Lynn Flewelling - The White Road

Thero gaped at them. “Hâzadriëlfaie? Really?”

“That’s who was chasing us when we met you at the Bell and Bridle,” Alec told him. “It’s a long, long story after that.”

“Another one. Then you’d better come downstairs and tell them.”

“Is Magyana still awake?” asked Seregil. “She’ll want to hear it, too.”

“She went down to Rhina to visit Hermeus. I’ll send word to her tomorrow.”

“Oh, and before we go any farther?” Seregil pointed to Alec’s hair; Thero’s magic had not worn off and it was still brown. “Will you please put this right?”

“Of course.” Thero stood behind Alec and ran his hands over his head. When he was through Alec’s hair was back to its normal honey blond.

“Ah, that’s much better!”

“And these,” said Alec, pushing his sleeve back to show him the slave brand.

Thero removed those as well, and led them down the back stair to his tidy sitting room.

The room hadn’t changed since Nysander’s day. There was still the band of mural around the room, magical as well as decorative, and the old comfortable furnishings. A dining table stood at the center of the room, with armchairs by the hearth beyond. The walls were filled with bookcases, scroll racks, and dusty objects of uncertain origin.

Thero wove a quick spell on the air with one finger and a burlap-wrapped wine jar appeared on the table, still crusted with snow from Mount Apos. He poured them goblets of the chilled Mycenian apple wine and they sat down at the table with the books.

Seregil took a long sip of the cold wine and sat back in his chair. “Oh, I have missed that!”

“The books?” Thero asked impatiently.

“I think you’ll find this one of the most interest.” Seregil said, showing him the one with the most drawings of rhekaros. “I don’t know if the whole thing is about the making of them, but I tried to get as much of it for you as I could.”

“Excellent!” Thero looked as happy as Micum’s daughter Illia with a new necklace. “This is wonderful! Given Yhakobin’s skills, this could prove very useful, even if it is incomplete. I’ll need your expertise in figuring out the code, I’m sure.”

“Once we get settled in again,” Seregil promised, then presented Thero with the oo’lus. “I thought you’d like these, too.”

“Also part of the long story,” Alec told him.

Thero refilled the cups. “I’m ready to hear it.”

It did take quite a while, even with two of them telling it. When they were done, Thero shook his head. “I’m sorry about Sebrahn, Alec.”

“It was the best thing we could do,” Alec told him, but there was still a raw edge of sadness in his voice.

“The things you two survive! It never fails to amaze me.”

Seregil saluted him with his empty cup, then set it aside.

“Where are you going tonight? You’re welcome to stay here.”

“Thanks, but we’re headed for the Stag,” Alec told him.

“Shall I send word to Runcer?”

“No, thanks.” As much as Seregil trusted the man who oversaw the running of the Wheel Street villa, he didn’t want to chance word getting out of their return.

“When will you see the queen? She’s not very happy with me for coming back without you, or about your extended absence.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you were still in Bôkthersa, recuperating and visiting your family.”

“Thank you. We’ll send word to the Palace tomorrow after we’ve had a bit of a rest. And that’s what I need right now. Come on, Alec.”

Thero walked upstairs with them and saw them to the door.

“I know you’ll guard those books carefully,” said Seregil. “It’s a relief to be rid of them.”

“I’ll take good care of them.”

With that duty discharged, they backtracked through the Noble Quarter to Golden Helm Street and on past the round colonnade of the Astellus fountain and the arched entrance to the Street of Lights. The colored lanterns in front of the elaborate brothels were lit and there were still quite a number of people on the street, heading for the favors of a favorite courtesan, or the gambling houses at the far end. A good many were soldiers.

From here they entered a twisting maze of narrow streets toward Blue Fish Street.

They were nearly there when they heard the telltale scuffle of feet behind them. The lanterns were few and far between in this part of the city, but there was enough light from the nearest for Seregil to count five men. They were young and dressed like ruffians. He didn’t see any swords, just clubs and staffs and a few long knives.

“And where might you be going?” asked one with a northern accent.

“Those are pretty horses you have there,” said another with a head of wild curly hair.

Two of them were advancing, probably meaning to cut the lead reins of Windrunner and Star. Smelling the brandy on them, Seregil let out a heavy sigh. “You don’t want to do this.”

“I don’t see the bluecoats anywhere,” the leader said with a confident leer.

“He’s trying to do you a favor,” Alec warned.

The man laughed. “I think you two better come down off those horses. Now.”

“Why would we do that?” asked Seregil.

The man swung his club in a vicious arc in front of him. “We mean to lighten your load, that’s why! So you can stop acting so high and mighty, my lordlings. We’ll take those bags, and your purses. And that’s a nice bow you’re carrying, too, Yellow Hair.”

Moving as one, Seregil and Alec swung down from the saddle and drew their swords. The polished Aurënen steel caught the faint light.

Two of the men in front of them stepped back a little, but the three others rushed them, swinging their clubs. Alec ducked a blow from the fare most and slashed the man across the chest, striking to wound rather than kill. It had the desired effect; the man dropped his club and staggered back. Seregil struck the other one—the erstwhile leader—across the face with the flat of his blade, opening up his cheek and stunning him. The rest turned tail and ran.

Satisfied, Seregil went to the man who lay doubled up on the ground and gave him a hard nudge with his foot, pushing him over onto his back.

“Please, sir, don’t kill me!” the man pleaded, craven now.

“I did warn you.” Holding him down with a foot on his chest, Seregil put the tip of his sword under the man’s chin and helped himself to the thief’s purse. “You really should be more careful about choosing your marks.”

The man gaped up at him in terror. “Please sir! I’m sorry! Maker’s Mercy, please don’t—”

Seregil looked over at Alec, who was still standing over the other man. “What do you say?”

“Not worth getting our blades dirty.”

“I suppose not. On your feet, you pathetic bastard. Take your friend here and run away before we change our minds.”

“He’s no friend of mine!” the coward exclaimed and staggered away behind the horses.

“No honor among some thieves,” said Alec.

Seregil sighed. “That was hardly any fun at all.”

Mounting again, they continued on, alert for reprisals.

The Stag and Otter was dark. Bypassing the front door, they led their horses to the back courtyard and left them with the sleepy stable lad, then went in by the kitchen door.

Seregil went to the mantelpiece above the broad hearth and took down the large painted pitcher that stood at the center of it.

“Well, well.” He felt inside and held up three folded vellum packets and a small scroll tube, no doubt delivered by Magyana or Thero. “We’ve been missed.”

Alec lit a candle from the banked coals and they made their way up to the second floor, where Seregil unlocked the door of an empty storeroom and locked it again carefully behind them. Crossing to the opposite wall, he spoke the ward that opened the hidden panel there.