Luck in the Shadows

here than in the north."
    "Not so much as you might think," Seregil replied, heading off again in the direction of the Street of the Sheaf. "Your Dalnan priests frown on such couplings, I understand, claiming they're unproductive—"
    Alec shrugged uncomfortably, falling into step beside him. "They would be that."
    "That depends on what one intends to produce," Seregil remarked with a cryptic smile. "Illior instructs us to take advantage of any situation; I've always found that to be a most productive philosophy."
    When Alec still looked dubious, Seregil clapped him on the shoulder in mock exasperation. "By the Four, haven't you heard the saying, "never spurn the dish untasted"? And here you haven't even had a smell of the kitchen yet! We've got to get you back there, and soon."
    Alec didn't reply, but Seregil noticed him glance back over his shoulder several times before they were out of sight of the lights.
    Though they kept their hoods drawn, the occasional glimpses Alec got of his companion's face showed that Seregil was delighted to be back in his own element.
    At the Harvest Market. Seregil ducked briefly into a potter's shop. A moment later he was out again without explanation, leading the way into a neighborhood of modest shops and taverns crowded together along the edge of the square. Turning several corners in quick succession, they came out on a small lane marked with a fish painted some dark color.
    "There it is," Seregil whispered, pointing to a large inn across the way. "We move quietly from here."
    A low wall enclosed the inn's small yard and Alec saw that bronze statues of the inn's namesake, a cockerel, were set on either side of the front gate, each clutching a glowing lantern in one upraised claw.
    The Cockerel was a prosperous, well-kept establishment, square built of stone and wood, and three stories high. The small windows on the upper levels were shuttered, but the two large windows overlooking the front court let out a welcoming flood of light through their leaded bull's-eye panes.
    "Looks like a busy night," Seregil noted quietly, keeping to the shadows as he led the way into the stable that ran along the left wall of the courtyard.
    A young man with a disheveled mop of coarse red hair looked up from the harness he was mending as they came in. Smiling, he raised a hand in greeting.
    Seregil returned the gesture and continued on between the stalls.
    "Who is that?" Alec asked, puzzled by the man's silence.
    "That's Rhiri. He's deaf, mute, and absolutely loyal. Best servant I ever found." Stopping at a back stall, Seregil paused to inspect a rough-coated bay with a white snip.
    "Hello, Scrub!" he said, patting the animal's shaggy flank. The horse nickered, craning his neck around to nuzzle at Seregil's chest.
    "Where is it?" Seregil teased, throwing his cloak open.
    Scrub sniffed at the pouches at his belt and butted at one on the right. Seregil produced the prize, an apple, and the horse munched contentedly, occasionally rubbing his head against his master's shoulder.
    A restless shuffling of hooves came from the next stall.
    "I haven't forgotten you, Cynril," Seregil said, pulling another apple from the pouch as he stepped around. A large black mare tossed her head and pinned him against the side of the stall as he entered.
    "Get over, you nag!" Seregil wheezed, whacking her on the haunch to shift her. "She's half Aurлnfaie, but her disposition certainly doesn't give it away." Despite this, he rubbed the horse's head and nose with obvious affection.
    At the back of the stable, a wide door let out into a larger yard behind the inn. A smaller wing at the back of the building housed the kitchen; bright light from an open doorway shone across the paving flags, and with it came the inviting smells and dm of a busy kitchen. To the left of this door was a second, much broader one where casks and barrels of provender were delivered, the remainder of the ground level, and the stories above, were windowless. A lean-to sheltered a well and a wood stack at the angle of the building. The courtyard walls were much higher here, and the broad gateway was stoutly barred for the night.
    Slipping inside, Seregil pointed across the crowded kitchen to a stooped old woman leaning on a stick in front of the enormous hearth.
    "There's Thryis. She runs the place," he said, putting his mouth close to Alec's ear.
    Thryis' heavy face was deeply seamed with age and her braid was the color of iron. In spite of the heat,