quiet drink somewhere. A private room here would do nicely.

Seregil had just broached the suggestion when a ragged lad appeared with a message for Rythel.

Laying his cards aside, Rythel scanned the scrap of parchment and then tucked it carefully away inside his coat.

"You must excuse me," he said, sweeping his winnings into his purse. "I have a small matter to attend to, but I shouldn't be long. Could we meet here in, say, an hour or two?"

"I expect I'll be here most of the night," Seregil replied, nodding cordially. Then, to set the hook, he gave him a rakish wink and added, "There's a small matter I would appreciate your assistance with. Small but quite possibly lucrative. We can discuss it when you return."

"I'm at your service, my lord." Giving Seregil and the others a bow, he hurried out.

"And since my partner has deserted me, I think I'll take a moment to freshen up." Leaving the table, Seregil retrieved his cloak and hurried outside.

To his surprise, he saw Rythel strolling away on foot. Keeping well back, Seregil followed.

It was a warmish night. The last grimy remnants of snow steamed in the damp night air, mingling with the light fog rolling up from the harbor. Early spring was fast coming to Skala; the dank, rotted smell of it was on the air.

Rythel whistled softly through his teeth as he left the Street of Lights and skirted the Astellus Circle to Torch Street. This soon led them to the narrower streets of the nearby merchants district.

Where in Bilairy's name is he headed to? Seregil wondered.

Ahead of him, Rythel passed out of sight around a corner. Seregil was hurrying to catch up when the quiet of the evening was shattered by the screams of maddened horses. Running to the corner, he saw Rythel some thirty feet away, standing frozen in the middle of the lane as a team of draft horses charged out of the mists at him, the heavy wagon they pulled fishtailing wildly behind them. The lane was desperately narrow; even if Rythel managed to dodge the horses, he would almost surely be crushed by the cart.

With a nightmarish feeling of impotence, Seregil could not even shout as Rythel just stood there, hands raised as if he meant to halt the beasts.

The lead horse struck him full on, cutting short his ragged scream and trampling him beneath its huge hooves. Then the cart jolted sideways and a leg spun out from beneath it, severed by one iron-rimmed wheel.

Seregil leapt back to the safety of the corner and watched the wagon thunder by. Foam hung from the horses" mouths; their eyes rolled in panic.

There was no driver on the bench. One long rein whipped uselessly across their backs.

As the wagon hurtled past, he saw several large hogsheads lashed in the back.

A brewer's wagon, out on the nightly rounds?

Like a nightmare vision, it vanished again into the fog with a thunder of hooves and jangling harness.

Crouched in the shadows, sword drawn, Seregil waited until the clamor had died away, watching to see if anyone would come. When no one did, he ran to where Rythel lay crushed against the wet cobbles.

Bile stirred bitterly at the back of his throat.

It was as bad a mess as he'd ever seen made of a man. The torso was smashed. Pressing the back of one hand over his mouth, he recognized a familiar sourness amid the horrid stench that rose from the mangled flesh.

I bought you that wine, Seregil thought, averting his eyes from the contents revealed in the ruins of the ruptured stomach.

Lips pressed in a thin line of anger and disgust, he dragged the severed leg back and laid it over the corpse, then took out Nysander's magicked scroll, the one he'd meant to hand Rythel only moments before. Grasping it in one hand, Rythel's sound right arm in the other, he pried the wax seal loose with his thumb. An instant later, the street was empty.

"NYSANDER!"

Seregil's furious shout echoed up the prison corridor, jarring Nysander, Alec, and Thero from their patient vigil. Nysander was the first to recover.

Rushing to the cell door, he cast a light spell and peered in through the grate. Inside, Seregil crouched over what appeared to be a tangled mass of clothing. The stink that hit the wizard's nostrils told another story. The door swung open at his command and he stepped in.

"By the Four! What happened?"

"He was run down in the street," Seregil hissed between clenched teeth. "I was practically within arm's reach of him—He just stood there like a rabbit while a runaway brewer's wagon rolled over him and I couldn't do a thing to save him."

Nysander heard a gagging sound behind him and looked up in time to see Thero staggering blindly out, one hand clapped across his mouth. Grim-faced and pale, Alec remained at the open doorway, watching as Seregil stripped back the dead man's blood-soaked garments with savage thoroughness, his fine clothing already smeared with foul-smelling muck.

Seregil was pale as milk, too, but his eyes blazed with fury. Kneeling on the other side of the body, Nysander held his hands a few inches above Rythel's ruined head.

"Again, I sense nothing," he sighed. "You must tell me everything. Was it an accident?"

"I'm getting very leery of accidents," was growled Seregil.

He turned the body over and a bloody purse fell into the straw with a sodden chink of coins. He turned out the purse, inspected the remains of the coat, and then flung the whole lot across the cell.

"Damn it to hell!" he raged. "Damn it to hell! There was a note. Someone summoned him to that place, someone he knew. He sauntered off to his death whistling like a bridegroom! Alec, get the boot off that leg and check it."

Alec dutifully tugged at the boot on the severed leg. It was snugly fit and he had to brace his foot on the remains of the thigh to get it off.

Pulling it free, he felt inside and shook his head. "Nothing here either."

"Or here." Seregil tossed the other boot aside and yanked off the remains of the dead man's trousers.

After another careful inspection, he leapt up with a guttural cry and slammed one bloodstained hand against the cell wall.

Just then Thero reappeared at the doorway. "Forgive my weakness, Nysander," he mumbled, still looking green. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Look well," Nysander replied somberly. "Someday your vocation will take you from the shelter of the Oreska House; you must be strong enough to face such ugliness. This may have been an accident—"

"An accident!" Seregil burst out, glaring down at the body. "Bilairy's Balls, Nysander, the man was murdered, and so was Tym."

"Probably so. And we still do not know who was masterminding this man's work."

"But the map-?" Seregil turned to Alec.

"It wasn't there," Alec replied dully, staring at Rythel.

"Nothing was there. Clothes, papers, chests, everything—gone. The room had been turned out. I don't think he was planning to go back there again. The old woman who owns the house said everything had been taken away by cart this afternoon."

Nysander closed his eyes a moment, then sighed. "Thero and I will retrace your paths tonight using our own methods. Should we uncover anything, I shall inform you at once."

Slipping a hand beneath Alec's arm, Nysander drew the boy from the cell. But Seregil remained, crouching gloomily over the body.

"You clever son of a whore," he whispered at it, barely loud enough for Nysander to overhear. "You were better than I thought."