Stalking Darkness

the saddle. “My humblest apologies for disturbing your rest, old mother.”
    “You’d best sleep on your belly tonight,” the old woman cackled after him as he rode unsteadily away.
    “That wasn’t exactly subtle,” Alec observed, still laughing as they headed back to the Harbor Way.
    “A drunken soldier making a ruckus at the wrong house in the middle of the night on Sailmaker Street?” Seregil asked, looking pleased with himself. “What could be subtler than that? And successful, too. Now we know that this Rythel is a journeyman smith of some sort. Which leaves us still asking what he’s doing with gold enough for the Street of Lights and a lord’s papers in his pocket.”
    “And why he had that much gold on him with the papers
still
in his pocket.”
    “Exactly. And what does that suggest?”
    “That he’s been up to whatever he’s doing for a while already,” replied Alec, looking back toward the waterfront. “We’ll have to get into his rooms, and we’d better find out who Master Quarin is.”
    “We’ll start tomorrow. Hold up a minute.”
    Seregil’s grey was wheezing dejectedly now. Reining in by a lantern at the foot of the Harbor Way, he dismounted and took theanimal’s head between his hands. “I’d better ride double with you, Alec. This poor old fellow’s at the end of his strength. I’d better change cloaks, too.”
    Alec kicked a foot out of the stirrup and held his hand down. Grasping it, Seregil climbed up behind him and wrapped an arm around his waist.
    Alec felt another unexpected twinge of sensuality at his touch, faint as a bat’s whisper, but unmistakable. There was certainly nothing seductive in the way Seregil gripped a handful of his tunic to keep his balance, yet suddenly he had an image of that same hand stroking the head of the young man at Azarin’s brothel, and later embracing dark-eyed Eirual.
    Seregil had touched him before, but never with anything more than brotherly affection. Alec had seen tonight what sort of companions his friend chose—Wythrin and Eirual, both of them exotic, beautiful, and undoubtedly skilled beyond anything Alec could conceive of.
    What’s happening to me?
he wondered dejectedly. Maker’s Mercy, he could still smell Myrhichia’s lush scent rising from his skin. From some neglected corner of his heart, a small voice seemed to answer silently,
You’re waking up at last
.
    “Anything wrong?” asked Seregil.
    “Thought I heard something.” Alec nudged the horse into a walk.
    Seregil bunched the stolen cloak out of sight beneath his own. “I suppose we really should return this. I don’t want any of Eirual’s women getting into trouble on my account. I don’t suppose you’d mind going back there twice in one night?”
    Alec couldn’t see his friend’s face, but he could tell by his voice that he was grinning.
    “Me? Where will you be?” asked Alec.
    “Oh, not too far away.”
    Alec shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “You’re going back to Azarin’s.”
    He heard a throaty chuckle behind him. “Fowl never tastes as savory when you’re hungry for venison.”
    At least you know what you want
, Alec thought grudgingly.

16
S MITHS AND B EGGARS
    C illa was just stirring up the fire when Seregil returned to the Cockerel the next morning.
    “Is Alec back?” he asked.
    “I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon. You haven’t gone and lost him, have you?”
    “Let’s hope not.” Grabbing a few apples from a basket, he headed for the back stairway.
    “Hang on, I’ve got something for you,” Cilla called after him. She pulled a small, sealed packet from behind the salt box on the mantel and gave it to him. “Runcer sent this over from Wheel Street. A regimental courier from the Queen’s Horse delivered it there.”
    Pocketing the apples, he examined the packet as he continued upstairs. The folded parchment was sealed with candle drippings and covered in smudged finger marks. Directions to Lord Seregil’s house were written across the front in Beka Cavish’s impatient, upright hand.
    Opening it, he read the brief letter inside.
    Dear S. & A.
27 Dostin—Have reached Isil. Tomorrow we move into Mycenian territory. One of the other turmae lost a rider at bridge overthe Canal at Cirna when his horse bolted and threw him over the edge. Horrible.
    The weather is foul. It’s still very much winter up here. The worst enemy we’ve faced so far is boredom. Capt. Myrhini and some of the other officers break