Stalking Darkness (2 page)

“Well done, Urvay. Spare no expense with him. We must infiltrate the Oreska before spring. You understand? It is imperative.”

“I do, my lord. Shall I make arrangements for you in Rhiminee?”

“No. Nothing’s to be arranged in advance. I’ll contact you when I need you. For now, keep an eye on Pelion and his sorceress.”

Urvay rose and bowed. “I will, my lord. Farewell.”

When he was gone Mardus returned to his interrupted meal, but Vargul Ashnazai found his appetite had fled.

The Oreska, he thought bitterly, fingering the ivory vial that hung from a chain around his thin neck. That’s where they’d gone, the thieves who’d stolen the Eye from under his very nose.

Mardus had nearly killed him that night in Wolde. Worse yet, he’d threatened to banish him from their quest. If Mardus had entrusted him with the disks in the first place, of course, it would never have happened, but that was a point not worth arguing. Not if he cared to live longer than his next word.

His standing with Mardus had eroded steadily ever since.

Even with the power of the Eye itself to aid him, he’d been unable to exercise sufficient power over the fugitives to stop them. The Aurenfaie had proven infuriatingly resistant to his magicks and when he’d finally succumbed to the dragorgos attack at the inn, the boy, that wretched boy, had outmaneuvered them, spiriting his partner away before Mardus and his men could reach the place.

Still holding the vial between his fingers, Vargul Ashnazai pictured the precious blood-soaked slivers of wood inside, slivers he’d gouged from the floor of the Mycenian inn where his dragorgos had overtaken them.

The talisman he’d made with their blood was a powerful guide, so powerful that he’d almost caught them at Keston. But then they’d slipped on ahead by sea and another’s power was growing around them, occluding his own. He’d recognized the resonance of the magic at once. Oreska magic.

And so Mardus and his men had tracked them by methods thoroughly mundane, while he, a necromancer of the Sanctum, rode along like so much useless baggage.

Mardus had been sanguine. They already knew where the thieves were headed, result once again of Mardus’ cold-blooded methods rather than his own. One of the river sailors captured after the destruction of the Darter—this, at least, was Vargul’s work—had screamed out with his last breath what they’d needed to know.

To be sitting here now, no more than two days ride from the stronghold of his enemies, was maddening. So close! he thought, closing his fist around the vial. Mardus saw, and guessed his thoughts. “Why not scry for them again?” Vargul Ashnazai shifted uncomfortably. “It’s been the same for weeks now.”

Mardus glanced over at him, much the way any man might look at another who’s said something mildly surprising. But Mardus was not just any man.

As his gaze met Ashnazai’s, the necromancer felt a stab of fear. It was not madness he saw in his companion’s eyes—never that—but something worse, an obdurate purposefulness steeped with the shadow of their god. Mardus might not have magic, but he had power.

He was touched, chosen.

Held in that remorseless gaze, Ashnazai felt the blood slow in his veins. Clasping the vial more tightly, he placed his other hand over his eyes and summoned the image of the thieves.

For a moment he felt the reassuring pulse of his own considerable power. The inner blackness flowed through him to the vial and beyond, using the essence of the blood to seek its source. Ever since the thieves had reached Rhiminee, however, a veil had dropped over them.

Someone had placed a protective spell over them, and the resistance to his magic was fierce and decisive.

This time was no different. The moment he focused his concentration on their location, he was blinded by a searing vision of fire and huge, leathery wings. The message was clear enough: These people are under the protection of the Oreska. You cannot touch them.

Gasping, Ashnazai let go of the vial and pressed both hands to his face. “No change?” Ashnazai could tell without looking up that the bastard was smiling.

“Then Urvay’s actor is truly a blessing placed in our path. If these two are still under the protection of the Oreska wizards, where better to seek them?”

“I hope you’re right, my lord. When I find them, I’ll crush their beating hearts in my hands!” “Vengeance is a dangerous emotion.”

Looking up, Vargul Ashnazai saw a familiar blankness pass across his companion’s face, the touch of the god.

“You should be grateful to them for leading us to the completion of our quest,” Mardus continued softly, staring into the depths of his cup. “This actor and his sorceress are the seal on that. Patience is the key now. Be patient. Our moment will come.”

S
leet-laden winds lashed in off the winter sea, racketing through the dark streets of Rhiminee like a huge, angry child. Loose shingles and roof tiles tore free and clattered down into streets and gardens. Bare trees swayed and clashed their branches like dead bones in the night. In the harbor below the citadel, vessels were tossed from their moorings to founder against the mores. In upper and lower city alike, even the brothel keepers put up their shutters early.

Two cloak-wrapped figures slipped from a shadowed courtyard in Blue Fish Street and hurried east to Sheaf Street.

“I can’t believe we’re out in this to deliver a damn love token,” Alec groused, shaking his wet, fair hair from his eyes.

“We’ve got the Rhiminee Cat’s reputation to maintain,” Seregil said, shivering beside the boy. The slender Aurenfaie envied Alec his northern-bred tolerance for the cold. “Lord Phyrien paid for the thing to be on the girl’s pillow tonight. I’ve been wanting a peek into her father’s dispatch box anyway. Word is he’s maneuvering for the Vicegerent’s post.”

Seregil grinned to himself. For years, the mysterious thief known only as the Rhiminee Cat had assisted the city’s upper class in their endless intrigues; all it took to summon him was gold and a discreet note left in the right hands. None had ever guessed that this faceless spy was virtually one of their own, or that the arrangement was as much to his benefit as theirs.

The wind buffeted at them from all sides as they pressed on toward the Noble Quarter. Reaching the fountain colonnade at the head of Golden Helm Street, Seregil ducked inside for a moment’s shelter.

“Are you sure you’re up to this? How’s your back?” he asked as he stooped to drink from the spring at the center of the colonnade.

Less than two weeks had passed since Alec had pulled Princess Klia from the fiery room below the traitor Kassarie’s keep. Valerius’ malodorous drysian salves had worked their healing magic, but as they’d dressed tonight he’d noticed that the skin across the boy’s shoulders was still tender-looking in places. Not that Alec would admit it and risk being sent back, of course.

“I’m fine,” Alec insisted as expected. “It’s your teeth I hear chattering, not mine.” Shaking out his sodden cloak, he tossed one long end over his shoulder. “Come on. We’ll be warmer if we keep moving.”

Seregil looked with sudden longing toward the entrance to the Street of Lights across the way. “We’d be a hell of a lot warmer in there!”

It had been months since he’d visited any of the elegant pleasure houses. The thought of so many warm, perfumed beds and warm, perfumed bodies made him feel even colder.

Invisible in the shadows, Alec made no reply, but Seregil heard him shifting uncomfortably. The boy’s solitary upbringing had left him uncommonly backward in certain matters, even for a Dalnan. Such reticence was unfathomable to Seregil, though out of respect for their friendship he did his best not to tease the boy.

The fashionable avenues of the Noble Quarter were deserted, the great houses and villas dark behind their high garden walls. Ornate street lanterns creaked unlit on their hooks, extinguished by the storm.

The house in Three Maidens Street was a large, sprawling villa surrounded by a high courtyard wall. Alec kept an eye out for bluecoat patrols while Seregil tossed the grapple up and secured the rope. The roar of the storm covered any noise as they scrambled up and over. Leaving the rope in a clump of bushes, Seregil led the way through the gardens.

After a brief search, Alec found a small shuttered window set high in a wall at the back of the house. Climbing onto a water butt, he pried back the shutter with a knife and peered inside.

“Smells like a storeroom,” he whispered. “Go on then. I’m right behind you.” Alec went in feet first and disappeared soundlessly inside.

Climbing up, Seregil sniffed the earthy scents of potatoes and apples. Squeezing through, he lowered himself in onto what felt like sacks of onions.

He reached out, finding Alec’s shoulder in the darkness, and together they felt their way to a door.

Seregil eased the latch up and peeked out into the cavernous kitchen beyond.

The coals in the hearth gave off enough of a glow to make out two servants asleep on pallets there.

Deep snores sounded from the shadows of a nearby corner. To the right was an open archway. Tapping Alec on the arm, Seregil headed for it on tiptoe.

The arch let onto a servant’s passage.

Climbing a narrow staircase, they crept down a succession of hallways in search of Lord Decian’s private study. Not finding it, they moved up to the next floor and chanced shielded lightstones.

By this dim light they saw that these nobles left their shoes outside their bedroom door for a servant to collect and clean. Seregil nudged Alec and flipped him the sign for “lucky.” The lord of the house had only one daughter; it was a simple matter to find the footgear appropriate for a maiden of fifteen.

A pair of dainty boots stood before a door at the far end of the corridor. A stout pair of shoes next to them warned that the young woman did not sleep alone.

Seregil stifled a grin. Alec was in for more than he’d bargained for, in more ways than one.

Alec lightly fingered the latch, found the door unbarred. The delivery was his task tonight, more training in the ways of the Cat. This sort of job, though hardly as significant as their recent work for Nysander, required a high level of finesse and he was anxious to prove himself.

Sliding his lightstone back into his tool roll, Alec took a deep breath and lifted the latch. A night lamp burned on a stand beside the bed. The hangings were open and inside he could see a young girl with heavy braids asleep on the side nearest the door, her face turned to the light. Beside her, a larger form, her mother or nurse perhaps, stirred restlessly beneath the thick comforter.

Creeping to the side of the bed, he took out the token, a tiny scroll pushed through a man’s golden ring.

Left to his own devices, he’d simply have put it on the lamp stand and been done with it, but Lord Phyrien had been very exact in his instructions. The ring must be left on his sweetheart’s pillow.

Bending over the girl, Alec placed the ring as specified. Too late he heard Seregil’s sharp intake of breath. The heavy ring immediately rolled down the curve of the pillow and struck the girl on the cheek just beside her mouth.

Startled brown eyes flashed wide. Fortunately for Alec, she saw the ring before she could cry out. Her look of fear changed instantly to one of mute joy as she mistook his muffled form for that of her lover.

“Oh, Phyrien, you are bold!” she breathed, stealing a quick look at the sleeping woman beside her. Grasping Alec’s hand, she drew it gently but insistently under the bedclothes.

Alec blushed furiously in the depths of his hood.

Like most Skalans, she slept nude. He didn’t dare resist, however. Any kind of struggle would not only seem suspicious, but probably shake the bed enough to awaken its other occupant.

“You’re so cold!” she said with a hushed giggle, pulling his hand still lower. “Kiss me, my brave lover. I’ll warm you.”

Holding his hood in place with his free hand, Alec pressed his lips hastily to hers, then motioned warningly at the other woman. Pouting prettily, the girl released him and tucked the token away beneath her pillow.

With his heart hammering in his ears, Alec extinguished the lamp and hurried back out into the corridor.

“Seregil, I—” he began in a whisper, but his companion cut the apology short, grabbing him by the arm and hustling him off the way they’d come.

Damn, damn, damn! Alec berated himself. A simple little delivery job and I cock it up.

Braced every moment for an outcry, they hurried down to the kitchen and weaseled back out the storeroom window. Outside, Seregil was still implacably silent. Climbing over the wall, he set off at a run. Alec followed, grimly convinced he was in disgrace.

Three streets from the villa, Seregil suddenly stopped and hauled him into an alleyway, then bent over, hands on knees, as if to catch his breath.

Braced for a scathing lecture, it took Alec a moment to realize that Seregil was laughing.

“Bilairy’s Balls, Alec!” he burst out. “I’d give a hundred sesters to have seen the look on your face when that ring rolled away. And when she tried to pull you into bed—” He sagged against the alley wall, shaking with laughter.