Lynn Flewelling - Traitor's Moon

"He and Lord Seregil are away on queen's business. You may leave a message for them, if you wish."

"I do," Seregil told him. "The message is that Lord Seregil and

Sir Alec have returned. Get out of the way, whoever you are. Where's Runcer?"

"I'm Runcer."

"Runcer the Younger, maybe. Where's old Runcer?"

"My grandfather died two months ago," the man replied, not moving. "As for who you might be, I'll need more than just your word for that!"

Just then a huge white hound pushed past the man and reared up to lick Seregil's face, wagging its shaggy tail frantically.

"Marag will vouch for me," Seregil laughed, pushing the dog off and scratching her ears.

In the end, however, they had to summon the cook to identify them. Young Runcer apologized profusely, and Seregil gave him a gold sester for his caution.

Giving Alec first turn in the small bath chamber upstairs, Seregil wandered the house, feeling like his own ghost. The lavish woodland murals of the salon seemed garish after Sarikali's austerity. His bedchamber upstairs, furnished in Aurenfaie style, felt more welcoming. Opening a door at the opposite end of the corridor, he smiled to himself. This had been Alec's room. They hadn't been lovers when they'd left.

He'd had his own cot at the Cockerel, too.

Turning, he found Alec leaning in the bath chamber doorway, water dripping from his hair onto his bare shoulders.

"We can't just avoid that part of the city forever," he said, guessing Seregil's thoughts easily enough. "I won't feel like we've really come home until I see it."

Seregil closed his eyes and rubbed at the lids, wishing for once that he couldn't feel the pull of Alec's longing. "After dark," he said, giving in.

They dressed in old clothes and dark cloaks, shedding their public personas as easily as the garments themselves.

Going on foot, they followed the Street of the Sheaf west toward the Harvest Market. On the way they passed the Astellus Circle and the Street of Lights. The colored lanterns of the brothels and gaming houses still glowed invitingly there, in spite of the war.

Reaching the poorer quarter behind the Harvest Market, they hesitated at the final turning onto Blue Fish Street. Each had his own memories of the horrors they'd witnessed here.

The ruin of the Cockerel was still there. The land belonged to

Seregil, by way of various false names. Not even Runcer had known of this place or his connection to it.

Chunks of rubble and most of the courtyard wall had been carried off by other builders, but one kitchen wall and the chimney still stood against the night sky, their broken edges softened by a thick growth of creeper. Somewhere among the tangled branches, an owl hooted mournfully. The night wind rustled the leaves and moaned faintly through broken brickwork.

Alec whispered something under his breath, a Dalnan prayer to lay ghosts to rest.

They had their pyre, Seregil thought, fighting down images of blood and dead lips speaking. He'd set the place ablaze himself, just to be certain.

In the back court, they found no sign of the stable, but the well had been cleared and appeared to be still in use. Thryis's kitchen garden had run wild nearby. Masses of mint, basil, and borage had spread to claim earth formerly the purview of the old woman's tidy rows of lentils and leeks.

"All the time we lived here, I don't think I ever used the front door," Alec murmured, picking his way over charred beams to the broken mouth of the hearth. The mantelpiece was still there above it. Mice had taken up residence in the warming oven.

Seregil leaned against the empty doorframe and closed his eyes, remembering the room as it had been: Thryis leaning on her stick as she fussed over her kettles and pots; Cilia peeling apples at a table nearby while her father, Diomis, tended the baby. He could almost smell the aromas: lamb and leek stew, new bread, crushed garlic, ripe summer strawberries, the sour reek of the cheese presses in the pantry. The Cavishs had taken breakfast in this kitchen when they visited the city for festivals. Nysander had had a particular fondness for Cilia's mince tarts and her father's beer.

The memories still hurt, but the edges were blunted.

Dance the dance.

"Damn, what's that?" Alec hissed.

Startled, Seregil opened his eyes in time to see a small, dark form dart out of the hearth. It dodged past Alec but tripped over something and went sprawling. Overhead, the owl and its mate took flight in a flurry of wings.

Seregil pounced on the struggling shadow, which turned out to be a ragged boy. He couldn't have been more than ten, but he rolled to his knees quick as a snake and pulled a dagger on Seregil, cursing him ripely in a high, shaky voice.

"Here's a proper Rhiminee nightrunner, if the stink and vocabulary are anything to go by," Seregil said in Aurenfaie.

"Bilairy take you, spirits!" the boy snarled, trapped between Seregil and a fallen beam.

"We're not ghosts," Alec assured him.

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Seregil caught the boy by his dagger hand and pulled him forward. The lad couldn't be making much of a living for himself. His skinny wrist felt like a bundle of cords in Seregil's grip.

"What do you call yourself?" he asked, twisting the knife free.

"Like I'd tell you!" the boy spat out. With another burst of initiative, he kicked Seregil in the shin and yanked loose, escaping with the agility of a rat.

Alec's laughter echoed weirdly off the ruined stonework, but it was full-hearted all the same.

"If the neighbors do think this place is haunted, this ought to put the seal on it." Seregil grimaced as he sat down and rubbed his leg. "Quite a welcome, eh?"

"The best we could ask for," Alec gasped, sitting down beside him. "Owls, footpads—I think it's a sign."

"Take what the Lightbearer sends and be thankful," Seregil murmured, looking around again.

"It was a good place, the first one I ever really thought of as home," Alec said, sobering a little. "If someone were to build a new place here, do you suppose they'd haunt it?"

Seregil knew who «they» were. "If they did, it would be a sorry thing for them to find no one but strangers, don't you think?"

Alec was quiet a moment, then said, "We could do with a bit more room than we had, the way you clutter things up. It might be hard to find someone trustworthy to run it, though. And to do the magicking, too, with Magyana and Thero gone."

"It could be managed." Seregil smiled to himself in the darkness. "You know, I never could stand playing the noble for long, and I've had my fill of it these past few months."

"It'd be bad luck to use the same name. We'd need a new one." Alec leaned down and pulled something from beneath the beam—a long barred wing feather. "How about the Owl?"

"The Dragon and Owl." Ya'shel khi, a voice whispered in Seregil's heart. "After all, we'd want to attract the right sort of trade."