Seregil tightened his hands in the folds of his shawl. “Well, nothin’ really, except maybe a tumble…”
“Like you gave that man back there?” The man laughed darkly. “I can do without that kind of fun.”
Damnation, the bastard had seen him take down his would-be rapist. No wonder he wasn’t falling for the helpless beggar act.
“To the crows with you, then,” Seregil muttered. “I’ll find someone proper to trade with.”
“Now, don’t be hasty, dearie.” The man took a step closer, and Seregil could hear the unseen smile in his voice. “How’s about a lock of hair?” He drew a sword that had seen years of use. “I can cut it for you myself.”
“N-no,” Seregil said, taking a cautious step backward. As he’d feared, Tall Fellow advanced.
“Are you sure, my lovely? Just a few silken strands and I’ll give you something for luck.” But that sword said otherwise.
Seregil brought a hand up to his covered head. “I’m afraid you might cut off too much with that big blade of yours.”
The man raised the sword and Seregil took to his heels, holding up his skirt with one hand again and clutching the shawl with the other. The man caught the end of the latter and nearly pulled him over backward. Seregil let go of it and ran for all he was worth, ducking around a pony cart and leaping over a collection of pots an old woman had displayed on a sodden blanket. Behind him, he could hear the bastard shouting something about having been robbed, as if expecting someone here to give enough of a damn to stop Seregil. He pelted on, dignity a bit dented. The man had been playing with him, and he had the sinking feeling that he’d been sussed.
Once he was sure he’d thrown off pursuit he slowed and
held his skirts in a more womanly manner as he circled back through the cold mud to where he thought the old man might be; he’d managed to lose both shoes in his escape.
The rain was coming down in earnest now, driving people from the street. Splashing through ankle-deep puddles, he finally gave up and went to meet Alec in the Sea Market. Alec was waiting for him at the fountain, and his grin promised better news than Seregil had to share.
“The boy talked to you?” he asked as they set off through the downpour for the inn.
“Better than that.” Alec showed him a yellow rock crystal. “This is what the old man traded him.”
“Well done! How did you get it away from the boy?”
“I bought it off him for a few pennies. What about the old man?”
“I lost him.”
“You lost an old man?”
Seregil gave him a sour look. “There was a distraction. Several, actually.”
“What?”
“A near rape, and a big masked fellow with a sword who offered to cut my hair for me-somewhere below the chin. I think he might have been in league with the old man. A bodyguard, perhaps.”
“Probably a good idea in there. Masked, you say?”
“Yes. Not that I’d expect to find many honest men in that part of the Ring, but I’d bet a sester that the tall bastard was a professional.”
“The old man didn’t look like he could afford much in the way of protection.”
“The professional could be part of this raven tribe, with a different role to play. Considering the areas of the city they’ve been working, they may all go out with partners who stay out of sight until needed. And somehow I got the wind up him. I don’t often get noticed, tracking.”
“Maybe he’s a nightrunner, too.”
Seregil let out what started as a derisive snort but turned into a sneeze.
“What happened to your shawl?” asked Alec.
“Spoil of war.”
Alec untied his own and draped it over Seregil’s shoulders. Seregil didn’t argue; the woolen shawl was soaked, but still held in some warmth. He was chilled to the bone and depressed now that the excitement was over. Walking wasn’t quite enough to keep him warm.
Alec patted the stone in his wallet. “At least we have this to show Valerius and Thero. Maybe they can get something from it.”
“Hopefully.” As they splashed along, Seregil found himself thinking more of the tall man than the old one; something niggled at the back of his mind, but he wasn’t quite sure yet what it meant.
Atre crouched in the shadows inside a derelict shanty, stripping off the fake whiskers, wig, and putty nose. Using a clean corner of his sodden cloak, he rubbed at his face to get off the last of the cosmetics. He was nearly done when Brader stepped inside and pulled the mask from the lower portion of his face.
“What was that all about?” Atre whispered.
“You had an admirer,” Brader replied, looking more dour than usual.
“That old beggar woman?”
“Not so old, and no beggar. I saw her take down a man twice her size in the blink of an eye and nearly cut his throat. I’m not completely certain it was even a woman.” He sat down on a box and kept watch while Atre stripped off his beggar’s clothing to the plain garb underneath and wadded the whole disguise into a sack.
“Oh, don’t glower so. You’ve always liked this part of our arrangement,” Atre wheedled.
After a moment Brader said, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s happening again. You’re taking too many risks and someone is taking notice.”
“Your raggedy lady friend?”
“Listen to me for once, cousin!” Brader growled. “That was no beggar woman.”
“Well, that’s why I have you, isn’t it?” Atre said with a
grin. “The next time you catch someone suspicious, just kill them like you usually do. You haven’t bloodied your blade more than once or twice since we’ve been here.”
Brader let out an exasperated snort. “Because you were being careful, until that night you got yourself stabbed in that rat-hole tavern. It’s going to be just like before-”
“No, it isn’t,” Atre assured him with that dark, hungry smile. “It’s going to be much, much better.”
Back at the Stag and Otter, Seregil sent word to Valerius to meet them at Thero’s tower. Washed and changed into dry, nondescript clothing, they set off for the Oreska House through the relentless downpour.
Their cloaks were soaked through by the time they reached it. The night torches cast wavering lines of ruddy light across the huge puddles that had gathered all over the garden and in the carriage path.
Servants took their horses and cloaks, and they hurried upstairs to Thero’s rooms.
“We have something to show you!” Alec exclaimed as soon as the wizard let them in.
“Something more from Reltheus, I hope?” Thero asked, wiping his hands on his work apron. The room smelled like burnt roots and wine and there was something black and acrid bubbling in a flask on one of the long tables.
“Uh, no. We found something in the Ring that will help Myrhichia.”
Thero raised a questioning eyebrow as he took the stone from Alec.
Alec waited expectantly, hoping the wizard would divine something from it instantly. “A boy got this stone for a hog’s tooth. A little girl currently dying in the Sea Market temple got a sweet for a clay doll.”
“Interesting,” Thero muttered, tilting the stone this way and that to catch the light.
Rain lashed against the glass-paned dome overhead and lightning vied with the lamplight as he tried a few spells, then clutched it in his hand, muttering another under his
breath. After a moment, however, he shook his head. “Ordinary quartz, imbued with nothing. It’s useful in a few spells, but it has no killing power.”
A wave of disappointment rolled over Alec. He’d been certain this would be the key. “But there has to be something!”
“I’ve never seen quartz that color,” Seregil noted.
Thero shrugged. “It’s common in Skala’s northeast territory, near Isil.”
“But not found down here on the peninsula?”
“No, but you can get it easily enough. I’ve bought some from a stone dealer in Farrow Street.”
“And you can’t read anythingabout the old man from this one?” asked Alec.