Casket of Souls

drysian finished with the bandage and straightened up. “There, that should hold your guts in well enough. See that you keep the wound clean and it should be healed in a week or so, if a bit sore.”
    “I have to be onstage tomorrow!”
    “That’s why you have an understudy,” Brader muttered, handing the healer some silver.
    The drysian nodded to them and took his leave.
    “Oh, Calieus will be pleased!” Atre groaned. “He hangs over me like a carrion crow, just waiting for something like this to happen.”
    Alec chuckled. “It’s his job, isn’t it?”
    “Indeed. Good night, my lord.” Brader lifted Atre in his arms as if he weighed no more than a child. Alec followed them outside and watched Brader place the wounded man on some folded blankets in the back of the cart.
    “Really, I think a carriage would be more comfortable,” said Alec. “I’ll happily pay.”
    “No need, my lord,” Brader said gruffly. It was clear that he was angry with his friend and perhaps meant to deny him the comfort of better transport. Or that’s what Alec thought until Brader added, “With respect, we take care of our own.”
    He climbed in and snapped the reins over the grey mare’s back.
    That was a bit rude!
Alec thought as the cart rattled away.
I might as well have stayed with Seregil
.
    He was on his way back to the duke’s house, riding past a narrow side lane, when he noticed a hand on the ground at the mouth of it, just visible in the faint light of a nearby street lantern. Reining in, he got down and hurried over to see if someone was hurt. A young, poorly dressed man lay facedown in the dirt. Checking quickly for signs of footpads, Alec rolled him over. His eyes were open, but not fixed in death. It was another of the mysterious sleepers. The man was young, with the disreputable appearance of a footpad and the odor of a gate runner. From the looks of him, he’d been lying there for a day or more. All the same, Alec felt guilty at the thought of leaving him to die in the street like a sick dog.
    With some effort, he slung the man over Windrunner’s saddle and led the horse to a nearby Dalnan temple. It was late, but temples didn’t close, at least not a Dalnan one. It would only take a moment.
    A young, brown-robed girl answered the bell and helped him carry the stricken man in.
    “What have you brought me, young man?” asked the old priestess in charge.
    “One stricken with the sleeping death, Sister.”
    “Ah, another. Bring him into the sick room.”
    “Another? You’ve seen more here in the Upper City?”
    “Only a few.”
    There were two younger boys and a man with the flattened features and slanted eyes of the god-touched laid out on clean pallets.
    Leaving the drysian and her helpers to take care of the man, Alec bent over the boys. “This one’s gone,” he said softly, resting his hand on the chest of the smaller boy.
    The drysian went to the child and pressed a finger to his wrist, then nodded sadly. “Astellus carry him gently. This one lasted longer than most, from what we’ve heard. Who knows about others left to die unnoticed in some hovel or tenement?”
    “How many others have you seen here, besides these?”
    “Two others. I think they must have made their way up from the harbor.”
    “Sister, when these stricken ones come to you, do you inspect them closely?”
    “We do, my lord, looking for any kind of wound.”
    “And you find nothing?”
    “Nothing unusual, just the occasional bruises or cuts, but not on all.”
    He thought a moment, trying to decide what Seregil would ask if he were here. “No markings?”
    “What sort of markings?”
    “Any kind. Guild marks, tattoos, brands.”
    “No, my lord, nothing like that.”
    “Are there more of these sick people at any of the other temples in the Upper City?” asked Alec, still kneeling by the dead boy.
    “No, but as I said, with us being so close to the Harbor Way, it’s us who finds them. The main temple down in Grampus Street is where most of them are being taken, as there’s more found on that side of Trade Street.”
    Only a few streets separated Trade from some of the lowest stews in Rhíminee. He took out his gambling winnings and gave them to her. “Thank you, Sister, and Maker’s Mercy.”
    Her eyes widened at the weight of the purse. “Maker’s Mercy to you, too, kind sir.”
    The whole household was awake when Brader arrived with the cart.
    “What happened?” Merina demanded in alarm, following