White Road

luxuries of any sort, sprawled across the bed at all hours like a big contented cat, and for the first time in a very long time it was just the two of them at night. No Sebrahn. No Rieser, who looked vaguely uncomfortable whenever they so much as clasped hands. Seregil was like a man dying of thirst, and Alec was the spring. After the tension of the past weeks, lovemaking was as much relief as pleasure for both of them.
    On their second morning at sea, Rhal took one look at them over breakfast and burst out laughing, as did Nettles, who was eating with them in the captain’s cabin. Alec had been amused to see that this one was decorated even more garishly than their own, but he wasn’t amused now, sensing that the laughter was at his expense.
    Seregil looked up from the runny grey porridge Tarmin had served up. “What’s funny?”
    “Look in the mirror, both of you,” Rhal told him. “You’ve got matching love bruises on your necks.”
    “And you’ve been so quiet, too,” said Micum. “We could hardly hear you in the forecastle.”
    Alec’s face went hot to the roots of his hair as he pulled up the collar of his coat. That just made the others laugh harder, of course, all of them except Rieser, who kept his attention on his breakfast, expression carefully neutral. Seregil was clearly controlling himself with an effort; he couldn’t careless what anyone thought, but he also knew how Alec hated it when things like this happened. Not that Alec was ashamed of their relationship—far from it—but his father had been a modest man, and their lonely wandering life had left Alec ill at ease in personal matters around other people. He kept hoping he’d at least grow out of blushing, but so far he hadn’t been that lucky.
    As much as he valued having Seregil to himself again, though, Alec missed Sebrahn badly. He’d grown used to the little rhekaro’s constant presence, even if Seregil hadn’t, and felt bereft without him. More than once he caught himself looking around for him, purely out of habit. Sebrahn crept into his dreams, always being carried out of reach by the Ebrados and their tall rhekaro. But he kept all that to himself, and busied himself helping Seregil prepare for the task ahead.
    Seregil and the other “slaves” were leaving most of their gear behind, but he and Alec kept their tool rolls, in spite of the danger of being caught with them. For now they were stored at the bottom of their small traveling packs, but Seregil and Alec both had a medium-sized lock pick sewn into a seam of their tunics. Weapons presented another challenge, and they had a heated discussion about that with Rieser behind closed doors in their cabin.
    “Even if you’re only presenting yourself as a horse trader, wouldn’t you have armed men to protect the string?” Rieser demanded.
    “You have to play every role to the last detail,” Seregil explained. “Slaves caught carrying weapons will get their master into some serious trouble, not to mention what would happen to them. If we get backed into a corner, we’ll either steal some or use whatever comes to hand.”
    “Or run very fast,” added Alec.
    “It’s usually better to avoid a fight altogether,” said Micum.
    Rieser raised an eyebrow at that. “You’re afraid to fight?”
    “No,” said Seregil, “but fighting attracts attention, and that’s something we want to avoid at all costs. Still, we won’t go in without any protection. Micum has his sword, and noone will question him carrying Alec’s bow. If he can’t get it to Alec in time, Micum’s a very good archer. Does that satisfy you? Or are you afraid?”
    “I fear nothing, but dying won’t accomplish our purpose.”
    “None of us plans to die. Just follow our lead when the time comes. This is what we’re good at.”
    “I caught you easily enough,” Rieser reminded them.
    “And we escaped just as easily.”
    “The first time.”
    “That’s enough!” said Micum. “It’s settled: no swords or knives. We each play our role. That should be protection enough.”
    For clothing, the ship’s sailmaker was able to alter some of their clothing and some loose trousers traded from the crew into outfits befitting a well-to-do northlander’s slaves. They would wear shirts under the usual sleeveless tunic, but with sleeves loose enough to readily display the slave brands. Seregil sewed plain veils for each of them out of some of the ribbon and fine lady’s handkerchiefs Rhal had plundered