“A very wise attitude. Good night to you, Master Atre.”
For just an instant Seregil thought he saw a look of annoyance cross the actor’s face, but it was fleeting and he couldn’t be certain before Atre pressed a hand to his heart and bowed and took his leave.
“Atre definitely has a bit of nightrunner in him,” Alec noted.
“I thought he might. What do you make of what he said?”
“I’d say with all you heard yesterday and now this, the two cabals may be at war. I’ve been thinking, though. General Sarien wasn’t on that list I found.”
Seregil considered that. “He may be a recent addition to the group. Or Kyrin didn’t know about him. By the Light, Alec, if Laneus has the protector general in his pocket, that shifts everything. If Sarien could get the City Regiment to follow him, they could hold all of Rhiminee hostage.”
“Maybe the Cat should pay him a visit. Where does he live?”
“Unfortunately, he’s quartered in the Palace itself and even I’m not about to try to burgle him there. We’ll start with Malthus tonight, and see what comes of that.”
Atre smiled to himself as he rode home, pleased that he’d kept the best of the gossip to himself; perhaps he’d have a bit of fun among the nobles, after all.
As for his patrons, would they never part with so much as an earring?
Perhaps Duke Reltheus or Kyrin would be more generous. Kyrin, he decided; he already had a ring from Reltheus, from the night he’d dined at the duke’s house when Alec had disgraced himself with drink.
Perhaps he’d even inveigle one or both of them as new patrons. From Kylith’s reception tonight, it was clear he was going to need one.
CHAPTER 21. How to Burgle a Friend
IT was a simple matter to break into Malthus’s fine house in Rowan Street that night. Ironically, it was less than five minutes’ walk from Reltheus’s house. Seregil went inside alone, over Alec’s objections, claiming that it would be easier to explain one of them being there, rather than both, should he get caught, and that he knew the layout of the house. All the same, Alec insisted on coming as far as the garden wall and keeping watch while Seregil climbed over and into the shadows beyond.
It was a sticky night, and the black silk across the lower part of Seregil’s face was uncomfortably hot and moist before he got halfway through the extensive garden. Elegant as this house was, it was sadly lacking in balconies, so Seregil was forced to find another way upstairs, where Malthus’s library lay. The man didn’t have a study, but carried out his business from a desk there. Seregil hoped that’s where he kept anything sensitive. As conniving as the Rhiminee upper classes tended to be, they were woefully predictable to anyone who had a wide experience of them.
The narrow window of the garderobe chamber granted cramped entrance for a snake-hipped nightrunner with the wit to jigger the catch on the interior leaded pane. A lime-wood shim inserted between glass and frame soon found and lifted the latch. An earthy smell drifted out on the damp air as he swung the window inward and shimmied through. He wrinkled his nose. Someone in the household wasn’t feeling well, from the odor.
Holding his breath, Seregil stole silently to the door and inched it open. All was dark beyond. Listening intently for watchmen or wandering servants, he found the servants’ doorway behind a tapestry in the hallway near the kitchen and crept up to the second floor. Fortunately the stairs were solid and well maintained. They hardly creaked at all.
The library was at the front of the house, down a long corridor that branched off the one leading to the household sleeping quarters. An ornate Zengati carpet ran the length of the hall and muffled his footsteps nicely as he hurried along.
The simple lock on the library door was enough to keep servants and nosy guests out, but not Seregil. He pondered suggesting something more complex to Malthus the next time they met, but decided it would be an awkward topic to work into casual conversation.
Once inside he checked the locked drawers of the desk, finding little of interest, then searched the room for hidden compartments. Once again, it was all too easily found, in the wall behind a small tapestry. Dust had collected around the edges of a square of wood paneling, making it obvious to a trained eye. In Seregil’s experience, the more honest the person, the easier it was to burgle them. Feeling a little guilty, he carefully pried out the panel and found a flat wooden box hidden in the space behind it. Roughly square, the box was about a foot wide and half that thick. Seregil carried it to the desk and inspected it closely with the lightstone from his tool roll. Finally, a lock with a little spirit to it! Perhaps even a nasty device incorporated into the lock or brass plate. Smiling to himself, he took out the slender pick he’d designed for just such a situation. It was purposely bent so that it could probe the lock while keeping the hand out of range of any needles or other dangerous deterrents that might pop out.
It was a good thing, too. Malthus had been much more careful with this; a burst of white flame flared from the keyhole, melting the pick and catching the edge of Seregil’s rolled-up shirtsleeve on fire.
“Bilairy’s-!” Seregil struggled out of the shirt and hastily threw it away from him. He knew this magic. He’d seen
Thero-who had a peculiar fascination with all things flammable-place it on various objects to protect them. This sort of magical fire could consume flesh if in contact with it for more than a few seconds. For all Seregil knew, Thero had placed the magic on the box for Malthus himself. Unfortunately it set anything else it touched ablaze, too, and he’d thrown the shirt a little too close to the drapes behind the desk.
Hard-pressed to think how he could make things any worse, he grabbed the box, which had stopped spewing fire, and hurried back the way he’d come. As he passed the kitchen, he shouted “Fire! Fire upstairs!” and ran for the garderobe. Tossing the box out the window, he wiggled after it, grabbed it up again, and bolted for the garden wall. He could already smell smoke and cursed himself for a fool. The last thing he’d intended to was to burn down a friend’s house. Fortunately someone had already raised the alarm. He could hear shouting inside. Bolting through the garden, he heaved the box over the wall, then scrambled up the rope and down the other side.
He found Alec scrabbling around on the ground, gathering scattered documents and stuffing them into his shirt. Apparently there was no magic on the box to prevent it from smashing open when thrown over a wall onto a paved street.
“A little warning would have been nice,” Alec whispered as he grabbed up the last of the scattered documents. “You nearly brained me with that thing.”
“Sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
Alec looked up and sniffed. “Is that smoke?”
“Is it?” Seregil picked up the last pieces of the splintered box and hurried away with Alec close behind.
At the Stag and Otter, Alec shook the documents from under his shirt and spread them out on the table. There were five in all, ordinary missives from Nalian and Laneus with no apparent hidden messages, as well as one from Elani, thanking Malthus for some gift. This one bore both signature and the princess royal’s seal, and was in Elani’s hand.
“Well, that was a waste of time.” Alec stretched his arms
over his head and yawned. “Why would he go to the trouble to hide those?”
“Why, indeed.” Seregil turned his attention to the pieces of the box. It had landed on an upper corner; the left side panel was cracked, and the lid had broken in two, with one of the pieces hanging by one hinge. The lock plate was a melted medallion surrounded by charred wood. “You’d think he’d have used something sturdier.”
“He probably didn’t anticipate it being tossed over walls.”
Seregil detached the lid and set it aside with the splintered pieces. “Or he thought the fire spell on the lock would be enough to keep it safe.”
“Fire spell? So that wassmoke I smelled. What happened?”