Stalking Darkness

expect me to come down here with a hammer and anvil.” Opening his hand, he showed Alec a long iron pin. It was scored along its length where it had been driven through the flange and blackened from forging, except where the white metallic substance showed through near one end.
    Without a word Alec scaled the left side of the grate to find a solid pin in its place.
    “That’s amazing,” he exclaimed, tapping the iron with his knife blade.
    Nysander shrugged. “It is only magic.”
    Seregil grudgingly accepted the willow bark infusion Thero prepared, then went down to the baths. As soon as he was clean and dressed, however, he returned to the workroom and refused to be moved, despite Thero’s obvious desire that he wait elsewhere.
    Anxious and impatient, Seregil prowled the crowded room, fiddling with bits of delicate apparatus.
    “Give me that!” Thero snapped, snatching away a cluster of fluid-filled glass spheres. “Drop that and we’ll be up to our eyes in swamp sprites. If you won’t go downstairs then for Illior’s sake, sit down.”
    “I know what it is.” Scowling, Seregil climbed the stairway to the catwalk overhead and stared out through the thick glass panes of the dome, watching the movement of lights below.
    By the time Nysander and Alec materialized neatly in the center of the room, it would have been difficult to say which of the two looked more relieved.
    “There you are!” Seregil exclaimed, bounding down. “Any trouble?”
    “No, everything looks as good as new,” Alec told him, grinning.
    “Shall I fetch fresh clothing?” Thero inquired, wrinkling his nose again.
    “Yes, in a moment,” said Nysander. “First, however, I must congratulate our two able spies on a most valuable find.” He shook the iron pin from his sleeve. “I will keep this for now. Seregil, Alec tells me you took a sample of this curious white material?”
    Seregil held up the small container. “Right here. Want to see it work?”
    “Yes, but not here, I think. Too many flammable items.” Taking a crucible from a nearby shelf, he ushered them into the casting room.
    Placing a few of the white shavings in the crucible, Nysander set it on the floor and touched a candle flame to its contents. A small fountain of white sparks flew up and scattered across the floor.
    “Incredible!” murmured Thero, nudging the remaining shavings about with a small glass wand.
    Seregil watched him surreptitiously, recognizing the sudden light of enthusiasm in those pale eyes. At such moments he could almost see what maintained Nysander’s hopes for the young man—the keen and wondering mind that underlay Thero’s cold facade.
    “Have you ever seen anything like this before?” Thero asked, turning to Nysander.
    The older wizard lit another fragment, then sniffed at the smoke left behind. “It’s a sort of incendiary metal, I believe. It’s called Sakor’s Bite or Sakor’s Fire for obvious reasons. Very, very rare but”—Nysander paused to raise one bushy eyebrow at Seregil—“found in greater quantities in certain regions of Plenimar.”
    Seregil exchanged knowing grins with Alec. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a decent bit of work at last.”

18
O N THE S CENT
    O ver the next few days Alec and Seregil shadowed their man closely, but learned little more than that Rythel was annoyingly regular in his habits. He rose early, gathered his crew, and worked the day through without leaving the site. At night he took supper at his lodgings and turned in early.
    Lounging across the street from the Sailmaker Street tenement the fourth evening, they saw a broad, ruddy young man step out into the street.
    “That’s the landlady’s grandson,” Seregil whispered to Alec. “He’s been down to that tavern on the corner every night so far.”
    True to form, the fellow set off for the corner tavern, stopping to chat with neighbors along the way.
    Seregil stood up and stretched, still following the young man with his eyes. “He looks like a talker to me. I think I’ll nip in for a pint and try to strike up a conversation.”
    It was a clear, windless night, but cold. Moving restlessly from one cold doorway to another, Alec watched the house, and the half moon sailing slowly over it. It had gainedthe chimney by the time Seregil reappeared, chuckling to himself and smelling warmly of beer.
    “You look pleased with yourself,” Alec muttered, shifting his frigid feet.
    “1 am.” Seregil threw his cloak back and