Stalking Darkness

Mercy to you. Come on, Grandfather, we’ve got a long walk ahead of us.”
    “Grandfather, eh?” Seregil eyed him wryly as they continued on toward the Sea Market.
    “You could be anything under there. That smith didn’t seem to care much for Rythel, did she?”
    “I noticed that,” said Seregil, straightening up and stretching his back. “The guild smiths are a proud, stiff-necked lot and seniority is everything to them. Sounds like Quarin put some noses out of joint giving the job to a relative.”
    “Why would anyone begrudge him working in the sewers?”
    “If they’re in the sewers, then they must be replacing the iron grates that guard the channels coming down from the citadel. Who do you suppose ordered that job?”
    “Lord General Zymanis.”
    “By way of whatever underlings handle the details, anyway, which would make it a particularly lucrative contract, with extra pay for the smith in charge of the repairs and his crew. She said he’d ‘nabbed the plums,’ remember?”
    “That still doesn’t explain why Rythel would have papers with Lord Zymanis’ seal.”
    “No, but it does establish the beginnings of a plausible connection. The letter he had was addressed to Admiral Nyreidian. We met him at Kylith’s gathering at the Mourning Night ceremony, if you recall.”
    “The lord who’d just been commissioned to oversee the privateers!” Alec exclaimed. “That has to do with the war, too.”
    “Which means we’re probably right about Rythel being a noser of some sort.”
    They walked on in silence to the Harbor Way. Presently Seregil looked up again and said, “If we’re right, then I may need to play with this Rythel a bit, see what I can get out of him. When we get down there, I’d better stay out of sight and let you play messenger. If he is a fellow professional, then I don’t want to chance him recognizing my voice later on.”
    At the harbor they made their way west beyond the last quays and warehouses to a stretch of rocky land that hugged the base ofthe cliffs. A freshly rutted wagon track led on out of sight among the twisted jack pines and hummocks. Following it for a quarter of a mile or so, Alec and Seregil found Rythel’s crew at the head of a steep, malodorous gully.
    From where Alec and Seregil stood, the entrance to the sewer channel was about five hundred feet up the cut. The opening was the same size and shape as an arched doorway, tall enough for a man to walk through without ducking his head. A noisome grey torrent flowed out over its threshold and on down through a stone sluiceway to the sea beyond. A foul odor hung over the rocky cleft and Alec noted that the workmen wore wet rags over their noses and mouths. Vinegar cloths, he guessed, to protect them from the evil humours of the place.
    A forge had been set up near the opening and the black smoke from it collected sullenly on the damp air. A small wagon stood nearby and half a dozen armed bluecoats were lounging against it.
    “What are they doing there?” Alec asked as they looked out from behind the cover of a boulder.
    “Watching for gaterunners and spies. The sewers go everywhere under the city.”
    “What are gaterunners?”
    “Thieves, mostly, who know how to get past all the gates and grates and travel the tunnels. They know more about where those channels lead than anyone, even the Scavenger Guild. You’d better go have a look.”
    Leaving Seregil behind the rock, Alec hugged his rags about himself and followed the stony track up toward the forge.
    “What do you want here?” a soldier demanded, looking more bored than suspicious.
    “I’ve got a message for one of the smiths,” Alec replied. “Man named Rythel.”
    “Go on then, but be quick about it,” the guard said, waving him on.
    At the forge two apprentices were doggedly pumping the bellows, while another held an iron rod in the coals with heavy tongs. Behind them, a smith was shaping a glowing spike of iron on the anvil. Short and dark-haired, he didn’t match the description Eirual had given Seregil.
    Alec waited until the man paused in his hammering, then stepped up and touched his brow respectfully.
    The smith eyed his rags suspiciously. “What do you want?”
    “Begging your pardon, master, but I’ve got a message sent for Master Rythel,” Alec replied with a beggar’s unctuous civility.
    “Tell it quick and be off with you. The guards don’t like anyone hanging about.”
    “That I can’t, sir,” Alec told him