Casket of Souls

empty room and into their rooms beyond. Glancing through the bedroom doorway, he saw Illia lying on their big, velvet-hung bed with Kari and her sister beside her. Both Elsbet and Kari had knives.
    Alec grabbed his bow and took up his position at the top of the stairs, arrow nocked on the string, ready to shoot the first man who came into view. He strained his ears for any sound of approach, but all he could hear were the muffled thumps and shouts from the floors below.
    “Sounds like they’re making a thorough job of it. How’s Micum?”
    “Fine, last I saw.”
    The sounds of the search went on for quite some time, but at last things went quiet again. Presently a sliver of light appeared at the base of the stairs as someone opened the secret panel. Alec raised his bow.
    A hoarse whisper floated up to him. “Luck in the shadows!”
    Seregil brought Micum up, then went to the window overlooking the courtyard. “They’re gone.”
    Micum stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched. “I can’t just stay here, doing nothing!”
    “There’s nothing to do, until morning,” Seregil told him gently. “The ravens don’t come out at night. No little children to cozen. All we can do is get some rest and start fresh in the morning. You take the couch. Alec and I can make do with the armchairs.”
    Micum grudgingly lay down, but none of them rested well that night.

 
    T HEY left Kari and the girls asleep as soon as the first rays of dawn appeared between the curtains and entered the twisting streets of the tenement district with the early street vendors. Alec and Seregil were dressed again as women, with Micum as their protector. Alec and the others each hunted alone for the morning, so as to cover the most ground, and met up at noon at the ward’s large central well.
    Anything?
Alec signed and felt a sick sinking in his belly when the other two gave him a slight lowering of the chin.
No
.
    A line of people were waiting to fill their pots and jugs at the well. Alec and the others chatted with them about the war and the price of bread, posing as fellow refugees.
    When he’d ingratiated himself, Alec asked, “I heard a townsman talking of the raven folk. Does anyone know where they might be found?”
    “Raven folk?” A pretty blond woman in front of him in line shook her head. “What are those?”
    “Beggars making odd trades.”
    He was interrupted by the sound of shattering crockery and looked over to see a middle-aged woman staring at them in horror, a broken water jug at her feet. The gnarled old man who’d been standing with her hobbled over to them, leaning heavily on his stick.
    “Beggars making trades, you say, girl?” he rasped out, fixing Alec with rheumy blue eyes. The old man’s voice was thin and labored, the result of some complaint of the chest.
    “Yes. Have you seen them, old father?”
    The old man nodded slightly and took Alec’s arm. “Come with me, girl, and we’ll talk.”
    Broken pot forgotten, the woman came with them as they set off through the narrow streets. Both the strangers were dressed in Mycenian clothing that had been good quality once but seen better days; they had the weary air and accent of refugees.
    The woman, introduced as Nala, daughter of the old man, Elren, still looked stricken. “Who are you?” she asked.
    “Someone who was wronged by them, Mistress,” Seregil told her, speaking in a light country lilt like hers.
    “Are you a country woman, too?”
    “I’m Arlina, of Ivywell,” Seregil told her as they climbed the stairs of a tenement with a peeling green door. “This is my husband, Garen, and my sister Sana.”
    “I’m sorry for your loss. Have you been in this wretched city long?”
    “We came by ship in the spring, first to Haverton port, and then down here,” Alec replied.
    Nala and her father led them into a cheerless little third-floor room. It was clean, but sparsely furnished. Two neat pallets lay on the floor near the window. A battered cabinet, a warped table, and two rickety-looking chairs stood against the far wall. The old man took a seat while Nala took out a half loaf of brown bread and a small lump of cheese from the cabinet and carved slices for them. Even here, Mycenians practiced their native hospitality. Seregil hated to take even a morsel away from them, but it would be the height of rudeness to refuse the humble meal.
    “So you’ve met them, have you?” Master Elren asked as they nibbled their stale bread and hard