The White Road

CHAPTER 29 Paths Cross

SEREGIL and the others spent that day and the next exploring the seaside district, taking note of potential hiding places in abandoned buildings and accessible cellars, and the layout of the streets. The new inn where Micum had taken a room was just two streets way from Ulan’s villa, and had a spacious slave pen in the back, the door held by nothing but a stout bar; Micum was no hand at picking locks. For the time being, Seregil, Alec, and Rieser were the only ones there. There was no heat, but the straw was deep and clean and Micum saw to it that they had blankets and passable food.

Leaving his slaves behind, Micum went out to taverns each night, seeking information about Ulan’s habits. He’d done this sort of nightrunning innumerable times over the years. He enjoyed the challenge of finding the right tosspot to coax information from. Most folks he talked to here didn’t pay the Virésse any mind, though some allowed that Ulan was a fine man to trade with, except for being Aurënfaie. There was one well-dressed fellow, a cloth merchant, who confirmed what Micum had learned at Virésse: that Ulan í Sathil bought back slaves taken from the Virésse and the Goliníl fai’thasts, and that he had bought the majority of them from Charis Yhakobin before the alchemist’s murder. A few more men gathered around them when they overheard the name.

“That was the first slave killing in years,” one of the old ones told him. “It’s made a lot of masters take sterner measures with their own slaves, especially the males. And in the markets there’s more call now for little ones that you can train up right. The slavers can hardly keep up with the demand.”

Micum also learned that the Virésse ’faie kept carefully to themselves here in Riga, never ventured out unless in an armed group, and even then seldom at night and never to anywhere like a tavern. Not everyone respected the treaty between Plenimar and Virésse. As several of Micum’s drinking companions were glad to tell him, once you got their head rags off and got a brand and collar on, who could tell one ’faie from another? And who was going to take the word of a slave if they tried to tell? A mile or two inland no one gave a damn about Virésse; a slave was a slave and they all lied.

He returned the second night to find Seregil and Alec in the midst of an argument made up of hand signs and whispers.

“What’s going on?” Micum asked.

“He says I’m not going in!” Alec whispered, and it was clear it was an effort to keep his voice down.

“Why?”

“We were nearly caught last time,” Seregil told him. “If he gets you and the book?” He gave Alec a meaningful look that was half order, half plea. “It’s too risky.”

In the end Alec gave in, but he wasn’t happy about it.

One more day and Rhal should be there to meet them. That night, Micum waited until the house was asleep, then took up a pack and stole out to the slave pen. He lifted the bar as quietly as he could and let the other three out. Behind them, Micum could just make out two bodies prone on the thick straw that covered the floor. Another man with slaves had come to the inn that afternoon.

“Quick, the rope!” Seregil hissed. Micum pulled it from the pack and Seregil cut four short lengths of it. He and Alec quickly tied up the unconscious slaves. That done, they gagged them both with rags.

“I hate to do that to them,” Alec murmured as they stole away from the inn. “They have a hard enough life as it is.”

“There’s no help for it,” Seregil said.

The groom in the stable woke while they were saddling their horses, but a quiet word from Micum and a coin or two was enough to make him think they were getting an early start on a long ride.

They made their way to a small side street behind Ulan’s villa. There they tethered their horses in front of an abandoned house just up the street and moved silently back to the wall. All was dark up and down the street. There were no trees to climb, or sturdy vines, and the stonework didn’t offer much purchase, either. They’d have to chance the muffled grapple again.

Seregil scanned the top of the wall for torches and sentries, but saw neither. “That’s odd.”

“The man must feel safe behind his high walls,” whispered Rieser.

“Just because there isn’t light doesn’t mean there aren’t any guards,” whispered Alec.

“I hope this isn’t a fool’s errand,” muttered Micum.

“So do I.”

Seregil spun the grapple on the rope and sent it flying up to the top of the wall. It missed and nearly brained Rieser when it fell. The second try was successful, but the hooks of the grapple grated against stone as they found purchase. They pressed up against the wall, waiting for an outcry, but nothing happened. Micum would almost have been happier if there had been. At least they’d know where the guards were.

Seregil checked that his tool roll and Micum’s knife were tucked securely in his belt under his shirt, then slung the loose cotton bag over one shoulder. With a kiss for luck from Alec tingling on his lips, Seregil quickly scaled the wall, his bare feet making hardly a whisper against the rough stone.

Pausing just under the top of the wall, he listened carefully, but heard nothing except the faint tinkling of bells. He chanced a look over, and found there was no parapet. A formal garden filled the space between the wall and the back of the house, a white crushed-shell path bright between the dark clipped hedges and flower beds. The sound of bells must be wind chimes hung somewhere in the garden.

Dark windows like accusing eyes lined both the lower and upper stories, and torches burned on either side of a central door framed with two imposing pillars that seemed too big for the plain façade. It wasn’t Aurënfaie architecture, and he couldn’t be certain it was similar to a Skalan villa, either, which meant he’d have to be doubly careful, and probably take more time finding what he wanted. At least in Skala the houses usually followed a somewhat similar plan.

From here he could also see that the sides of the house stood apart from the surrounding wall—just the sort of place to find a side door.

There were no watchmen or dogs in sight. Pulling the rope up, he reset the grapple and slowly paid the rope down into the shadows below. Seating the grapple more firmly on top of the wall, he climbed down into the garden. He debated taking the rope with him, but that meant carrying the heavy grapple, too, and he suspected the night’s job was going to need more finesse than that would allow. It was dark here; perhaps no one would see the rope, even if they happened by.

Clipped turf gave softly under his feet as he moved silently toward the right side of the house. The torchlight reached nearly to that corner, and he had to make a dash to the safety of the shadows beyond.

The lack of watchmen, not to mention dogs, was making him nervous.

There was no door on this side of the house, or windows, since there was no view, he supposed. Skirting back the way he’d come, he approached the left side of the house. A low wall separated the main gardens from a smaller courtyard, with a well, kitchen garden, and wood stack. This at least was familiar ground; where there was a kitchen garden, the kitchen was usually not far away.

Sure enough, there was a promising door near the back of the house. It was flanked on either side with rain butts fed by sturdy wooden downspouts that offered a way upstairs if he needed it. As it turned out, he did. The kitchen door was barred from the inside, so there was no lock to pick.

Seregil pressed his ear to the door, but either there was no one stirring or the door was too thick for him to hear anything. He stepped back and scanned the upper story of the house. There was a window close enough to the downspout; he hoped Ulan didn’t lock up his windows as tightly as he did his kitchen.

Gripping the drainpipe in both hands, he gave it a shake. It held solid and felt sturdy enough. He took several small picks and a wooden shim from his tool roll and stuck them in the corner of his mouth.

The wooden pipe held. Holding tight to it with one hand, he leaned over as far as he could and slipped the shim between the two leaded glass panels of the window, then slowly moved it up and down until he found the latch and unhooked it.

Swinging the far panel open, he stretched over and got his footing on the bottom of the deep casement. He crouched there for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the deeper darkness of the room. Gradually he could make out enough to know that this was a sitting room or ladies’ day room. He lowered himself to the floor, which was partially covered by a round rug.

This is as good a place to start as any, he thought, although it was unlikely that Ulan would leave the book lying around in plain sight.

There were a few books on a side table near the hearth, but they were much smaller than the one Alec had described. Chancing the lightstone, he quickly paged through them anyway, but they were common romances, nothing more. He crossed to the door and inched it open. Beyond it lay a short hallway. Two small night lamps in sconces lit it well enough to see several doors on each side of the corridor and where it took a turn at the far end. A pair of expensive shoes sat next to one of the doors near the corner, set out for some servant to clean. Just as he was about to head down the hall to begin his search, he heard footsteps from the far end. A man wearing a Virésse sen’gai and a short sword at his hip came around the corner and started in Seregil’s direction.

Seregil quickly dropped the lightstone down the neck of his shirt and waited, weighing his options and keeping watch through the crack of the door. He could knife the man as he passed, but once again the thought of spilling ’faie blood kept his hand from his knife. No, he’d much rather knock him out or choke him unconscious and leave him here alive.

But the man seemed satisfied with his search halfway down the corridor. Turning back, he disappeared the way he’d come.

Seregil waited until he was certain he was gone, then inched the door open and listened. Yes, there were more men beyond that corner.

He crept silently down the hallway and chanced a quick peek around the corner. A short stairway led down to an open door, and from here he could make out enough of the murmured conversation to know that they were expecting a burglary.

But why are they down there? Why only one man making a cursory search up here?

Because it’s a trap, of course.

Keeping a sharp ear out, he quickly began his search, inching each door open a little and listening intently for breathing before chancing the lightstone. The first two were unoccupied bedchambers; there was no sign of books of any size. He even lifted the rugs and felt under the beds for some secret hiding place under the floorboards, but there was nothing to be found.

Moving on, he opened the door across from the occupied bedchamber, well aware, as he slipped inside, that any sound he made here was likely to be heard.

This room overlooked the garden. The torches below cast enough light for him to see that it was a library, with a few half-filled bookcases against the walls, several armchairs, and a long table with unlit lamps on either end and several orderly stacks of books between them. Large books.

Too easy, he thought again, expecting any moment for armed guards to burst in. Going to the window, he unlatched it and peered down. Fancy carved stonework looked like it offered enough purchase to climb down low enough to jump if he had to. With that settled, he turned his attention to the books.

Ilar bit his knuckle to keep silent as he left the low divan and cautiously peered out between the heavy velvet curtains. It was Seregil. It must be. Certainty came when the shadowy figure drew a lightstone on a stick and held it between his teeth as he looked around the room. The sight of that illuminated face made the breath catch in Ilar’s throat and his heart pound. Seregil was dressed only in loose trousers and a shirt, with a slave collar around his neck. Had he been caught and enslaved again by some other master? And if so, what was he doing here like this? Ilar couldn’t think straight in his excitement. None of that mattered, anyway. Seregil was here!

Seregil was examining the books Ulan had set out, quickly paging through each one and setting it aside. There was no sound but the soft ruffle of the paper. Apparently not satisfied with what he found, he began searching the bookshelves, taking down only the larger books. This brought him closer and closer to the alcove, and Ilar began to feel lightheaded. All the old yearning came over him in full force and before he knew what he was doing, he parted the curtains and stepped out, revealing himself when Seregil was hardly more than arm’s length away. Seregil quickly backed away, shoving the lightstone under his shirt and drawing a knife in its place. Ilar knew he should raise the alarm, even at the risk of his life, but they both stood frozen, staring at each other in the faint light from outside. Then, before he gathered anything like coherent thought, Ilar sank to his knees, shaking with excitement and guilt, unable to make a sound.

Seregil stared down at him, face lost in shadow now, though the knife blade still caught the light from the window. “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

“I—” Ilar struggled to find his voice. “I am under the khirnari’s protection now. This—” he gestured weakly around the library. “It’s a trap. For you. And Alec.”

Seregil looked around quickly again, but Ilar reached out a hand to him. “No, not unless I call out. And I won’t, I swear! Ulan has the books about the rhekaros and he needs—”

“I know what he needs. Wait, did you say ‘books’? You mean there’s more than one?”

“Yes. Three. And he was certain you would come looking for them, once he knew that you’d come back to Riga.”

“He—? Never mind. Where are they?”

“Take me with you!”

“You said Ulan has offered you his protection.”

“Please!” Ilar didn’t even know what he was pleading for, except that he wanted to be near this man, to somehow …

“If only you’d forgive me!” he whispered, voice quavering as the tears came.

Seregil’s manner softened a little. “Tell me where the books are, Ilar, and I’ll consider it. You already helped us once, and I haven’t forgotten that. But I need those books. They’re not here, are they?”

“I’ll tell you, but only if you take me with you!”

“How am I supposed to do that? You could no more get out the way I got in than fly!”

“I know a way,” Ilar told him, desperate.

“Another tunnel?”

“No, a postern door with only one guard.”

“And that’s where the trap really springs, is it?”

“No! I swear by Aura,” Ilar exclaimed, forgetting himself.

Seregil clapped a hand over Ilar’s mouth, then dragged him bodily back into the dark alcove, leaving just enough space between the curtains to see the door. An instant later Ulan’s man Tariel burst noisily in with sword drawn.

Seregil still had an arm around him, and put his lips so close to Ilar’s ear that it sent a shiver through him. “Get rid of him!” The arm fell away and a hand pressed firmly between Ilar’s shoulder blades.

Quaking with fear, Ilar emerged from the alcove, careful not to leave any gap in the curtains.

“What are you doing in here?” Tariel asked in surprise.

“I—I was just—” He took a shaky breath. “I fell asleep while I was reading. I must have cried out in a dream.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Reading with no lamp?”

“I was sleepy, so I lay down in the alcove … It must have gone out.”

Tariel shook his head. “You should go back to your room before you take a chill.”

“I’m not tired, and I want to read some more,” Ilar told him, gathering a little courage now that his ruse had worked.

“Suit yourself, then,” the man said, sheathing his sword. “But see you don’t rouse the house with your dreams.”

As soon as he was gone, Seregil pulled him back into the alcove and put his lips to Ilar’s ear again. “You did well. How did you know that I was coming?”

Ilar nearly blurted out the truth, but suddenly he didn’t want to confirm what Seregil had no doubt already discerned for himself. Torn between his loyalty to the khirnari who’d saved him and the man he dreamed of every night, he couldn’t get any words out at all.

But Seregil read his silence. “That was Ulan’s footpad the other day, wasn’t it? So the khirnari guessed I was coming at some point, and put you here to watch for me. But why you?”

“No one else knows about them,” Ilar told him. “The books.”

“So he’s protecting his dirty little secret. It wouldn’t do for his people to learn of things like rhekaros, and how they’re made, would it?”

Ilar shook his head.

Seregil suddenly reached out in the dark and cupped Ilar’s cheek with one hand—as close to a tender gesture as Ilar had had from him since they’d met again in Yhakobin’s house. “But you saved me instead—again,” he said gently. “Tell me where the books are, and we’ll go.”

Ilar’s heart leapt. “They’re in the khirnari’s room.”

“Bilairy’s Balls!” Seregil muttered, taking his hand away. “Of course they are.”

Ilar caught it and pressed it back to his cheek. “I won’t run away this time. I won’t be any trouble!”

“All right, but you have to tell me where in his room.”

Ilar’s heart swelled with hope. “Locked behind a hidden panel in the casework at the head of the bed. I can show you!”

Seregil was glad the darkness hid his pitying smile as he placed his left hand on Ilar’s shoulder. “Thank you. I won’t forget this. And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For—”

Seregil struck him a controlled blow to the chin, then caught him as Ilar went limp and held him a moment, shocked at how thin the man was, and how pathetic; nothing like the vindictive creature who’d tormented Seregil in the alchemist’s house. He felt nothing for Ilar now except pity, and perhaps a touch of guilt for playing him so dirty this time—especially after he’d kept Seregil secret from the guard just now.

The second time you’ve risked yourself to help me, damn it! What in Bilairy’s name do you want from me?

Forgive me! Ilar’s voice whispered in his mind.

Standing there in the darkness, Seregil weighed all the help Ilar had been—tonight and when they’d escaped from Yhakobin’s house—against the sight of Alec hanging facedown in the alchemist’s cage. By Ilar’s own admission, he’d put Alec there.

“Forgive?” Seregil whispered. “No.”

Placing the unconscious man on the divan at the back of the alcove, he quickly bound him with the drapery cords and gagged him with a clean handkerchief he found in Ilar’s sleeve. Seregil left him there with the heavy draperies drawn shut and moved silently across to the door. The guard had obligingly left it slightly ajar and he was able to open it just enough to see that the corridor was once again empty. The sounds of a dice game came up the stairway.

The street wasn’t as deserted as Alec had hoped. A few drunken revelers happened by, but they were too blind with liquor to notice them. Not so with the night watchman who came by a few minutes later. He said something to Micum, sounding suspicious, but Micum reassured him somehow.

“Come on, you lazy lot,” he growled at Alec and Rieser. “It’s time we found our inn.”

They went up the street a little way, giving the watchman time to move on, then led the horses into an alley and left Rieser there to guard them while he and Micum kept watch for Seregil. It was cloudy tonight; Alec couldn’t see the stars to judge how long Seregil had been gone, but it felt too long now.

Seregil paused in the hallway just long enough to snuff out the nearest night lamp. Then, bracing himself for a sudden dash, he carefully opened Ulan’s chamber door and slipped inside.

There was no night lamp, a fact Seregil was instantly grateful for when he heard the rustle of bedclothes and an old man’s whispered, “Who’s there? Urien?”

“No, Khirnari, just Ilar,” Seregil whispered back, trying to match Ilar’s slightly tremulous timbre.

“What is it, dear fellow? Why aren’t you on watch?”

Seregil took a cautious step forward, following the sound of the man’s voice. “I thought I heard something.”

There was more rustling and the creak of the bed ropes as Ulan sat up. “Why didn’t you alert Captain Urien?”

“I thought the sound came from your room, Khirnari. I just wanted to see if you were safe.” Seregil could tell he was nearly within arm’s reach of the man. There was an unhealthy smell in the room; Ulan was sick.

And needs a rhekaro to heal him. It must be something serious for him to take such risks.

“Ah, well then, I’m fine. Go back to the library, Ilar.”

Seregil reached out and grasped the old man’s thin hair. Placing the edge of his knife to Ulan’s throat, he brought their faces close together and hissed, “I have other plans, Khirnari.”

“Seregil?” Ulan sounded less surprised than Seregil would have liked. “So I suppose you’ve killed Ilar and now you mean to kill me?”

At this distance, the sickly sweet smell of his illness was strong—something in the lungs, perhaps.

“I’d rather not,” Seregil replied. “All I want are the books.”

“What do you need with them? You have the rhekaro.”

“You know why, Khirnari.”

“It would be comforting to think you meant to use them as I do, but that isn’t so, is it? You want to destroy them, and all the knowledge they contain.”

Seregil wrinkled his nose at the sickly smell on the man’s breath. “You’re dying.”

“By inches. I don’t have long. Not without the rhekaro’s elixir.”

Elixir? thought Seregil. Does he really know so little about them, even with the books? “I know the books are in here, and I know where. I’m going to ask you to keep very quiet while I take them, otherwise I will slit your throat.”

“It seems I underestimate you, even now,” Ulan whispered.

“Let’s just say I’m here to collect a debt on behalf of my talímenios. One it would not do for your people to hear about, eh?”

“Or yours.”

Seregil wished he could see the man’s face now, not liking his tone.

“You know what would happen if your sister learned of my actions toward you and Alec,” Ulan went on.

“You’re actually willing to risk a war to save your own life?”

“Not my life, my clan! Give me the rhekaro and you can have the books. I swear by Aura, I will never trouble you or your talímenios again.”

“I don’t know what your word is worth these days, old man. Not that it matters. We don’t have the rhekaro anymore.”

For the first time Ulan’s voice betrayed a hint of alarm. “Where is it?”

“Far from your grasp. I swear by Aura, too, so give up any hope of that. How long do you have? A handful of months?”

“Less than that. Weeks perhaps.”

“Do you really think that’s long enough to find someone else to work that filthy magic for you?”

“With the books, I can work it myself. Alchemy isn’t our sort of magic; it’s simply joining the right elements in the right manner.”

“The most important of those elements being Alec’s blood. No, Ulan. Give it up.”

A cold hand closed around Seregil’s wrist. “You may keep the brown and the blue books, and Alec; I’m willing to accept the rhekaro and the red book.”

“No. The rhekaro is a living creature. He feels pain, and Alec told me what Yhakobin did to him. But it’s a moot point anyway. I told you, we don’t have him.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m assuming you’ve had us watched. Did any of your spies see a child with us?”

“You’ve hidden him!” Just then a violent coughing fit seized the old man, and he dug his fingers into Seregil’s wrist until it passed. It was brief, but when he wiped his lips on the edge of the white linen sheet, the cloth came away spotted dark. “I am dying,” Ulan told him, wheezing a little. “And I cannot let that happen. Not while Gedre fai’thast remains an open port, draining away our trade. That was never meant to be part of the bargain. The Skalan queen regularly sends emissaries there, and I have reason to believe that she and the Gedre khirnari mean to renege on the pact and keep the port open to Tír trade even when her war is finished.”

“Surely there’s enough trade for both of you?”

“Now, perhaps, but when the war and their need for Aurënfaie horses and steel is past, what then? No! We were betrayed and I will not die before my clan is made secure and prosperous again. Charis Yhakobin made that rhekaro for me, and I mean to have it, or another in its place. Or you can kill me now to stop me. The choice is yours.”

“I may be an outcast, teth’brimash, but I will not spill a khirnari’s blood,” Seregil told him between clenched teeth. “Not even yours. And do you even know what a rhekaro really is? A distillation of the blood of the Great Dragon that made us, carried in the veins of a chosen few, the ones who call themselves the Hâzadriëlfaie. That is what you sold into the hands of someone like Yhakobin.”

“One does what one must for the clan.”

Resisting the urge to shake the old man, Seregil took out the lightstone and tossed it on the bed, then cut the cords of the bed curtains. Ulan’s bones felt brittle as wheat straw as he bound him.

Ulan’s sharp old gaze never left Seregil’s face as he worked. It was a little unnerving. “You’re a fool, Seregil í Korit. With the rhekaro that is already made, I would have all I need to save my people. No one would have to suffer.”

“Except the rhekaro.” Who knew what was in those books, what it took to make these elixirs? Seregil suppressed a shudder, thinking of all Alec had told him of what had been done to Sebrahn and his predecessor. He thought of Sebrahn playing with the dragons, fidgeting off his shoes, climbing into his lap like a real child …

“A small price to pay!” hissed Ulan.

“You have it backwards, old man. You should be spending these last days grooming your successor, not torturing those weaker than yourself. Everyone dies.”

And Alec? Seregil pushed that thought away. That had been Sebrahn’s doing, not his.

“You will never leave these shores, Seregil. Not alive.”

Seregil gave him a crooked grin as he gagged him with a blood-spotted handkerchief. “I’m not a man you want to gamble against, Khirnari.” Once Ulan was secured, Seregil went to work finding the books, aware every moment of Ulan’s hate-filled gaze upon him, and his ineffectual pulling at his bonds.

The bed was built of polished casework, and there were three panels in the headboard. It took only a moment to find the secret latch in the narrow space between two of them and lift it with the point of the knife. The center panel came loose, revealing three books stacked neatly in the dusty space behind. They were large and heavy, and strained the sides of the bag Seregil had brought with him; he had been expecting only one.

Taking up his lightstone again, he looked down at Ulan for a moment, almost reveling in the fury of the glare directed back at him. “I don’t expect this to be the end of things between us, Khirnari. But I won’t be so merciful next time, if you come after us.”

Tucking the lightstone back in his tool roll, he went to the door and listened for a moment. “Good-bye, Ulan í Sathil. Pray to Aura our paths never cross again.”

Alec heaved an inward sign of relief when he saw a dark form slide down the rope. Leaving Micum in the shadows, he stole out to meet Seregil.

Found it? he signed, noting the heavy bag swinging against Seregil’s side.

Seregil nodded and held up three fingers, then signed back, Go, hurry!

He followed them up the street to the alley where Rieser waited for them with the horses.

“Success?” asked Micum, also noting the bag.

“Yes. Ulan saw me and it probably won’t be long before we have company.”

“We should leave the horses and steal more when we can,” said Rieser. “That is what I would do. Horses will be too loud and noticeable this time of the night.”

“So they will,” said Seregil, heading for the narrow passageway at the far end of the alley.

When the door opened again so soon Ulan thought perhaps the young Bôkthersan had come back to kill him after all. But it was Ilar, holding a night lamp from the hallway. His face was ashen, and a sizable bruise was darkening along his jaw.

“Oh Aura! Khirnari! Forgive me!” Hurrying to the bed, he removed the gag and began to pull at the cords that bound Ulan’s hands.

“He overpowered you, too?”

“Yes.” Ilar was concentrating on the rope binding Ulan’s ankles.

Captain Urien burst in with several of his men. “Khirnari! By the Light, I’ve failed you!”

“Indeed you have, Captain,” Ulan said with a sigh as Ilar helped him sit up. “Thieves have broken in and stolen three of my rarest and most valuable books. Large ones—you won’t mistake them. Rouse our Plenimaran hounds and send four of them to the harbor and the gates with word that they are looking for the same red-haired northerner and his three slaves. It seems they’ve followed me to the city. As soon as you have word back, go after them as quickly as you can. Take all your men. I must have those books back, and the blue-eyed slave. I want that one alive!”

Urien hurried out with his men, already shouting orders.

Ilar stayed behind, fidgeting with the hem of one sleeve as he hesitated by the door. He was trembling.

Ulan fixed him with his sharp gaze. “Tell me, Ilar. How did Seregil know where the books were?”

The younger man fell to his knees, covering his face with his hands, and remained like that in damning silence.

“I see. Very well, then. You will go with Urien to make certain of the books. I wouldn’t put it past Seregil to substitute false ones and hide the others.”

Ilar looked up with mingled anguish and gratitude. “I will, Khirnari. Can you ever forgive my weakness?”

Ulan regarded him a moment longer, until the man began to wilt again. “Come back with the books, Ilar, or don’t come back at all.”

Their days of reconnoitering had not been in vain. Seregil led the way through the dark streets, moving steadily in the direction of the waterfront.

But it was well guarded at night, and there were no small boats moored in close enough to steal. Guards of one sort or another were posted on every quay.

Seregil, Alec, and Rieser tied on their veils and put up their hoods in the shadow of a chandler’s shop.

“We could book honest passage,” Rieser suggested.

“Always a last resort, but I suppose we could try,” Seregil said.

“You three stay here,” said Micum. “I’ll go see what I can find.”

The others watched from their hiding spot as Micum spoke to the guard on one jetty, and then another. He was heading for the third when a mounted man suddenly clattered into view, holding up a lantern.

“Oy, you lot!” he cried out, voice echoing down the waterfront. “I’m looking for four fugitives—a big northerner and three slaves. They’re thieves and there’s a good bounty on their heads.” He wasn’t ’faie, but the spy who’d followed them that first day in Riga hadn’t been, either. Ulan’s money had bought him a few Plenimarans, it seemed.

“Shit!” Seregil muttered. “Well, that’s the end of that.”

“And now Micum’s been seen!” whispered Alec.

If Micum had run for it then, or even turned from his task, it would probably have raised suspicions, but he coolly continued on his way, and Seregil saw money change hands on the fifth jetty. Micum waved to the guards and walked calmly back into the maze of streets at the head of the harbor.

Seregil saw Rieser shake his head and guessed he was more impressed than he’d willingly let on. What they’d just witnessed took a level head and steady nerves that few possessed—traits that made Micum a fine Watcher.

Seregil and the others remained where they were, and Micum soon appeared from the shadows behind them.

“What did you tell them?” asked Alec.

“That I would be back at dawn with my wife and children. The fare wasn’t cheap but it’s bought us some time.”

Ghosting away, they made for the south gate, hoping word of them hadn’t spread that far.

It hadn’t. Micum showed their documents, and the other three submitted to the inspection of their collars and brands.

It wasn’t until one of the guards turned to him that Seregil registered the weight of the tool roll and dagger against his belly under his shirt. Making a show of fumbling with the strings of his bundle and the bag holding the books, he got the knife free and hid it under the bags as he set them down beside Micum. The bored guard glanced at the marks on his arm and leg, matching them against those on the document, then waved them on. Seregil gathered the bags, using his cloak to mask his movements as he tried to kick the knife out of sight between two nearby barrels stacked against a wall, but it had landed point-out and he nearly skewered his foot. One of the curved guards caught between the barrels, leaving most of the thing in plain sight.

“Come on, you!” Micum ordered roughly, cuffing Seregil on the ear. Seregil scuttled quickly under his arm to join the others on the far side of the gate. They were out, free and—

“Hold on there!” one of the guards called after them. “You, trader.”

Micum shot Seregil a tense look, then settled his features into a look of mild impatience as he turned back. “Yes, what is it?”

The guard waved them back, and Seregil’s heart sank as the man held out the knife. “Is this yours?”

“It is!” Micum exclaimed without missing a beat as he felt at his belt in surprise. “Sakor’s Flame!”

The guard glanced back at his companions. “Told you the slave was up to something.” Then, to Micum, “You were too hasty with your dog, there. He was trying to fetch it for you.”

Micum looked at Seregil. “Is that so?”

Seregil bowed his head and nodded mutely.

Micum patted his head roughly, as if he were a dog, then pushed him off toward the others again. “Thank you, Sergeant. That was a gift from my late wife. I’d have been sorry to lose it.”

“Glad to help, trader. Good journey to you! Take care on the road. Say, where are you headed at this early hour?”

Can’t you just let us go? Seregil thought furiously.

“Oh, I’ve got a friend up the road with a warm bed waiting. I meant to be off earlier, but luck was with me at a gaming table,” Micum told him with a chuckle. He threw back his cloak, showing off his sword and Alec’s bow. “And I fear no man on the road, or off it.”

The guard grinned and waved him on. “Good luck to you then.”

The four of them walked on in silence for some time, until Rieser finally broke the silence. “You are an accomplished liar, Micum Cavish.”

Micum grinned. “Many thanks.”

There was no time for complacency, though, knowing that word of them was likely to spread fast, given the bounty. They walked on, passing by houses and hamlets, and then farmsteads. It was dangerously close to dawn now; the houses were dark, but farm householders were notoriously early risers. Coming across one at last with horses in a corral, Seregil went in first to deal with the dogs; then they helped themselves. As they were leading them away, however, a man suddenly shouted behind them and they heard the sound of several people running in their direction. As one they sprang onto their horses’ backs, grabbed them by the manes, and kicked them into a gallop down the road, followed by cries of “Thief!” And, before too much longer, the sound of more horses galloping after them.

“It’s going to be a damn poor end to this journey if we end up hanged for horse thieves,” Micum shouted to the others.

“Rhal should be back,” Alec noted. “If we can just get there—”

If. Seregil tried not to think about what that turnip farmer had told them.

Suddenly he heard a horse scream and looked back over his shoulder just in time to see Rieser’s horse throw him and stagger off on a broken leg.

Alec happened to be the hindmost and saw Rieser’s horse step in the rabbit hole and founder. Rieser was on his feet already. Reining in, Alec gave the man a hand up. Rieser took it and sprang up behind him, then grasped the back of Alec’s shirt as he galloped off after the others. Not a word of thanks, of course.

Micum was in the lead now, and Alec leaned over his mount’s neck, urging it on to catch up. Seregil was looking back, gesturing for him to hurry. Alec checked back over his shoulder and saw the farmer and his men gaining on his more heavily laden horse.

“Oh, Illior, give this horse wings,” he muttered, then started as he saw the foremost rider fall, then another. Micum had stopped and was shooting, his eye as sharp and his hand steady as Alec’s. One by one, he picked off the lead riders until the rest turned tail and rode back the way they’d come.

Alec let out a triumphant whoop and urged his horse on to reach the others as Rieser clung on behind. “It’s about time someone used that bow!” he called out with a laugh.

Micum slung it over his shoulder and took stock of the arrows left in the quiver as he rode. “Less than a score now.”

“Well lost, though,” said Alec. “I didn’t much fancy getting hung from the nearest tree, or having my guts torn out back in the city.”

“But there’s some more people who’ve had sight of us,” Seregil pointed out, not happy about that. As escapes went, this one was a mess. “We’ve got to get off the highroad. We might as well wear signs on our backs, otherwise.”

They left the road and continued cross-country toward the sea, riding more carefully for the horses’ sakes and eating the cheese and dry sausage Micum had thought to bring with him last night, knowing the rest might not have a chance to go back for their packs.

The sun was well up when they struck a track that ran close along the shoreline.

“This must be the other end of the fork we saw when we came in,” said Micum.

“A way less traveled by the look of it,” said Seregil. “What do you say?”

They took it, and found themselves on a winding track that followed the crenellated coastline. They passed one small fishing hamlet and a few lonely houses, but soon the dry, open countryside was deserted, sloping ever down to the rugged sea ledges where the glass-green waves came crashing in with great gouts of white spume. Gulls cried overhead and ospreys soared above, while sea ducks bobbed out beyond the breakers. Tiny yellow and white flowers blossomed along the ledges, and clumps of sea lavender, clinging to what soil there was. The air was sweet with their perfume yet left the taste of salt on Alec’s lips. But for the lack of forests, it was hauntingly similar to the stretch of Plenimaran coastline where Duke Mardus had brought Alec.

As they spelled their horses at a freshet by the roadside at midday, Alec noticed that Micum dismounted a bit awkwardly and stood clutching the horse’s mane a moment. Alec had noticed signs of his leg paining him when they’d stopped earlier, too. Riding without a saddle or stirrups put a strain on anyone’s legs. When Micum led his horse to drink, he was limping noticeably, but he didn’t say anything, so neither did anyone else.

Rieser walked over to Seregil and held out his hand. “I want to see the books.” Seregil unshouldered the bag and undid the strings. Three large leather-bound books slid out. Seregil, Micum, and Alec each took one. Seregil’s shirt hung awry and Alec saw an angry red line where the string had rubbed Seregil’s skin raw during their ride.

The slimmest of them was bound in worn brown leather and stamped with faded gold. It was written in Plenimaran, but Seregil and Micum could make it out. Seregil paged through it to a picture of what looked like a winged naked being, sexless like Sebrahn. “It talks of various elixirs you can make with different sorts of blood, including rhekaro, but I don’t see any recipes.”

“That’s probably in this one,” said Alec, holding up the largest, bound in red leather, with a whole page filled with drawings of winged rhekaros. “This is the book I saw.”

Rieser leaned over Alec’s shoulder and traced a line of text with one grimy finger, not quite touching the page. “So this holds the means of the making?”

“So does this one,” Micum said, holding up the third, to show them another engraving of a rhekaro. “Where were they? How did you find them?”

Seregil looked up at him and sighed. “Ilar. Again.”

“Him?” Alec felt a sinking feeling in his belly. “How did he turn up here?”

“I don’t know. He’s under Ulan’s protection now, but he betrayed him to help me.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Rieser. He might know nothing of Ilar, but betraying a khirnari was a serious matter.

Seregil and Alec both ignored the question.

Instead, Alec raised a skeptical eyebrow. “He told you, and then just let you go?”

“I told him he could come with me. He told me where the books were. I knocked him out and left him to explain himself to Ulan.”

“He’ll just lie his way out of it.”

“Probably. But he’s not our problem now.”

Alec turned his book to show them elaborate engravings of alchemical equipment in various arrangements—flasks, athanors, crucibles, and the like. “I recognize some of these. I saw them being used in Yhakobin’s workshop.”

“It will be useful to someone,” said Seregil.

“No, it will not!” Rieser snapped. “I am taking those back to my people, and no one will use them.”

“We only have your word for that, don’t we?” said Seregil. “I have a better idea. Micum, lend me your knife.”

Taking it, he opened the brown book halfway through and sawed through the binding, splitting it into two parts. “You can have your pick of which half you want, Rieser, but you can’t have it all. I get to pick the next one, and Alec the third.”

Rieser watched in silence as he cut the others, then sighed. “I suppose it’s as good a solution as any.”

“Why not just throw them into the sea?” asked Micum.

“Because things like these have a way of surviving,” Seregil told him. “Let’s try something.”

He gathered enough twigs and dry plants to start a small fire. When it caught, he held the corner of one page to the flame. It didn’t catch fire. None of the books would. “As I expected, you don’t keep such important information in an ordinary book.” He put them back in the bag. “Half of these are yours. We won’t fight you for them. But you know what we want in return.”

Rieser gave them no reply, just walked off down the ledges.

“That was your best solution?” Micum whispered.

“It’s better than fighting over them, assuming that the other Ebrados agree,” said Alec.

Seregil gave them both a crooked grin. “I may not be able to read the code, but I can tell where one chapter ends and another begins. I wouldn’t say I cut each one exactly in half, and I made sure we got what looked like the best parts. They may not be enough to tell us the whole story—”

“Assuming you figure out the code,” said Micum.

“How many times have you seen me fail at that sort of thing?”

“Not often,” Micum admitted.

“And if you can’t, then perhaps Thero can,” said Alec. “He’s handy at that sort of thing.”

“He should be,” said Seregil, giving him a wink. “We had the same teacher. Let’s go.”

“Wait.” Alec cut a piece from his saddle blanket, folded it into a sort of pad, and put it between the bag’s strings and Seregil’s shoulder.

“Thanks, talí,” Seregil murmured.