Shadows Return

it? Have you nothing to say to me?”
    “It’s not too tight—Ilban,” Alec managed, hating the cold weight of the metal against his skin just as much as the fetters on his wrists.
    “The brands mark you as a slave, and every Plenimaran knows where to look. This collar marks you as my property, and it won’t come off as easily as it went on. Keep that in mind as you dart those sharp eyes of yours around, looking for your chance to run.”
    Alec colored guiltily and Yhakobin laughed. “You do have spirit, don’t you? Quite wasted on me, I’m afraid.”
    At his order the men marched Alec out to a waiting carriage. It was small, but well made, and decorated with inlay and polished woods. The glow of the brass lanterns set beside the driver’s bench shone on the glossy flanks of a pair of Silmai blacks harnessed to it. This Yhakobin must be a lord of considerable wealth.
    The liveried footman jumped down to open the door. Yhakobin climbed in and sat down on a seat covered in tufted red leather. Alec’s guards shoved him inside and he was made to kneel at his new master’s feet. The driver whipped up the horses and they set off through the darkness. Yhakobin took some papers from a pocket under the window and perused them, ignoring Alec as if he’d ceased to exist.
    Alec seized the opportunity to study Yhakobin more closely. Like the carriage, the man’s clothing and fine shoes spoke of wealth. Seregil had taught him to look beyond first impressions, however, and Yhakobin’s hands told another story. In addition to the ink stains, the man had a scattering of small white scars on the backs of his hands—the sort of marks common among smiths and chandlers.
Or wizards,
he added silently. He tried to remember what the necromancer’s hands had looked like, but his memories of them were vague now, overlaid by the torment he’d known in their grasp.
    “Where are we going…Ilban?” he ventured at last.
    Yhakobin didn’t even look up. “Home. Be quiet now.”
    Alec gritted his teeth and pondered jumping from the moving vehicle while Yhakobin wasn’t looking. But he was still manacled and at too much of a disadvantage. He wasn’t going to risk losing a foot this early in the game. Instead, he contented himself with staring out the window. His low vantage point cut off most of the useful view; he caught only the impression of tall buildings and narrow streets, then an orderly line of trees, interspersed with lamp poles, which suggested a park. After that there was little to see except the rising moon.
    The road grew bumpier and Alec was hard-pressed to keep his balance. One hard jolt threw him against Yhakobin’s knees. The man righted him and ruffled his hair, as if Alec were a hound.
    “What’s this?” He pushed the hair back from Alec’s left ear and examined the blue-stained dragon bite on the lobe.
    “Is it some sort of clan mark?”
    “It’s nothing, Ilban,” Alec lied. “Just decoration.”
    Yhakobin released his ear and went back to his reading.
    Alec twisted his wrists in the manacles, pressing the spanner bar between his wrists.
I could strangle him and jump from the coach.
    And then what, aside from the broken bones and the lack of clothing?
the Seregil in his mind asked wryly.
    Before he could come up with a better plan, the carriage took a sharp turn, and then slowed. Alec glimpsed an arched stone gate, then heard the crunch of gravel under the coach wheels. A moment later they came to a stop and the door flew open. Men dragged him out by the spanner bar and hustled him quickly across a walled courtyard and through a low door. From there he was rushed down a narrow servants’ stairway, to a long, dank, brick corridor. They took several turns as Alec looked around frantically, trying to make sense of where he was. The few doors they passed were closed. His guards halted in front of one that looked no different from any other and opened it to reveal a tiny, whitewashed room. One of them took the cloak, leaving him naked again.
    Someone spoke curtly behind him; Yhakobin had followed them down here.
    He took something from his pocket and palmed it before Alec could see what it was. But when he then touched each of the manacles, they cracked in half and fell to the floor, taking the wretched bar with them.
    “Thank you, Ilban.” Alec almost meant it this time.
    Yhakobin frowned at the raw skin on Alec’s wrists. “Those fools, risking infection for no reason.”
    At his order, the man