Stalking Darkness

himself at the fire.
    “Have you found anything out on your own?”
    Seregil stirred the embers with a branch, sending up a little flock of sparks. “Not much. And I’m oath-bound not to talk about it. I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t apologize. We both know how the game works. How’s Alec handling it, though? He’s smart enough to put things together and I’d say he’s about as easy to put off a scent as you are.”
    “True.” Seregil gave a humorless laugh. “I’m worried, Micum. Something really bad is coming down the road and I can’t tell who’s in the way.”
    Micum hunkered down beside him. “If anyone can look out for him, it’s you. But there are some other things you could be telling him. He has a right to know.”
    Seregil shot to his feet and waved at Alec as he rode out of the trees toward them.
    “Not yet,” he said, his voice too soft for Micum to tell if the words were a command or a plea.

14
T HE S TREET OF L IGHTS
    A fter three days at Watermead, Alec and Seregil returned to the city under cover of night and made their way quietly back to the Cockerel. Runcer would keep up appearances at Wheel Street; Lord Seregil was in town, but not always available.
    Thryis and the others had gone to bed when they arrived, but the aromas still lingering in the darkened kitchen—new bread, dried fruit, garlic, wine, and ashy coals banked on the hearth—were enough welcome for Alec.
    Ruetha appeared from somewhere and followed them up to the second floor. Alec scooped her up and held her until Seregil had disarmed the succession of warding glyphs that protected the hidden stairway leading to their rooms. Alec grinned to himself as Seregil whispered the passwords that had once sounded so exotically magical.
    The command for the glyph at the base of the stairs was
Etuis miära koriatüan cyris
. “Your grandmother insults the chickens.”
    Halfway up:
Clarin magril
. “Raspberries, saddle.”
    For the hidden door at the top of the stairs the word was
Nodense:
“Almost.”
    The nonsense was intentional, making it virtually impossible for anyone to guess the secretwords. Only the final command, the one for the door into the sitting room, had any meaning.
Bôkthersa
was the name of Seregil’s birthplace.
    Seregil crossed the room with the aid of a lightstone and lit the fire. As the flames leapt up, he surveyed the room in surprise. “Illior’s Hands, don’t tell me you cleaned the place up before you left for Wheel Street?”
    “Just enough so I could walk across the room safely,” Alec replied, going to his neat, narrow bed in the corner near the hearth. He didn’t particularly mind Seregil’s chaotic living habits, but he did dislike stepping on sharp objects barefoot, or having heavy things fall on him from shelves. Hanging his sword and bow case on their nails above the bed, he stretched out with a contented sigh.
    Seregil collapsed on the sofa in front of the fire. “You know, it strikes me that this is all a bit of a comedown for you. After having your own chamber, I mean. Perhaps we should think about expanding our accommodations here. There are empty rooms on either side of us.”
    “Don’t bother on my account.” Yawning, Alec crossed his arms behind his head. “I like things just as they are.”
    Seregil smiled up at the shadow of a dusty cobweb wavering overhead. “So do I, now that you mention it.”
    Their pleasure at returning to the inn was marred by a sudden scarcity of jobs. The few that had come in during their absence were petty matters, and over the next week new ones were slow to follow. For the first time in their acquaintance, Alec saw Seregil grow bored.
    To make matters worse, late winter was the dreariest season in Rhíminee despite the lengthening days. The icy rains brought thicker fog in off the sea, and a grey dampness seemed to get into everything. Alec found himself sleeping well past dawn, and then nodding off over whatever he was doing in the evening with the sound of the rain lulling him like a heartbeat. Seregil, on the other hand, became increasingly restless.
    Returning from a visit with Nysander one dank afternoon near the end of Dostin, Alec found Seregil working at the writing desk. The parchment in front of him was half-covered with musical notations, but he appeared to have lost interest in the project. Chinon hand, he was staring glumly out at the fog slinking by like a jilted lover.
    “Did you check with Rhiri on your way up?” he asked