Luck in the Shadows

run afoul of the Lerans at last. I've got a forger to track down."
    Micum quickly scanned the letter. "Does Alec know?"
    "Yes, and he's none too happy about being put out of the way. Keep him occupied and make a swordsman of him for me. It's the only thing holding him back. By the Light, Micum, you've never seen such a sponge for learning. It's all I can do to keep ahead of him!"
    "He puts me a great deal in mind of you at that age."
    "I could do worse, then. Now, assuming this week goes well, I'd like to arrange a little something special for him when he gets back."
    "Smooth his feathers, eh?" Micum asked with a knowing look. "What did you have in mind?"
    "I think you'll settle in quite well here," Seregil said with a yawn as he and Alec settled down for the night in the broad guest chamber bed.
    Alec watched the play of the firelight across the whitewashed walls of the little room, arms crossed beneath his head. "Do you think Micum will really have better luck teaching me?"
    "Would I have brought you all the way out here if I didn't?"
    "And what if you're wrong?"
    "I'm not."
    Alec fell quiet, but Seregil sensed something was still worrying him.
    "Go on, speak out."
    Alec sighed. "I still feel like you're getting me out of your way."
    "I am. But only for the week, just as I told you."
    Rising on one elbow, he looked down at Alec.
    "Listen to me now. I may make my living lying and tricking, but I'm always honest with friends. There'll be times I choose not to tell you something, but I won't lie to you. That's a promise and there's my hand on it."
    Alec clasped it sheepishly, then settled back against the bolsters. "What are you going to do when you get back?"
    "I'll check with Nysander first, see if his sources have found anything else. Then there's Ghemella, a gem cutter in Dog Street, who's known to do a tidy little side business in forged seals."
    "How will you get her to talk?"
    "Oh, I'll manage something."

23 A Little Night Work
    Seregil woke well before dawn the next morning.
    Alec had gravitated to the far edge in the night, and lay now curled in his usual tight ball, one arm sticking
    stiffly over the side, fingers half curled. Resisting a wayward impulse to touch the tousled mass of yellow hair scattered over the pillow, Seregil dressed in the hall and set off for the city at a gallop.
    He reached Nysander's tower rooms before noon and found the wizard at work with Thero over a scroll.
    "Any new developments?" asked Seregil. "Not as yet," replied Nysander. "As we expected, they were wise enough not to send more than one of the forgeries at a time. I think we may still have a bit of leeway before their next attempt."
    "Then this is all I have to work with." Seregil pulled the forged parchment from his coat again and fingered the wax seals on the ribbons. "These have to be Ghemella's work. I don't know anyone else capable of this quality. Look at this."
    Taking his own seal stamp from a pouch, he held it next to the wax imprints; they were indistinguishable.
    He'd designed the original himself: a griffin seated in profile, wings extended, one forepaw upraised to support a crescent. The forger had caught every nuance of the design, as well as several tiny imperfections Seregil had specified in the original to make such a forgery easier to catch.
    "She knew very well whose seal it is, too," he added wryly. "Lord Seregil has had a number of over-the-counter dealings with her."
    "There's no chance these were somehow struck with the original?" asked Thero, examining the seal. "I seem to recall you breaking into noble houses to steal impressions."
    "Which is why I make a point of not letting my own seal out of my possession," Seregil replied curtly, tucking it away.
    "You will look into this yourself, I trust?" said Nysander.
    "Oh, yes indeed."
    "Very well. In the meantime, I must ask you to leave the letter with me."
    Surprised, Seregil met the old wizard's level gaze for a moment, then handed the document over without comment.
    Ghemella's first thought was to ignore the hesitant rapping at the door. The gold had just reached the proper color for pouring, and if she left off now she'd have to start all over again. The shop door was shut and the shutters put up; any fool could see she'd closed for the night.
    Reaching into the forge with her long tongs, she gently lifted the crucible from its ring over the coals. The troublesome knock came again just as she bent to pour it into the mold. It disrupted her