White Road

entered the city again with their string of horses. From there they made their way through a busy merchants’ quarter toward the waterfront. Micum’s “slaves” were veiled and hooded; if they inadvertently ran into Ulan, he would not recognize them, and he didn’t know Micum.
    They were nearly there when something startled Seregil’s horse and she jerked around in the opposite direction. Seregil quickly controlled her and took a moment to stroke her neck and murmur some reassurance before turning her back to follow Micum.
    “Please, Master,” Seregil said as they reached a market square at the edge of the waterfront. “Can we buy some food? I’m very hungry.”
    “So am I,” said Alec. It had been hours since their cold breakfast.
    “Very well,” Micum snapped, still playing the role.
    There were food vendors along the northern side of the square. Micum chose one selling hot grilled sausages.
    “Go buy for us,” Micum ordered Alec, reaching for his purse.
    “Please, Master, let me,” Seregil said.
    Micum raised an eyebrow, then gave him a few coins. “You—” He turned is attention to Alec. “There’s a woman selling cider down there. Fetch us some.”
    Something’s going on
, Alec thought as he headed for the cider booth. Seregil was up to something.
    They ate standing by the public well. The sausages were full of hot spices, and Alec was glad of the cider.
    “I think we’re being followed,” Seregil said quietly around a mouthful. “There’s a young beggar behind me, over there by the ribbon seller. He’s wearing a white kerchief around his neck. I’m sure I saw him by the gate.”
    “I see him,” Micum said, glancing past Seregil. “Plenimaran?”
    “Looks like it.”
    Alec turned his head slightly until he could see the ribbon merchant from the corner of his eye. The ragged fellow Seregil was talking about was leaning at ease against the side of the booth, laughing with another wastrel. “You think the men who chased us last night have followed us here?”
    “Maybe,” Seregil replied, but he sounded doubtful.
    “If they did track us, why wait until now to come after us? It would have been easier out on the road,” Rieser murmured.
    “Exactly,” Seregil replied.
    They finished their food and made their way down to the harbor.
    Some of the Virésse vessels they’d seen yesterday had sailed, and two others had come in.
    “Is he still with us?” asked Micum.
    Seregil’s unruly horse turned again, tossing her head and snorting.
    “He is,” Seregil whispered as he brought the mare under control again.
    Ulan’s ship was still riding at anchor, but the pennant was gone.
    “What does that mean?” asked Rieser.
    “That the khirnari isn’t aboard,” Seregil replied.
    A group of idle sailors had gathered at the end of a nearby quay, sitting on crates and passing a flask. Dismounting, Micum strolled over to them and was soon laughing and talking between pulls from the bottle.
    “He seems so at ease,” murmured Rieser, sounding impressed in spite of himself. “Just like with the horse dealer.”
    “Micum can talk to just about anyone,” Alec told him.
    Soon Micum was pointing, apparently asking about some of the ships. The sailors appeared to be happy to answer. When Micum finally parted from them and walked back to the others, he was grinning.
    “What—” Rieser began.
    “Hold your tongue, slave,” Micum ordered curtly, and loudly enough to be overheard. Mounting again, he led the way along the waterfront toward the far side of the city. Along the way they came to a smaller horse market, and Micum stopped to sell off their string and be free of it.
    While he and the others waited, Alec managed to position himself so he could look back the way they’d come. Sure enough, the beggar was there, sitting against a wall with several others of his kind, hand out, imploring the passing crowd for alms. What he lacked in subtlety he made up for in persistence.
    “I made a tidy profit, enough to afford a decent inn for the night,” Micum said when he returned.
    Alec knew he was speaking for the benefit of anyone listening to them; they all had money in their packs, more than enough for the best inn in the city. “The trader tells me there’s a good one in the next street—the Two Hens Inn,” Micum went on. “And they have a decent slave pen, too.”
    They made their way to a large, prosperous-looking inn with a friendly innkeeper who obliged Micum with a back room,