Stalking Darkness

to inspect the cut on Seregil’s scalp. “That’s quite a lump she raised.”
    “Serves me right,” he muttered through chattering teeth. “Illior’s Fingers! Jumped by a pair of gaterunners. If the cold water hadn’t brought me around I’d have drowned.”
    “I’m glad you didn’t kill him. He couldn’t have been more than twelve.”
    Seregil braced one arm against the wall and let out a long sigh. “Me, too. It’s strange for them to have attacked in the first place. Runners are usually a pretty elusive lot. They steal and spy, but they generally avoid a fight.”
    Frowning, Alec pulled off his face rag and pressed it to the cut on Seregil’s head. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’re looking kind of shaky.”
    Seregil closed his eyes for a moment, resting one hand on Alec’s shoulder. Then, taking the cloth from him, he held it himself and continued on down the tunnel. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve had all the swimming I care for tonight.”
    They reached the upper entrance behind the mulberry bushes without incident, but the combined effects of cold and the blow were beginning to take their toll on Seregil.
    “You go for Nysander,” he said, shivering even with his dry cloak pulled tightly around him. “I’d better stay and make sure no one tumbles to our little adventure in the meantime.”
    To his surprise, Alec balked.
    “No, you go,” he stated flatly. “Your head is still bleeding and I can hear your teeth chattering from here.”
    “I’ll survive,” Seregil retorted. “I don’t want you here alone. What if someone does show up?”
    “All the more reason for you to hurry,” Alec said stubbornly. “I’ll stay out of sight—they’ll never know I’m here. You’re the one needs looking after. Go on!”
    Seregil could tell by the set of Alec’s jaw that his mind was made up. Cutting a small strip from the hem of his cloak, he handed it to Alec “Hang on to this. Nysander can use it to find you. And keep out of sight no matter what, understand? No heroics.”
    “No heroics.”
    Seregil let out a defeated sigh. “If I’m not back soon, you get back to the Orëska, understand?”
    “All right, yes! Will you just go? I don’t want to be here all night.” Pulling up his hood, Alec melted back into the shadows.
    The pounding in Seregil’s head worsened as he dashed through the darkened streets toward the Orëska, but he managed to ignore the pain by worrying about Alec instead. Despite his faith in the boy’s quick wits, he couldn’t seem to shake off visions of Alec being caught unawares by the Watch or stealthy spies returning to check their handiwork.
    Arriving at the Orëska filthy, wet, and bloody, he argued his way past the watchman and hurried up the twisting stairs to Nysander’s tower.
    Thero opened the door and recoiled, covering his nose with one full sleeve. “By the Four!” he gagged, blocking the doorway. “You smell like you just crawled out of the sewers.”
    “Very observant of you. Get out of my way.”
    “You’re not coming in here like that. Go down to the baths first.”
    “I don’t have time for this, Thero. Now move or I’ll move you.”
    The two glared at each other, years of mutual dislike laid open between them without the gloss of banter or social nicety. Either could have done the other considerable harm if it came to open confrontation, and they both knew it.
    “Alec’s alone out there, and we need Nysander’s help,” hissed Seregil.
    With a last disgusted look, Thero stepped aside and let him through to the workroom. “He’s not here.”
    “Where is he?”
    “Out for his nightly walk, I imagine,” Thero replied stiffly. “Or perhaps you’ve forgotten about those?”
    “Then summon him!” Seregil paused, took a deep breath, and said through clenched teeth, “If you
please.”
    Thero conjured a message sphere with a casual wave of his hand. Balancing the tiny light over his palm, he said to it, “Nysander, Seregil needs you right away. He’s in the workroom.” The light shot away through the floor. He waved Seregil toa wooden bench near one of the tables, but remained standing himself.
    The young wizard was immaculate as ever, Seregil noted sourly, his robe spotless beneath his leather apron, his curly black hair and beard neatly trimmed, blunt-fingered hands unsullied. The thought that he’d inhabited that angular frame himself, if briefly, still made him cringe inwardly. That Thero had had the