More applause erupted at the duke’s expense.
Caught, Foris had no choice but to finish-and lose-the game. With gritted teeth he paid off the wagers, swept his
stones back into their fancy embroidered bag, and strode off with all the dignity he could muster.
Seregil looked around at his admirers. “Next?”
The woman who’d championed the wager took the chair Foris had vacated and poured her stones into the polished tray in front of her. They were made of blue opal, and she held one up, showing him Illior’s crescent inlaid in silver on the back of it. “The Lightbringer will have to decide between us, my lord, for I’ve been known to have the Immortal’s favor, as well. Or would you like to inspect my clothing for charms first?”
“A tempting offer, Marquise, but your honor is above reproach.”
“You’re very gallant, Lord Seregil, but now I’m disappointed,” she said with a teasing smile. “Well, you had your chance. Shall we play?”
They were still arranging their stones for the first round when a young page made his way through the crowd and whispered something to Alec. He, in turn, leaned down and whispered in Seregil’s ear, “Kepi’s outside.”
“Nothing too serious, I hope?” said Reltheus.
“A messenger,” Seregil told him. “Alec, be a dear and deal with him, would you?”
“I promised Palmani I’d make an early night of it, and it’s nearly midnight,” Reltheus noted after half a dozen rounds.
“Oh, I’d rather hoped we could get in a few more games together,” Seregil told him.
“Come to the house, then, you and Alec, when you’ve finished your business. I believe I might have another bakshi game or two in me.”
“In that case, I hope you have a few coins left in your purse. Just let me go see where Alec has gotten to, and I’ll meet you at the house.”
He found Alec and Kepi on the pavement near the entrance to the gambling house, under the watchful eye of the doorman, who clearly disapproved of such an unsightly character in the Street.
Seregil hustled them both quickly out of sight into the shadows beyond the reach of the street lanterns.
“What is it?” Seregil demanded.
“It’s Atre,” Alec told him. “He’s gone and gotten himself stabbed.”
“That actor fellow’s a friend of yours, ain’t he?” asked Kepi, looking pleased with himself.
“How in the world did you know that?”
Kepi just winked and grinned.
“Bilairy’s Balls! What happened?” asked Seregil.
“Don’t know the particulars, only that he’s over in Brass Alley, back of the Skulpin. I just heard of it and I come straight up to tell you.”
“The Skulpin? What was he doing there?” The gambling house was in the unfashionable-and at this hour, dangerous-area near Atre’s old theater and catered mostly to locals. There were plenty of cutpurses, bawds, and footpads about at this time of night, ready to relieve the unwary of their winnings.
“Is he alive?” asked Alec.
“He was when my friend heard about it. I went to your house and they told me you was here. I come straight on.”
“Good lad. We’ll deal with it.” Seregil took half a dozen coppers from his purse and gave them to the boy. Kepi made him another ill-formed bow and took off at a run, darting between horses and carriages. He was soon out of sight among the evening crowd.
“Damnation!” Seregil scrubbed a hand back through his hair. He needed to find out what the scribe had given Reltheus, but he could hardly abandon the actor in such circumstances.
“I’ll see to Atre,” Alec told him. “You go with Reltheus and make some excuse for me.”
“All right. As soon as you’re finished, come to his house, or send word to me there if you won’t be coming.”
They walked in silence to the nearby stable to collect Alec’s horse. A groom led Windrunner out. As Alec went to mount, Seregil caught him by the arm and brushed his lips over Alec’s. “Take care, tali.”
Alec gave him a knowing look. “You know I will. And you.” He swung up into the saddle and rode out into the
throng. Trying to ignore the knot of tension in his belly, Seregil went back inside to find Reltheus.
Alec road to Brass Alley at a gallop and found the actor alive and groaning on a couch in a poorly lit back room of the gambling den. He was dressed uncharacteristically plainly without a jewel on him-an apparent attempt to fit in with his surroundings. Or perhaps he’d been robbed.
A small crowd of ne’er-do-wells and doxies were peering in from the doorway, but parted for Alec at the sight of his fine clothes and sword.
A drysian was with Atre, tending to a wound on his belly. The actor was white-faced and looked frightened, but at least he was conscious.
“What happened?” Alec asked, kneeling down beside him and taking the man’s hand.
“Oh, my lord!” Atre gasped, clinging to Alec’s hand with both of his, which were sticky with blood. “How did you know?”
“Never mind that. What in Bilairy’s name happened to you?” A few patches of stage cosmetics near his hairline stood out against his milk-pale skin, Alec noted absently. He must have been in a hurry to come here.
“It didn’t happen in my establishment, my lord,” a round-faced man in dusty velvet told him. “This is an honest house.”
Alec doubted that.
“It was a girl, on the street,” Atre told him. “She said she was hurt, and when I tried to help her-look what she did!”
“It’s not as bad as all that,” the drysian scoffed as he bandaged the wound.
“And took your purse, I suppose,” said Alec. It was a common ploy among the girl cutpurses. “What are you doing alone in a place like this?”
“Oh, you know-” Atre was too pale to blush but he looked rather ashamed of himself.
“Got tired of the pampered nobles and came back here, looking for a bit of rougher fun?” Brader growled as he
strode into the room and stood over Atre. Apparently he’d gotten word, as well.
The actor looked away, saying nothing.
“This is no place for the likes of you,” the drysian scolded. “Stay with your fashionable friends and find your fun there. I have better things to do than patch up you silly thrill seekers.”
“I will, Brother. By the Maker, I will!” Atre mumbled, then looked up imploringly at Alec. “Please, my lord, don’t leave me here.”
“Of course not,” Alec assured him, then turned to the master of the house. “Is it possible to hire a carriage at this hour?”
“No need,” said Brader. “I brought the cart.”
The drysian finished with the bandage and straightened up. “There, that should hold your guts in well enough. See that you keep the wound clean and it should be healed in a week or so, if a bit sore.”
“I have to be onstage tomorrow!”
“That’s why you have an understudy,” Brader muttered, handing the healer some silver.
The drysian nodded to them and took his leave.
“Oh, Calieus will be pleased!” Atre groaned. “He hangs over me like a carrion crow, just waiting for something like this to happen.”
Alec chuckled. “It’s his job, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. Good night, my lord.” Brader lifted Atre in his arms as if he weighed no more than a child. Alec followed them outside and watched Brader place the wounded man on some folded blankets in the back of the cart.
“Really, I think a carriage would be more comfortable,” said Alec. “I’ll happily pay.”
“No need, my lord,” Brader said gruffly. It was clear that he was angry with his friend and perhaps meant to deny him the comfort of better transport. Or that’s what Alec thought until Brader added, “With respect, we take care of our own.”
He climbed in and snapped the reins over the grey mare’s back.
That was a bit rude! Alec thought as the cart rattled away. I might as well have stayed with Seregil.
He was on his way back to the duke’s house, riding past a narrow side lane, when he noticed a hand on the ground at the mouth of it, just visible in the faint light of a nearby street lantern. Reining in, he got down and hurried over to see if someone was hurt. A young, poorly dressed man lay facedown in the dirt. Checking quickly for signs of footpads, Alec rolled him over. His eyes were open, but not fixed in death. It was another of the mysterious sleepers. The man was young, with the disreputable appearance of a footpad and the odor of a gate runner. From the looks of him, he’d been lying there for a day or more. All the same, Alec felt guilty at the thought of leaving him to die in the street like a sick dog.