Shadows Return

trying to glean their meaning, but he couldn’t see any way they’d hinted at such a horror.
    Pondering this, he dozed off again, only to be roused by more sounds of pain from the workshop.
    He pulled the pillow around his ears, trying to shut out the pitiful cries. When that proved impossible, he frantically pulled the horn spoon from its hiding place and staggered over to the door to inspect the lock.
    Seregil had taught him many things over the years, and among the first of those lessons had been lock-craft. With his tool roll in hand, he could open just about anything, but Seregil had also taught him to make do with what he had, and for just such situations as this.
    The lock hole was small. He put his eye to it first, but the light was wrong to make out the workings, and he couldn’t get even the tip of his little finger inside to feel around. He went back to the bed and turned the horn spoon over in his hands, noting how the grain ran lengthwise down the handle. If he could snap it just so, it might yield the beginnings of a usable pick.
    Upstairs the cries started again, weaker this time.
    Don’t listen. I can’t do anything, not unless I can make this work. Just use what I have.
    Sweat rolled down his face and back as he tried to break it between his fingers, but the horn was too strong. After several false starts, he found that he could jam the edge of it between the bed frame and the wall, like a vise, and use the lip of the pitcher to bend it.
    The cries continued intermittently, making his heart race. As he worked, he couldn’t help wondering what he’d do if he did manage to get the door open. In his current state, weakened and unarmed, he’d be no match for Yhakobin’s guards, or the man himself, probably. But then, head-on fights weren’t the nightrunner way; Seregil had done his best to instill that in Alec, who’d had more of a tendency for honest fights.
    The cries grew weaker as he finally snapped off the bowl and broke the handle into two long spines.
    He held them up, inspecting the taper and thickness.
Still too big.
    He didn’t dare try breaking them again, so he settled on the floor by the bed and burnished the rough edges against the stone flags. His hands began to shake and sweat stung his eyes. To distract himself, he concentrated on recalling Seregil’s various lessons on the subject. A bit of doggerel came to him and ran round and round inside his head.

    A crafty nightrunner died of late,
    And found himself at Bilairy’s Gate.
    He stood outside and refused to knock
    Because he meant to pick the lock.

    The silly little verse took him back to their old rooms at the Cockerel, sitting knee to knee with Seregil as he took some lock to pieces and explained how it worked. They’d spent countless hours at it. Some had one pin, others had as many as five. Others had wards or poison needles to stick the unwary thief, but they all could be tickled open if you had the skill.
    After a considerable amount of rubbing and burnishing, he had a crude tool. Going to the door, he inserted it into the lock and gingerly felt around.
    This lock, a simple two-pinner, was hardly a challenge, even with his makeshift tools. The horn pieces made little noise as he carefully probed the works. With a little careful twiddling, he threw the tumblers and heard each satisfying click as they fell.
    All had gone silent upstairs.
    That doesn’t mean Yhakobin is gone,
he reminded himself as he eased the door open and peered around it. The low murmur of voices came from upstairs—Yhakobin’s and someone else’s. Alec crept halfway up the stairs to hear better. They were speaking Plenimaran, so he had no idea what they were saying, but he recognized the other voice. It was Khenir. He was surprised at the tone: it sounded as if the two men were arguing about something. Khenir was using the humble “Ilban,” but his tone grew less and less respectful as the debate went on. Alec caught his own name several times. Was Khenir arguing on his behalf?
    The risk wasn’t worth the toss, eavesdropping on a conversation he couldn’t understand. What mattered was that when the right moment came, he was ready and had a way out!
    He crept back to his room, locked the door, and hid the picks inside the mattress again with the rest of the spoon bits. As he lay back on the bed with his head on his arms, trying to calm his racing pulse, he wondered again about the rhekaro. He hadn’t heard it making any noise. Perhaps