Stalking Darkness

the monotony with their war stories. Some of the best come from the sergeants, however.
    Billeted tonight in stables of Baron of Isil’s estate. The glory of a soldier’s life, eh, Seregil?
    —B. Cavish
    Reaching their rooms, he found Alec asleep on his narrow cot, clothes dropped in a careless heap on the floor. Seregil sat down on the clothes chest at the end of the bed and tapped him on the foot.
    “Good morning. We’ve got news from Beka.”
    Alec growled something into the pillow, then rolled over. He blinked sleepily at the morning light streaming in at the windows, then at Seregil. “You just getting in?”
    Seregil tossed him an apple. “Yes. Tirien asked after you, by the way, and sends his regards.”
    Alec shrugged noncommittally and bit into his apple. “What’s Beka say?”
    Seregil read him the letter.
    “Maker’s Mercy!” Alec muttered, hearing of the man lost off the Canal bridge. He disliked heights and Seregil had to coax him across the bridge the first time he’d traveled over it.
    “Let’s see,” said Seregil when he’d finished, “if they were in Wyvern Dug two weeks ago and headed southeast from there, they could be across the Folcwine River by now.”
    “Sounds like she’s doing well with it all.”
    “I wouldn’t expect anything else of her. Beka’s as good with people as she is with horses and swordplay. I’ll bet you a sester she’s wearing a captain’s gorget the next time we see her.”
    If we see her again
, skittered at the back of his mind as he said this, but he pushed the doubt away. He thought he saw a shadow of the same thought cross Alec’s face, and the same quick denial.
    “Where do we start today?” Alec asked, pushing a handful of tousled hair back from his eyes.
    Seregil went to the hearth and stirred up the remains of last night’s fire. “I’d like to find this Master Smith Quarin first.Unfortunately we don’t know what kind of a smith he is, do we? Goldsmith, silversmith, swordsmith, blacksmith—”
    Alec chewed thoughtfully, watching him. After a moment he said, “How about an ironsmith?”
    Seregil glanced down at the poker in his hand, then saw that Alec was looking at it, too.
    “You said Lord Zymanis is in charge of the lower city defenses, so he’s more likely to need an ironsmith than a goldsmith, right? And Eirual said he had rough hands.”
    “You’ve got a clearer head than I do this morning,” Seregil said, chagrined not to have thought of it himself.
    “1 imagine I got more sleep.”
    Seregil glanced over at him in surprise, fancying he heard an edge of disapproval in Alec’s tone. After last night’s evident success with Myrhichia, he’d assumed the boy was cured of any undue scruples. Evidently he still retained his Dalnan attitude toward establishments like Azarin’s.
Well, that’s just too damned bad for him
.
    “There are ironsmiths scattered all around the city but they all belong to the same guild,” he said aloud, letting the moment pass. “I’ll have Thryis send one of the scullions over to ask after Quarin. In the meantime, I think I’ll have a bit of a rest.”
    By midday they’d learned that Master Quarin’s shop lay in Ironmonger Row near the Sea Market Gate. They set off soon after, dressed as ragged cripples.
    Alec’s face was half-obscured by a dirty bandage. Seregil wore an old wreck of a hat tied on with a scarf so that the brim curved down to his chin on either side. Their disguises had the desired effect. As they crossed the back court Rhiri saw them and shook a rake threateningly in their direction.
    “Ah, the ubiquitous beggar,” Seregil chuckled when they’d scuttled out the gate. “No one is ever surprised or glad to see you anywhere in the city.”
    Begging bowls in hand, they set off for Sheaf Street, the broad avenue that ran through the city between the Harvest and Sea Market gates.
    As expected, they attracted little attention as they made their way through the crowded streets. Carts and wagons rumbled past endlessly. Tinkers and knife grinders chanted their availability insingsong voices. Dirty children dodged through the crowds, chasing dogs or pigs or each other. Soldiers were everywhere, along with malodorously genuine beggars and a few early whores importuning passersby.
    Watching for their chance, they stole a ride on the back of a hay wagon and clung to the tail posts as it jolted over the cobbles.
    “Look there,” said Seregil, pointing behind them.
    Alec looked and