Luck in the Shadows

companion's eyes as they clasped hands. It was gone in an instant and Seregil quickly moved on to new plans.
    "There are a few details to take care of before we reach town. How well known are you in Wolde?"
    "My father and I always stayed in the trader's quarter," replied Alec. "We generally put up at the Green Bough. Except for the landlord, though, most of the people we knew wouldn't be there this time of year."
    "Just the same, there's no use taking chances. We'll need a reason for you to be traveling with Aren Windover. Here's a lesson for you; give me three reasons why Alec the Hunter would be in the company of a bard."
    "Well, I guess I could tell how you rescued me and—"
    "No, no, that won't do at all!" Seregil interrupted. "First of all, I don't want it known that I—or rather Aren—was anywhere near Asengai. Besides, I make it a rule never, never, never to use the truth unless it's the last possible option or so outlandish that nobody would believe you anyway. Keep that in mind."
    "All right then," said Alec. "I could say I was attacked by bandits and you—"
    Seregil shook his head, motioning for Alec to continue.
    Alec fidgeted with the reins, sorting through various inspirations. "Well, I know it's sort of the truth, but people would believe that you hired me as a guide. Father and I hired out sometimes."
    "Not bad. Go on."
    "Or" — Alec turned to his companion with a triumphant grin—"perhaps Aren has taken me on as his apprentice!"
    "Not bad, for a first effort," Seregil conceded. "The rescue story was very good, actually. Loyalty to one who saves your life is well understood and seldom questioned. Unfortunately Aren's reputation is such that nobody would believe it. I'm afraid he's a bit of a coward. The guide story, however, is seriously flawed. Aren Windover is a well-known figure in the Woldesoke; if bards make their living as wanderers, why would he need to engage a guide in the territory he's familiar with?"
    "Oh." Alec nodded, a bit crestfallen.
    "But the apprentice idea should do nicely. Luckily, you can sing. But can you think like a bard?"
    "How do you mean?"
    "Well, suppose you're in a tavern on the highroad. What sort of customers would you have?"
    "Traders, wagoneers, soldiers."
    "Excellent! And suppose there's a great deal of drinking going on and a song is called for. What would you choose?"
    "Well, probably something like the 'The Lady of Araman'."
    "A good choice. And why?"
    "Well, it's about fighting and honor; the soldiers would like that. And it's widely known, so everyone could join in. And it has a good refrain."
    "Well done! Aren's used that song many times, and for just those reasons. Now suppose yourself a minstrel in a lord's hall, performing for fat barons and their ladies."
    "Maybe 'Lillia and the Rose'? There's nothing coarse in it."
    Laughing, Seregil leaned across to clap Alec on the shoulder. "Perhaps you should take Aren on as apprentice! I don't suppose you play an instrument?"
    "Afraid not."
    "Oh well. Aren will just have to apologize for your green skills."
    They spent the rest of the afternoon extending Alec's repertoire as they rode along.
    By late afternoon the Downs gave way to the rough, sloping terrain of the Brythwin River valley. In the distance they could make out the squares of bare fields and distant farmsteads that marked the boundary of the Woldesoke district. The river itself, a black, tree-fringed line far below, flowed into Blackwater Lake several miles east of the waterfront town.
    Bordered along its northern shore by the great Lake Wood, the shimmering expanse of water stretched unbroken to the far horizon.
    "You say the Gathwayd Ocean is bigger than that?" asked Alec, shading his eyes. He'd hunted along the Lake's shores all his life and couldn't imagine anything larger.
    "By quite a margin," replied Seregil cheerfully. "Let's move on before we lose the light."
    The late-afternoon sun cast a mellow glow across the valley. Picking their way down the stony slope, they struck the main road leading along the river toward Wolde. The Brythwin was low, its course laced with gravel spits. Stands of ash and willow grew thickly along the banks, often screening the river from view.
    A mile or so before reaching the lake shore, the road curved away from the river to skirt a dense copse of trees. Reining in, Seregil studied the wall of branches for a moment, then dismounted and motioned for Alec to follow.
    Bare willow branches stroked over them, catching