Luck in the Shadows

like she was born on horseback."
    "That's true enough," Micum admitted. "Sakor favors the bold."
    In Blue Fish Street, they slipped in through the Cockerel's back gate and went through the lading-room door and up the stairs with hoods well drawn up. Micum took the lead on the hidden stairs, speaking the keying words for the glyphs with the same absent ease as Seregil.
    Following him in the darkness, it occurred to Alec that Micum, too, had come and gone here freely over
    the years, always certain of welcome. Everything Alec had learned of the friendship between these two seemed to come together and spin itself into a long history in which he had only the most fleeting foothold.
    Reaching the final door, they stepped into the cluttered brightness of the sitting room. A crackling fire cast a mellow glow over the chamber. The place seemed more disordered than usual, if that was possible.
    Clothing of all sorts hung over chairs and lay piled in corners; plates, papers, and scraps of wizened fruit rind cluttered every available surface. Alec spotted a mug he'd left on the dining table a week ago still standing undisturbed, as if to anchor his right of presence until his return. A fresh litter of metal fragments, wood chips, and scattered tools ringed the forge on the workbench beneath the window.
    The only clear spot left in the room was the corner containing Alec's bed. A suit of fine clothes had been neatly laid out there, and against the pillow was propped a large placard with the words WelcomeHome, Sir Alec! written on it in flowing purple letters.
    "Looks like he's been busy!" Micum remarked, eyeing the mess. "Seregil, are you in?"
    "Hello?" A sleepy voice came from somewhere beyond the couch.
    Stepping around, Alec and Micum found him sprawled in a nest of cushions, books, and scrolls with the cat on his chest.
    Seregil stretched lazily. "I see you left each other in one piece. How did it go?"
    Grinning broadly, Micum settled on the couch.
    "Just fine, once I managed to undo all your wrongheaded teaching. You may get a few surprises next time you cross blades."
    "Well done, Alec!" Pushing the cat aside, Seregil stood up and stretched again. "I knew you'd get the hang of things. And not a moment too soon, either. I may have a job for you tonight."
    "A Rhнminee Cat job?" Alec ventured hopefully.
    "Of course. What do you think, Micum? It's just an over-the sill and out-again sort of thing in Wheel Street."
    "I don't see why not. He's not ready to storm the Palace yet, "He should be able to look out for himself on something like that if he doesn't attract too much attention." Seregil ruffled Alec's hair playfully. "Then it's settled. The job's yours. I guess you'd better have this."
    With a dramatic wave of his hand, Seregil produced a small, silk-wrapped parcel and presented it to Alec.
    It was heavy. Unwrapping it, Alec found a tool roll identical to the one Seregil always carried.
    Opening it, he ran his fingers over the ornately carved handles: picks, wires, hooks, a tiny lightwand. On the inner flap of the roll a small crescent of Illior was stamped in dull silver.
    "I thought it was about time you had one of your own," said Seregil, clearly pleased with Alec's speechless delight.
    Alec glanced back at the forge. "You made these yourself?"
    "Well, it's not the sort of thing you see in the market. You'll be needing a new history, too. I've been giving it some thought."
    Micum nodded toward the placard. "Sir Alec?"
    "Of Ivywell, no less." Seregil dropped Alec a slight bow before collapsing into the couch opposite Micum. "He's Mycenian."
    Alec went to the bed and looked more closely at the clothing.
    "So Lord Seregil will be returning to the city in time to prepare for the Festival of Sakor, as usual?" observed Micum. "And not alone this time?"
    Seregil nodded. "I bring young Sir Alec, only child and last surviving heir of Sir Gareth of Ivywell, a genteel but impoverished Mycenian baron. In hopes of giving his scion a chance in life, Sir Gareth has left his son ward to an old and trusted friend Lord Seregil of Rhнminee."
    "No wonder he died poor," Micum threw in wryly. "Sir Gareth seems to have been a man of questionable judgment."
    Ignoring this, Seregil confined his attention to Alec.
    "By situating the now defunct and completely fictitious estate of Ivywell in the most remote region of Mycena, we kill several birds at a shot. Any unusual mannerisms you might display will be put down to your provincial upbringing.