Luck in the Shadows

of her age; coming from him that meant anything over the age of fourteen. Though the lady in question was clearly past the first blush of youth, she was no beldam. Perhaps twenty-five?
    Lady Gwethelyn and her young squire had come aboard at dawn. After seeing her gear stowed in the small passenger cabin, she'd asked the captain if she might sit in the prow, as she was prone to
    seasickness and thought that the breeze might help ward it off until she became accustomed to the motion of the ship. Her soft, low voice and gentle manner had charmed him right down to his boots.
    The trip downriver might not be so monotonous this time, after all.
    Studying her in the morning light, Rhal found no cause to alter his first assessment. Her carefully draped wimple framed a demure, fine-boned face. Under her mantle she wore a high-necked traveling gown that showed to advantage a slender waist and gently rounded bosom. She might be a bit thin through the hips for some, but as he'd remarked to Skywake, he liked his women trim. The chill wind off the water had brought out the roses in her pale cheeks, and her wide grey eyes seemed to sparkle as she leaned toward her traveling companion to point out some detail on the distant bank. Perhaps she was closer to twenty?
    The Darter's primary cargo was generally furs and spices, but years ago Rhal had found it lucrative to add an extra cabin below decks, and he often ferried passengers up and down the Folcwine. The previous evening, an old servant woman had booked passage as far as Nanta for the lady and her squire. In return for a glass of ale, the old gossip was happy to extol the beauties of her mistress and bemoan the frailty of health that forced her to spend the harsh winter months with her relations in the south.
    This was common enough; many of the more well-to-do merchants in the northlands found themselves southern wives, and often these ladies preferred to migrate back to their warmer homelands before the icy grip of the northern winter brought all normal activity to a halt.
    Seeing to it that the sail was properly trimmed, Rhal went forward to con the river. The Folcwine was broad and generally forgiving, but this was the season for gravel bars.
    His new position afforded him a better view of his passengers, and he found himself distracted again. The ever-present squire—scarcely more than a raw boy for all his livery and sword—had stepped to the rail. The woman sat gazing pensively toward the shore, hands clasped in her lap.
    Her dress, her manner, the large garnet ring she wore on one gloved forefinger, all confirmed her a lady of quality, but Rhal round himself again wondering about her reasons for traveling, she'd come aboard with nothing but a large hamper and one none-too-heavy trunk. The squire had a battered old pack that weighed nearly as much; hardly the baggage of a gentlewoman. That, together with her lack of women servants and the late hour at which her passage was booked, suggested a more interesting possibility. Could it be she was a runaway wife? One could always hope, and, by Astellus, he had a week to find out!
    While Seregil would have been more than pleased with the impression he had made upon the captain, his pensive mood was no ruse.
    The previous night, he'd found suitable clothing for himself and Alec, then checked Micum's wound and tried unsuccessfully to get him to take the bed. When all efforts had failed, Seregil had tumbled into it beside Alec and fallen asleep almost at once. Aside from the fact that he was worn out from the events of the last few days, he knew it was the only way to escape Micum's thunderous snoring.
    Sometime later, he'd awakened with the sense of something amiss. A strong wind had come up in the night. It gusted around the corners of the building, sighing through the cracks in the walls. The firepot had died to a dim glow and he was cold except for the warmth of Alec's naked back resting lightly against his own.
    This in itself was odd, he'd thought, because together with the fact that he didn't remember disrobing, the boy's persistent modesty would hardly have allowed him to sleep naked with anyone else.
    Yet that wasn't it, he decided sleepily. By the faint light of the firepot, he could make out Micum's bulk on the pallet by the door. Something wrong there, something obvious—if only his foggy brain would clear.
    Sliding out of bed, he crossed softly to where Micum lay, disliking the feel of the rough, cold boards under