Casket of Souls

impulsively kissed the old woman, then grabbed up the gull and ran home, laughing.

 
    O VER the next week Alec and Seregil kept an eye on the duke and Kyrin from a safe distance, but the men did nothing particularly suspicious, other than frequent visits to each other’s houses. Thero was getting impatient, and so were they, especially at not being able to burgle Reltheus.
    It was something of a relief to move back to Wheel Street on the third day of Shemin, despite the usual fuss of having to make a show of returning to the city as if they’d actually been gone. Riding through the afternoon crowds, Alec and Seregil made a point of waving to friends and acquaintances they met along the way.
    Wheel Street was a quiet boulevard on the edge of the Noble Quarter, and fashionable without being grand. The narrow houses with their fancy Skalan façades fronted onto the street, saving their walls for the back gardens. Here and there a shop took up the street-level floor: a tailor, a milliner, a gem dealer, a dealer in fine cards and gaming pieces.
    The street ended in a circle, and there was a public stable there to serve the minor nobles like Seregil who didn’t have room for their own. Leaving Windrunner and Cynril with Master Rorik, they walked across the street to their house, the one with the carving of grapevines above the polished oak door. The rich, toothsome, and very unexpected aroma of roast duck greeted them as they walked through the small antechamber and into the painted salon beyond. Poultry was another scarcity.
    This room was already decked out for the party. The murals of forest scenes were festooned with ropes of bright dried flowers and greenery, and the carpets had been taken away, leaving the colorful mosaic floor ready for dancing. Trestles were set around the room, already laden with Seregil’s best freshly polished silver chargers and cups. The musicians’ gallery overhead was freshly dusted and free of cobwebs. Runcer the Younger, who ran the household, appeared from behind the curtains of the service corridor with Seregil’s two huge white Zengati hounds, Zir and Mârag, at his heels. As soon as the dogs caught sight of their masters, they ambled over to greet them. Alec went down on one knee to hug them and give their heads a good scratching.
    Seregil looked around. “Where are our houseguests? I expected to be swarmed by Illia and the boys.”
    “Not knowing when you’d arrive, the Cavishes have gone to dine with their daughter Elsbet at the temple. Will you be wanting dinner now, my lords?”
    “Yes. Is that a brace of duck in pastry I smell?” asked Alec.
    “It is, my lord,” Runcer replied with the hint of a smile. He prided himself on anticipating his masters’ wishes.
    “Where in the world did you find ducks this summer?” asked Alec. “Or pastry flour, for that matter?”
    “I can’t say, my lord. Perhaps Cook knows.”
    “And she’ll tell us to ask you, I bet,” Seregil chuckled. “Whatever the case, well done.”
    “Will you eat now, my lords?”
    “As soon as we wash up.”
    “Very good, my lord. Oh, and the package you’ve been expecting arrived in your absence, Lord Seregil.”
    Seregil grinned at Alec. “Come upstairs, talí.”
    Alec returned the grin, murmuring “I always like hearing that.”
    But Seregil led him into the library rather than the bedroom. A long, thin bundle several feet long lay across the desk at the far side of the room, wrapped in oilcloth and string and wax seals.
    “What’s this?” Alec asked as Seregil placed it in his hands.
    “Your birthday gift, of course.” He looked remarkably pleased with himself.
    “The party isn’t until tomorrow.”
    “I wanted to be the first. Go on. Open it!”
    Intrigued, Alec sat down in an armchair, pulled the strings loose, and unrolled the bundle, feeling something curved and familiar underneath. When the last of the wrapping fell away, he let out a gasp. “A Black Radly! But—how?”
    Seregil was positively beaming now. “I sent for one as soon as we got back this spring. I had no idea if it would make it all the way from Wolde, but as you see, it did.”
    The wayfarer bow, made in two halves, lay in the wrappings in pieces, a braided linen bow string curled around them. Alec fitted the steel-clad post of one limb into the ferrule hidden in the grip in the other and twisted it to lock the two together. In one piece, it was only a few hand spans shorter than a long bow. Made of black