Luck in the Shadows

neared the waterfront, the streets grew narrower and more winding.
    The stink of the dyers' quarter was replaced by the pungent odors of fish and damp nets.
    "Father and I never came down into this part of town, Alec said, looking nervously around at the weathered building overhanging the street and the shadowed alleys between.
    Seregil shrugged. "People know how to mind their own business here.".
    The taverns were coming alive now; the sounds of shouting brawls and snatches of drunken song echoed from all directions. Someone hissed a soft invitation to them from a shadowed doorway as they rode by. After several more turns, they came out at the waterfront.
    The palisades extended out into the water on both sides of the town. Within their embrace lay long wharves, warehouses, and taverns, all built on posts above the slope of the shingle. Looking out over the water, Alec again tried to imagine how big an ocean must be to outstrip this.
    On either side, the shore seemed to curve away endlessly, the far shore visibly only on the clearest of days.
    Seregil hurried them along down the street to a narrow building squeezed in among the wharves. The sign over the open door displayed three intertwined fish, and from inside came the raucous clamor of a tavern crowd. A small knot of loafers had gathered beneath the windows with pipes and mugs.
    Dismounting, he handed Alec his harp and pack.
    "Mind the part I've given you," he whispered, keeping his voice low. "From here on you're the apprentice of Aren the Bard. You've seen what he's like; react accordingly. If I'm abrupt with you, or order you about like a servant, don't be resentful—it's Aren's way, not mine. Frankly, I don't envy your position. Ready?"
    Alec nodded.
    "Good. Then the act begins." With that, Seregil stepped back and became Aren.
    "Take the horses to the stable around the side," he ordered, raising his voice for the benefit of the onlookers. "Make certain they're properly looked after. Then see the tavern keeper about a room. Tell him I'd have the one at the top of the house, overlooking the lake, and don't let that villain charge you more than a silver mark for it, either! When you've taken care of the baggage, bring my harp to the common room. Be quick, now."
    With this, he disappeared into the warmth of the tavern.
    "By the Old Sailor, I guess you been told, boy!" laughed one of the loiterers, much to the amusement of his cronies.
    Scowling, Alec led the horses around to the stable. In spite of Seregil's hasty explanation, he wasn't sure he liked this turn of events. When the horses had been seen to, he gathered up the pack and Seregil's saddle and hurried into the steamy bustle of the kitchen.
    "I'm looking for the tavern keeper," he said, catching a harried serving girl by the sleeve.
    "Taproom," she snapped, nodding curtly toward a nearby doorway. Leaving the gear by the door, he went on into the taproom and found himself faced with a portly, red-faced giant in a leather apron.
    "I need lodgings for my master and myself," Alec informed him, endeavoring to imitate Aren's imperious manner.
    The taverner scarcely looked up from the tapping of a fresh barrel. "Big room at the top of the stairs. Shouldn't be no more than three or four to a bed tonight."
    "My master prefers the room at the top," Alec said.
    "Does he indeed? Well, he may have it for three marks a night."
    "I'll give you one," Alec countered. "We'll be here for several nights and I'm certain my master—was—"
    "Your master be damned!" the taverner growled.
    "That's my best room, and I couldn't let the mayor himself nor the whole of the damned Guild Council have it for less than three! Not when there's all these southern strangers lolling about with more money than brains. I could get five a night from any one of them."
    "Begging your pardon," Alec chose his words with care, "but I think my master, Aren Windover, and I could bring you in ten times that each night we're here."
    Satisfied with the set of the tap, the taverner shoved his hands into his belt and glowered down at Alec.
    "Well! Begging your pardon, my young whelp, but just how do you think you could do that?"
    Alec held his ground stubbornly; his father'd had a knack for dickering. Thinking back, he asked, "Do you make more profit from your rooms or your ale?"
    "From the ale, I suppose."
    "And how much do you charge for that?"
    "Five coppers for a flagon, a half silver for a jug. What of it?"
    Sensing the man's growing impatience,