Stalking Darkness

without turning his head.
    “Nothing new,” Alec replied, unwrapping the books the wizard had lent him.
    “Damn. And I’ve already checked everywhere else. If people keep behaving themselves like this we’ll be out of a job.”
    “How about a game of bakshi?” Alec offered. “I could use some practice on those cheats you showed me yesterday.”
    “Maybe later. I don’t seem to be in the mood.” With an apologetic shrug, Seregil returned to his composition.
    Suit yourself
, thought Alec. Clearing a space on the room’s central table, he settled down to study the compendium of rare beasts Nysander had given him. The text was somewhat beyond his ability, but he stubbornly puzzled it out, relying on the illustrations for clues when the gist of a passage eluded him. With cold mists swirling against the windowpanes, a fire crackling on the hearth, and a cup of tea at his elbow, it was not an unpleasant way to occupy an afternoon.
    It did require considerable concentration, however, which quickly proved difficult as Seregil abandoned the desk and began wandering around the room. First he toyed with an unusual lock he’d picked up somewhere, grinding noisily away at the wards with a succession of picks. A few moments later he tossed it onto a shelf with the others and disappeared into his chamber, where Alec could hear him rummaging through the chests and trunks piled there and muttering aloud, either to himself or the ever faithful Ruetha.
    Presently he reappeared with an armload of scrolls. Kicking the scattered cushions into a pile in front of the fire, he settled himself to read. But this pursuit was equally short-lived. After a brief perusal involving considerable rustling of parchments and muttered asides, each document was relegated in rapid succession into the fire or onto a dusty pile beneath the couch. With this task completed, he lay back among the cushions and began to whistle softly between his teeth, keeping time to his tune by tapping the toe of one boot against the ash shovel.
    Not even Nysander’s excellent bestiary could withstand such distraction. Realizing he’d just read the same sentence for the third time, Alec carefully closed the book.
    “We could do some shooting in the back court,” he suggested, trying not to let his exasperation show.
    Seregil looked up in surprise. “Oh, sorry. Am I disturbing you?”
    “Well—”
    He stood up again with a sigh. “I’m not fit to be around today, I’m afraid. I’ll get out of your way.” With this he returned to his room, emerging a few moments later wearing his best cloak. He’d changed his rumpled tunic for a proper surcoat and breeches, too, Alec saw.
    “Where are you off to?”
    “I think I’ll just walk awhile, get some air,” Seregil said, avoiding eye contact as he hurried to the door.
    “Wait a minute, and I’ll go with you.”
    “No, no, you go on with your reading,” Seregil insisted hurriedly. “And tell Thryis not to wait supper for me. I could be late.”
    The door closed after him and Alec found himself in sole possession of their rooms.
    “Well, at least he didn’t take his pack this time,” he grumbled to Ruetha, who’d stationed herself on a stack of books beside him. Tucking herself into a neat loaf, the cat merely blinked at him.
    Alec opened his book again, but found he couldn’t concentrate at all now.
    Giving up, he made another pot of tea and looked into Seregil’s bedroom while it steeped; no clue was immediately apparent in that chaotic jumble.
    What’s he up to, dashing off like that?
    Except for that one mysterious journey, Seregil had included him in every job since the Festival. But he hadn’t acted like he was going out on a job just now.
    The parchment was still on the desk. Bending over it, Alec saw that it was the beginnings of a song. The words were badly smudged in places, and whole lines had been struck through or scribbled over. What remained read:
    Shelter awhile this poor tattered heart
.
Cool my brow with your kiss
.
Tell me, my love, you
you’ll lie with me only
.
Lie to me all night like this
.
    Sweet is the night, but bitter the waking

When the sun harries me home
.
Others there’ll
be, who drink at your fountain

While I toss cold and alone
.
    Yellow as gold, the hair on your pillow
,
Green as cold emeralds, your eyes
.
Dear as the moon, the cost of your favors
,
    Below this half a dozen lines had been struck out with what appeared to be increasing frustration.
    The margins