Casket of Souls

spending so much time back in the city?”
    Seregil grinned. “I’d say we reestablished my bad name tonight, wouldn’t you? I was lucky, though.”
    “You did win a lot of money.”
    “Yes, but I was thinking more of Foris’s search of my person.”
    “What was so lucky about that?” Alec laughed. “He had you standing naked on a chair.”
    Seregil winked at him as they passed under the glow of a street lantern. “Yes, but his search stopped short of the most obvious hiding place.”
    “The most—?” Alec gave him a questioning look, then realization dawned and it was replaced by one of shock. “Bilairy’s Balls, Seregil!”
    “Close.” Seregil grinned. He loved still being able to make Alec blush.
    They were nearly to Wheel Street when suddenly Cynril and Windrunner both shied. As Seregil and Alec reined the horses in, two dark forms detached themselves from the deeper shadow of a side street and sprang up onto their horses behind them.
    Seregil’s attacker locked an arm around his neck, choking him as they tumbled together to the street. Seregil landed hard with the man on his back. Between that and the pressure on his throat, he was already seeing stars. The pressure disappeared for an instant, quickly replaced with the cutting tension of a garrote. It caught on the collar of his coat, but he could feel the wire against his skin where the collar gaped. Fighting for his life, he reached back and clawed at the man’s hands. Panic lent him strength and he managed to roll the man off. He felt the wire cut into his neck as he wiggled around and jammed his thumbs into his attacker’s eyes. The garrote went slack as the man grabbed Seregil’s wrists and threw him over onto his back. Seregil wasn’t quick enough to roll away before the man was on him again, a knee planted in Seregil’s gut, choking him with his bare hands. The bastard was big and very strong, but Seregil was limber and fighting for his life. Twisting sideways, he brought his foot up and kicked his would-be murderer in the side of the head. The grip on his throat loosened again. This time Seregil managed to reach the poniard in his boot and stabbed the man through the neck. Scrambling to his feet, he turned to find that Alec’swould be-assassin had the younger man pinned, tightening a garrote around Alec’s neck while Alec fought wildly. Seregil grabbed the man by the hair, stabbed him in the heart, and dragged the limp body off Alec.
    Alec had managed to get one hand up to his throat between skin and garrote wire, which had probably saved his life—but the palm of his left hand was cut deeply.
    They scanned the surrounding shadows for other attackers, but the night was silent except for the snorting of their panicked horses, who had stopped halfway down the street.
    “Bilairy’s codpiece!” Seregil croaked hoarsely, examining Alec’s hand. Pulling out his handkerchief, he tried to bind the wound.
    “Never mind me,” Alec replied. “Your neck is bleeding.”
    Grabbing the handkerchief from Seregil’s fingers, he used it to blot the thin wound across the base of Seregil’s throat. If Seregil hadn’t managed to get loose, the wire would have cut his throat.
    “We’re both in sorry shape.” Seregil could hardly speak above a harsh whisper. “Let me tend your hand. You’re bleeding all over me.”
    Using Alec’s own handkerchief, he tied it around Alec’s cut palm, then pulled him close in the windswept darkness.
    Alec hugged him back. “You’re shaking.” So was he, for that matter.
    Seregil rubbed his smooth cheek against Alec’s, whispering hoarsely, “I just never get used to almost losing you, I guess. And they were good, the bastards. Professionals.”
    They turned to the two dead men sprawled at their feet.
    Alec nudged the one Seregil had stabbed in the neck. “Guild assassins?”
    “That would be my guess.” Seregil picked up one of the fallen garrotes. It was made from thin, flexible steel wire with a small wooden handle at each end. “Yes, from the looks of this, I’d say they were professionals.”
    Keeping an ear out for bluecoats, they made a quick search of the bodies, but neither man carried so much as a belt purse. It was too dark to look for guild marks, but chances were there wouldn’t be any; the Rhíminee guild was cagierabout such things than some. The lack of any identification and possessions was telling in itself.
    Leaving them for the Scavengers, they rode for home.
    “I wonder