“You wouldn’t mind staying at the Stag tonight, would you?” Seregil murmured.
“No, why?”
Seregil’s grin flashed pale in the starlight. “Just a bit of business, if we’re lucky.”
As they turned into Cod Street, Alec noticed a young bawd sprawled awkwardly near the open doorway of a tavern. He first supposed she was either drunk or murdered, until he saw that her eyes were wide open and that she was still breathing. He reined in and dismounted.
“What are you doing?” Seregil asked impatiently.
“She’s alive.” He touched her brow with his palm. “Like that boy we found.”
Seregil joined him and pressed two fingers against the inside of her wrist. “Her pulse is strong.”
“You there! What are you up to?” a man demanded, and Alec turned to find a blue-coated sergeant of the City Watch regarding them with obvious suspicion.
“We just found her like this,” he explained.
“Oh, pardon me, my lords,” the man said, taking in their fine clothing. Then, looking down at the woman, he shook his head. “Sakor’s Flame, another one?”
“You’ve seen this before?” asked Seregil.
The man came a bit closer, but Alec could tell he was nervous. “Mostly back away from the merchants’ streets. It’s the sleeping death, all right.”
“The what?”
“Some new sickness here around the waterfront,” the bluecoat explained, taking a step back. “We’re seeing a lot of it, here in the dog days. A person will just be walking along, then all of a sudden they stagger and go down, then just lie there. After a while, they die. Leave her. The Scavengers will see to her.”
“But she’s not dead,” said Alec.
“The Scavengers are the only ones who’ll handle these poor beggars, except for the drysians. It’s spreading, you know, though folks aren’t talking about it, on account of what could happen.”
“Quarantine,” said Seregil.
“Yes, if there are enough cases reported that it’s deemed a contagion, the whole Lower City could be cut off. And you can bet the traders don’t want that. Not on account of a few whores and their brats falling sick. Things are bad enough already. Now you two move on, and see that you wash your hands. I’ve heard it said these sick ones are unclean.”
“If that’s the case, then shouldn’t there be a lot of dead Scavengers and drysians, too?” asked Seregil.
The sergeant snorted. “The Scavengers are bred to filth. Ain’t nothing that kills them but each other. And the drysians
have their Maker to protect ’em. Go on, now. You’d best be on your way, my lords.”
Seregil swung up into the saddle and gave Alec a surreptitious wink. “Clearly, there’s nothing we can do for her.”
They rode slowly around the block, giving the sergeant and his men time to move on, then circled back. Alec carried the woman and Seregil led the horses as they took her to the little Dalnan temple where they’d taken the boy. People they passed along the way shied away from them, and some made warding signs against ill luck and sickness.
They rang the bell and, after a time, a sleepy-looking young drysian looked out, then quickly opened the gate so they could bring the woman in.
“How many of these people have you seen?” Seregil asked the drysian when they were inside.
“A boy was brought in yesterday, but I’ve heard of more,” he replied. He took the woman in his arms and led them through the temple, with its stone hearth altar carved with sheaves and fruit, to an inner room beyond. A young boy with dark brown hair and eyes lay on a straw pallet, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
The acolyte spread a pallet for the young woman and covered her with a blanket.
“I’d like to speak with the priestess, Brother,” Alec told him.
“Of course, my lord.”
The man disappeared, and a moment later the priestess they’d spoken with before joined them.
“This one’s from one of the Hake Street houses,” she said as she bent over the stricken woman. “I’ve cured her of the usual things a few times. I suppose this is a kinder end for her than many she could have come to.”
“You’re probably right.” Alec reached into the purse at his belt and gave her two new-minted silver sesters.
The drysian took them with a weary sigh. “Maker’s Mercy on you, for your kindness and generosity.”
“How long has the boy been here?” asked Seregil.
“His mother brought him to me two days ago.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“Yes, he’s the candlewick maker’s son, Teus.”
“You handle these people without any fear, it seems. No gloves. No bird beak masks full of herbs.”
“It didn’t occur to me to do so, when the first one was brought to me,” she explained. “By the time others came, I was quite certain it was not a contagion spread by touch.”
“That’s not what the bluecoat we just met said,” Alec told her. “And some of the folk we met on the way treated us like we had plague.”
“I’m beginning to think it might be one,” she replied. “But you, young sir-you carried her with no thought of danger?”
“The same as you, Sister. We’ve encountered this before and I didn’t catch anything.”
She patted his arm. “You’ve good hearts, my lords, to stop for such a girl.”
“We’re all one under the Maker’s eye, Sister,” Alec replied.
“You’re a Dalnan?” she asked in surprise.
“Raised one.”
“Good! Not enough of us down here in the south. Those flame and moon worshipers could learn a thing or two from us. Maker’s Mercy, my lords.”
“And to you.”
They rode up through the deserted Harbor Way and through the Sea Market.
As they threaded their way through the poor neighborhood beyond, Alec turned sharply in his saddle, peering down a side street and reined his horse around.
“What is it?”
“I could swear I just saw Atre pass under a street lantern down there.”
Seregil shrugged. “His old Basket Street theater isn’t far from here.”
“What would he be doing back there?”
“Who knows? Come on.”
The Stag and Otter was shuttered for the night. They approached carefully, making sure not to be seen coming here in noble dress.
Entering the darkened kitchen, Seregil went to the broad
mantel over the hearth and took down the large painted pitcher that stood in the center of it. Inside were two folded parchment packets, both sealed with wax that bore no emblem.
Alec shook his head. “More work! Just what we need.”
Upstairs they lit a few lamps. Seregil sat down on the couch and told Alec all he’d heard on the island.
“You think they tried to assassinate Klia?” Alec exclaimed. “By the Light, Seregil, how could Korathan not know? The news should have been all over the city!”
“Not if he didn’t want it to be. As vicegerent, he has to keep the peace and he doesn’t need any fuel being heaped on the fire of unrest he’s already contending with. I just can’t imagine Thero not knowing. It will be interesting to see what he has to say about it. But now to these.”
Alec leaned over Seregil’s shoulder to read with him as he opened each letter.
“Another bauble delivery,” Seregil said as he read the first one. Tossing it aside, he opened the second and showed it to Alec. “Just as I thought.”
“Someone wants us to burgle Malthus’s house?”
“Yes, and look at this clever phrasing. For ‘any missives of interest to the queen.’ ”
“That must have been what you heard Reltheus and the others talking about.”
“I’d say so. Reltheus must have sent this before we sailed this morning. Does the handwriting look familiar to you?”
“No, but the sender might have had someone else write it for them.”
A great cloak of secrecy surrounded the workings of the Cat, requiring any message back and forth to pass through a number of trusted hands. Not only did this system protect the Cat from being unmasked, but it made their noble patrons feel safe dealing with them. Whatever they found would be passed to one of several people, who would pass it on to others, until it reached the agent of the person buying their services. Money changed hands in the same manner.