Stalking Darkness

winced inwardly. Half a block back, five heads swayed on pikes set upright in the back of a rough wooden cart surrounded by a grim formation of the City Watch. He’d seen such displays before; this was the fate of traitors and spies in Rhíminee. Their decapitated bodies would be lying in the cart below, on their way to the city pit.
    “Maker’s Mercy, that’s getting to be a common sight,” he muttered. “If we’re right about our man—”
    “—then he’ll come to the same end.” Seregil eyed the heads impassively. “I wouldn’t dwell on that, if I were you. I don’t.”
    Especially since you came within spitting distance of ending up that way yourself,
Alec thought grimly. He still had nightmares about that sometimes, and what would have happened if he and Micum had failed to clear Seregil’s name from the Leran’s carefully contrived treason charges. He wondered if Seregil did, too.
    As soon as the brightly colored awnings of the Sea Market came into sight, Seregil jumped down from the cart and led the way into Ironmonger Row, a twisting side street of open-sided workshops and smoke-stained buildings. Playing his role, he doubled over into a crabbed, sidelong limp and grasped Alec’s arm.
    In spite of the name, metal workers of all sorts plied their trade here, taking advantage of the proximity to both the port and the marketplace.
    Acrid fumes stung Alec’s eyes as they made their way through the din. Inside the workshops he could see half-naked men silhouetted against the red glare of the forges, looking like vengeful demons as their hammers struck sparks from glowing metal. Apprentices ran here and there with tools and hods of coal; others sweated over the bellows, pumping until the forges glowed yellow-white. Pots, swords, tools, and bits of armor hung over doorways advertising the wares being crafted within.
    Pausing at the first they came to, Seregil limped up to an apprentice and asked after Quarin.
    “Master Quarin?” The boy pointed farther down the narrow lane. “His place is way down near the wall, biggest on the block. You can’t miss it.”
    “Many thanks, friend,” croaked Seregil, taking Alec’s arm again. “Come along, son, we’re nearly there.”
    For a single, disorienting instant Alec stared down at him. They hadn’t discussed their roles in detail—hearing himself unexpectedly called “son” so many months after his father’s death sent a sickening chill through him. Guilt followed hard on the heels of it; he hadn’t thought of his father in weeks, perhaps longer.
    Seregil peered up at him from under his hat, one sharp grey eye visible. “You all right?”
    Alec stared straight ahead, surprised at the stinging behind his eyelids. “I’m fine. It’s just the smoke.”
    Dodging heavy wagons and wrathful shouts, they finally located Quarin’s shop. It was a huge establishment, much larger than the rest, and housed in a converted warehouse.
    Seregil hung back a moment, sizing the place up through the open door. “Two forges that I can see from here,” he whispered. “See those fellows with the metal studs across the top of their aprons? They’re all master craftsmen. Master Quarin must be well established to have a crew like that under him. Let’s go see what he knows of our friend Rythel.”
    Just inside the door, they found a woman in a studded apron putting the final touches on an elaborately decorated gate. Catching sight of them, she paused, resting her hammer on one knee.
    “You want something here?” she called.
    Seregil lowered his voice to a windy growl. “Is this Master Quarin’s shop?”
    “That’s the master, there at the back.” Hefting her hammer again, she pointed out a bluff, white-haired old man standing behind a worktable with several other smiths, metal stylus in hand.
    “It’s a Master Rythel we was sent to find,” Alec told her. “We’ve a message to deliver and we was told he works here.”
    The woman sniffed scornfully. “Oh, him! He and his crew are down at the western sewer tunnel in the lower city.”
    “Friend of yours, dearie?” Seregil wheedled, giving her a wink beneath the cracked brim of his hat.
    “He’s nobody’s friend here. Upstart nephew of the master, isall. That sort always nabs the plums, and damn all to the rest of us. Be off with you, and I hope you charge him double for the message. The bastard can well enough afford it.”
    Alec gave her a respectful bob of the head. “Thanks and Maker’s