"Here's a familiar face," Micum remarked from across the room. "Not one of ours, though."
Seregil came over for a look. "Gormus the Beggar. Poor old bastard—he must have been ninety. His daughter begs over by Tyburn Circle most days. I'll send word to her."
Again, they found no sign of Teukros or the others. Returning gratefully to the fresh night air, they rode down the echoing Harbor Way to the maze of wharves and tenements that clung to the eastern curve of the harbor.
Leading the way into the poorest section, Seregil reined in at a sagging warehouse. It was the largest of the city charnel houses and the stench of the place hit them before they opened the door.
"Sakor's Flame!" Micum croaked, clapping a vinegar rag over his nose.
Alec hastily did the same. None of the evening's activities had prepared him for this place; even Seregil looked a bit queasy.
More than fifty bodies were laid out on the stained wooden floor, some fresh, some with the flesh already slumping from the bones. The cresset lamps set around the room to consume the evil humours burned with a foul, bluish light.
A hunched little woman wearing the grey tabard of the Scavenger Guild limped up to them with a basket of wilted nosegays.
"Posies for you gentlemen? Makes the bitter search so much sweeter!"
Seregil tossed a few coins into her basket.
"Good evening, old mother. Perhaps you can make our search a shorter one. I'm looking for three people who'd have come to you within the past day. A young, dark-haired servant girl; a manservant of middling years, also dark; and a young nobleman with a blond mustache."
"You may be in luck, sir," the old woman cackled, hobbling off toward a corner of the room. "I've got the fresh ones over here. Is this your girl?"
Callia lay naked between a drowned fisherman and a young tough whose throat had been cut. Her eyes were open, and she looked vaguely worried.
"That's her, all right," said Seregil.
"Now that's a damned shame," Micum sighed, holding up the hem of his cloak as he squatted down beside the girl. "She can't be more than twenty. Do you see her wrists?"
Seregil fingered the brown bruises circling the pale wrists. "She was bound, and gagged, too. See here, how the corners of her mouth are raw?"
Shivering with nausea, Alec forced himself to watch the examination. The past few hours rolled over him like an oppressive nightmare, leaving him sickened to the core.
The front of the body was unmarked except for the bruises. When they rolled her over, however, they found a single small wound between her ribs just to the left of the spine.
"A professional job," Seregil muttered.
"Through the great vessel and straight up into the heart. At least it was quick. Where was she found, old mother?"
"Poor lamb! They pulled her from under the docks, end of Eel Street," the Scavenger woman replied. "I took her for a doxy. Is there family to collect her?"
Seregil laid the body gently back into place and stood up. "I'll look into it. See that she's kept a day or two longer, won't you?"
Outside again, all three sucked in lungfuls of the tar-scented air, but the stink of vinegar on their hands and faces seemed to keep the stench of death about them.
"I want to jump into the sea with all my clothes on!" said Alec, casting a longing look toward the glimmering of water visible at the end of the street.
"Me, too, if we wouldn't come out of that water dirtier than we are now," said Seregil. "A good hot tub will put us right."
"That's your answer to just about everything," Micum observed wryly. "In this case, however, I have to agree."
"At least we know for certain that we're on the right track," Alec said hopefully. "I wonder where Teukros and Marsin will turn up?"
"If they ever do," answered Seregil. "For all we know, it could have been them who did away with the girl, in which case they could be halfway to anywhere by now. Then again, they could both be floating dead in the sewers. Between this and Barien's sudden death, though, I think it's safe to assume that we've got more enemies out there somewhere and, whoever they are, they've got the wind up their tails now. Teukros spilled something to someone!"
34 Phoria's Confession
Two days had passed since the Viceregent's suicide. At noon Barien's body was to be publicly dismembered, a symbolic execution of the self-confessed traitor.
Micum flatly refused to attend. While Seregil finished dressing, he wandered out onto the bedroom balcony to watch Alec at his morning shooting in the garden. Patiently gauging each shot, the boy sent shaft after shaft unerringly into his current target, a sack of straw wedged in the crotch of a tree.
The previous night Alec had halfheartedly offered to accompany Seregil, but they'd managed to dissuade him.
"There's nothing there you need to see," Seregil had told him, kindly leaving unsaid the fact that Alec had shouted himself awake every night since their charnel house tour.
The boy's relief had been obvious, but this morning he'd moped through breakfast in guilty, hangdog silence, then retreated to the garden with his bow.
As Micum watched now, a sudden gust of wind blew a lock of hair across Alec's eyes, spoiling his last shot. Without the slightest show of impatience, he merely brushed it back and went to collect his arrows for another round.
It's a pity you don't have as much patience with yourself as you do with your shooting, Micum thought, stepping back into the warmth of the bedroom.
Seregil was trying on a broad-brimmed black hat in front of the mirror. Tugging it to a more rakish angle over one eye, he stepped back to judge the effect. "What do you think?" he asked.
Micum ran a critical eye over the plain grey velvet coat Seregil wore under a cloak of darker grey. "No one's going to mistake you for a wedding guest."
Seregil tipped his hat with a humorless smile. "Well turned out but austere, eh? Good. Never let it be said that Lord Seregil doesn't know how to dress for any occasion. Is Alec still shooting?"
"Yes. You know, maybe you shouldn't have talked him out of going. I think he feels like he's let you down."
Seregil shrugged. "Probably, but it was his decision in the end. You saw him the other night; he forced himself into the charnels because he knew it mattered.
"Today it doesn't and he knows that, too. He's just kicking himself for being squeamish. Hell, I wouldn't be going if I didn't have to. The way word has spread around Rhнminee, they're writing ballads about me already; the poor exile unjustly imprisoned and all that sort of horse shit. So it matters and I'm going. At least the poor bastard did us all the favor of killing himself. When the condemned is alive, I have nightmares myself."
The execution site lay a few miles north of the city. Known as "Traitor's Hill," the barren rise was distinguished by a broad stone platform on the crest of the hill. Overlooking a lonely stretch of the Cirna highroad, its gibbet arch and deeply scarred block presented bleak but potent testimony to the Queen's implacable justice.
Riding out under a lowering sky, Seregil clapped his hat on more tightly and silently cursed the duty that forced him out on such a morning. The northern territories had been winter-locked for a month now, but the cold weather was only now settling in solidly here on the coast. A light dusting of snow had streaked the fields just after dawn; in the distance to his right, he could see mountain peaks glistening whitely.
A sizable crowd had already gathered at the execution site. The nobles sat their horses in a tight knot, slightly but definitively separate from the surrounding mob of idlers, ne'erdo-wells, and seekers of morbid thrills.
The latter formed a loose ring around the platform, laughing and jesting as if it were a Fair Day, they took their humble midday meal within the shadow of the gibbet and dared one another to stand close enough to get spattered by the blood.