Traitor's Moon

once that he couldn’t feel the pull of Alec’s longing. “After dark,” he said, giving in.
    They dressed in old clothes and dark cloaks, shedding their public personas as easily as the garments themselves.
    Going on foot, they followed the Street of the Sheaf west toward the Harvest Market. On the way they passed the Astellus Circle and the Street of Lights. The colored lanterns of the brothels and gaming houses still glowed invitingly there, in spite of the war.
    Reaching the poorer quarter behind the Harvest Market, they hesitated at the final turning onto Blue Fish Street. Each had his own memories of the horrors they’d witnessed here.
    The ruin of the Cockerel was still there. The land belonged toSeregil, by way of various false names. Not even Runcer had known of this place or his connection to it.
    Chunks of rubble and most of the courtyard wall had been carried off by other builders, but one kitchen wall and the chimney still stood against the night sky, their broken edges softened by a thick growth of creeper. Somewhere among the tangled branches, an owl hooted mournfully. The night wind rustled the leaves and moaned faintly through broken brickwork.
    Alec whispered something under his breath, a Dalnan prayer to lay ghosts to rest.
    They had their pyre
, Seregil thought, fighting down images of blood and dead lips speaking. He’d set the place ablaze himself, just to be certain.
    In the back court, they found no sign of the stable, but the well had been cleared and appeared to be still in use. Thryis’s kitchen garden had run wild nearby. Masses of mint, basil, and borage had spread to claim earth formerly the purview of the old woman’s tidy rows of lentils and leeks.
    â€œAll the time we lived here, I don’t think I ever used the front door,” Alec murmured, picking his way over charred beams to the broken mouth of the hearth. The mantelpiece was still there above it. Mice had taken up residence in the warming oven.
    Seregil leaned against the empty doorframe and closed his eyes, remembering the room as it had been: Thryis leaning on her stick as she fussed over her kettles and pots; Cilia peeling apples at a table nearby while her father, Diomis, tended the baby. He could almost smell the aromas: lamb and leek stew, new bread, crushed garlic, ripe summer strawberries, the sour reek of the cheese presses in the pantry. The Cavishs had taken breakfast in this kitchen when they visited the city for festivals. Nysander had had a particular fondness for Cilia’s mince tarts and her father’s beer.
    The memories still hurt, but the edges were blunted.
    Dance the dance
.
    â€œDamn, what’s that?” Alec hissed.
    Startled, Seregil opened his eyes in time to see a small, dark form dart out of the hearth. It dodged past Alec but tripped over something and went sprawling. Overhead, the owl and its mate took flight in a flurry of wings.
    Seregil pounced on the struggling shadow, which turned out to be a ragged boy. He couldn’t have been more than ten, but he rolled to his knees quick as a snake and pulled a dagger on Seregil, cursing him ripely in a high, shaky voice.
    â€œHere’s a proper Rhíminee nightrunner, if the stink and vocabulary are anything to go by,” Seregil said in Aurënfaie.
    â€œBilairy take you, spirits!” the boy snarled, trapped between Seregil and a fallen beam.
    â€œWe’re not ghosts,” Alec assured him.
    Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Seregil caught the boy by his dagger hand and pulled him forward. The lad couldn’t be making much of a living for himself. His skinny wrist felt like a bundle of cords in Seregil’s grip.
    â€œWhat do you call yourself?” he asked, twisting the knife free.
    â€œLike I’d tell you!” the boy spat out. With another burst of initiative, he kicked Seregil in the shin and yanked loose, escaping with the agility of a rat.
    Alec’s laughter echoed weirdly off the ruined stonework, but it was full-hearted all the same.
    â€œIf the neighbors do think this place is haunted, this ought to put the seal on it.” Seregil grimaced as he sat down and rubbed his leg. “Quite a welcome, eh?”
    â€œThe best we could ask for,” Alec gasped, sitting down beside him. “Owls, footpads—I think it’s a sign.”
    â€œTake what the Lightbearer sends and be thankful,” Seregil murmured, looking around