Shadows Return

at nothing to get
what
back?”
    Just then the muffled sounds of footsteps and shouting echoed down the shaft from the workshop. Seregil gave the lock a last careful tweak and the door swung inward on what looked like the promised passageway.
    Seregil stood back and made Ilar a mocking bow. “After you.”
    Alec gave them both a confused look as he followed with his candle.
    When the others were safely through Seregil fastened the door again and turned to follow Alec. As he did, the light fell across the child’s upper face, and his slanted, silver eyes.
    Seregil caught Alec by the elbow. “This is what Yhakobin wants, isn’t it? What the hell is it?”
    “A rhekaro,” Alec answered quietly, pulling his arm free.
    The pick slipped from Seregil’s fingers. “This is what I saw in that cellar, under the dirt?”
    “No, that was the first one Ilban made,” Ilar replied.
    “You were there?” asked Alec, turning to face Seregil full on.
    “Yes.”
Because Ilar wanted me to see you like that, damn it!
“Why are you dragging it along?”
    “Yhakobin tortured the first one he made to death,” Alec told him, clutching the straps of the sling. “If I leave him, he’ll die!”
    “Let it.”
    The shouting above was getting louder.
    “He comes, or I stay,” Alec said flatly. “I’ll explain later. We need to go!”
    Seregil snatched up the fallen pick. “Come on then, before someone figures out which way we went.”
    Alec slipped past him to follow Ilar. “Thank you, talí.”
    Don’t thank me yet,
Seregil thought darkly, sword in one hand, the poniard in the other.
             
    The passageway was shored with timber and brick-paved. Nothing moved around them but their shadows, and there was no sound but the whisper of shoe leather against the bricks and Ilar’s labored breathing.
    Seregil had ample time to study the rhekaro as they went, or at least the back of it. Its thin legs looked bone white in the candle’s wavering glow. A lock of hair had escaped from the scarf; it hung below the thing’s waist and shimmered like silver.
    What in Bilairy’s name are you?
he wondered, thinking of the writhing pile of dirt, stained with Alec’s blood. No good could come of that! Why was Alec so adamant on having it?
    Because it looks like a child, of course.
And Alec had seen one tortured to death. No wonder he’d refused to abandon this one.
Trust me,
he’d said. And Alec had never given him reason not to. Ilar was a different matter, and Seregil kept a close eye on him.
    The way ran more or less level for some time, and then began to slant up sharply. Seregil guessed they’d gone nearly a mile by the time the passage ended at a door similar to the one they’d left behind. The lock was the same and Seregil soon tickled it open.
    “Put out your light.”
    When it was dark, he softly opened the door a crack and peered through. It was just as dark beyond, but a slight breeze carried the smell of horses.
    A shaft like the one in the workshop led up to a trap door. Seregil pushed it up just enough to see. It was heavy, and the smell was much stronger now.
    They were in a large stable. A flyspecked lantern on a nail illuminated the glossy haunches of several horses in stalls. Shit apples and straw covered the floor and the trapdoor. Bits of muck fell down the shaft, eliciting mutters of protest from below.
    He lifted the trapdoor up a little further, braced for an outcry, but heard nothing but the night sounds of the horses.
    “Stay down,” he whispered to the others, then pushed the trap all the way back and climbed up.
    The stable spoke of money and title, and the horses were good ones. Treading softly, he discovered a young ostler asleep with a jug in a stall near the door. Seregil could smell the wine on him from two yards off.
    He crept back to the shaft and motioned the others up. Ilar came first, then Alec, straining a little now under the slight weight of the rhekaro.
    Seregil pointed to the drunken ostler, and then motioned for them to follow him out. He kept a close eye on the drunkard, poniard at the ready, but the man never stirred.
    Outside they found a well-kept farmyard and corral, and a slope-roofed little cottage with darkened windows. A larger house stood on a nearby rise—a hunting lodge, perhaps, and also dark. This Yhakobin fellow was well prepared for a hasty departure should he ever need to make one.
    Wary of watchdogs, Seregil led the way across a small onion patch and an