"Those are shipping marks, sir. We use them to keep track of the cargo. The dragonfly mark is mine, put on when I took the box aboard. The next is from the quarry foreman—"
"And that little lizard?"
Seregil stole a quick glance at Alec, sensing more than casual curiosity.
"That's the quarry's mark, sir. The Ilendri newt, we call it."
"It's an interesting design-stone, I mean." He had to get Seregil away from the captain without attracting undue attention. "I think it would do nicely, don't you, brother?"
"In the garden, perhaps," Seregil said, playing along. Chin in hand, he narrowed his eyes appraisingly. "Though I know Mother had something larger in mind for the niche in the great hall. And you know how she favors the white these days. Suppose we take this piece and the white one the captain recommends?"
Alec hovered impatiently as Seregil paid for the stone and arranged for delivery, then drew him off down the quay.
"What was that all about?" Seregil whispered.
"Ilendri or not, that rock isn't worth—"
"I didn't mean for you to buy it!" Alec said, cutting him short. "It was the mark—that Ilendri newt—I've seen it before!"
Seregil slowed to a halt. "Where?"
"At Kassarie's keep. It was on some of the old tapestries in the main hall, like a maker's mark. I don't know why it caught my eye particularly, except that I liked the look of it."
"And you're certain the tapestries were old? Perhaps several generations back?"
"The tapestries?" Alec asked in disbelief, this was no time for one of Seregil's artistic tangents.
"Well, I think so. They were like the old ones you showed me at the Orлska, with the fancy patterns around the edges. I remembered you saying you liked that style better than the new ones."
Seregil threw an arm around Alec's shoulders with a delighted chuckle. "Illior's Fingers, you've got the same rat's nest of a memory I do! You're certain this lizard thing was just the same?"
"Yes, but why do the tapestries have to be old?"
Alec asked, still puzzled.
"Because new tapestries might have been purchased and the mark would be pure coincidence. Very old ones are more likely to have been made by someone in Kassarie's family, someone who lived in the keep and wove them there and used the newt as her signature. Care to place a wager on who owned this Ilendri quarry before it was clapped out?"
"I'll bet you a block of ugly marble it was Lady Kassarie a Moirian!"
A quick word with the Dragonfly's captain proved Alec right. According to him, Lady Kassarie had awarded the failing enterprise to an aging retainer five years ago in appreciation of his long service. The old fellow still used the «newt» out of respect for his former mistress.
"Looks like we're headed south again," Seregil said, rubbing his gloved hands together with a satisfied air as they went back to the inn to collect their horses.
"We don't need to go to the quarry?"
"No. Thanks to your everlasting curiosity, I think we've found the key to our little problem. We can make Watermead before midnight, then it's Rhнminee tomorrow, and on to Kassarie's. Looks like that warmhearted little kitchen maid of yours is going to prove useful after all."
"You're looking forward to this, aren't you?" Alec asked with a grin.
Seregil tilted him a dark smile. "Clearing my name was a relief; giving the Lerans a good kick in the slats is going to be a pleasure!"
In their haste and elation, neither noticed the pair of laborers who detached themselves from a work gang to trail after them through the midday crowd.
Crossing the isthmus again, they retraced their route along the coast. There was little trade on the highroad that afternoon, and in several hours riding they met nothing but a few wagons and a garrison patrol.
Shortly before sunset they came around a sharp bend in the road to find their way blocked by fallen rocks. It was passable, but it meant riding precariously close to the edge of the cliffs.
The way was especially narrow here, with sheer rock face to the landward side and a nasty drop to the sea on the other.
"This slide must have just happened." Frowning, Seregil reined in to inspect the rubble. "That patrol we met would have cleared it, or warned us."
Alec eyed the few yards of open ground between the tumbled rocks and the cliff edge. "We'd better walk the horses."
"Good idea. Throw your cloak over Patch's eyes so she doesn't shy. You take the lead."
Wrapping the reins more securely around his fist, Alec coaxed the nervous mare along with soothing words as her hooves struck loose stones. From behind he could hear Seregil doing the same in Aurлnfaie.
He was within ten feet of safety when he heard the first telltale rattle of stone against stone overhead.
"Look out!" he shouted, but it was already too late.
Rocks came crashing down all around them. Patch let out a frantic whinny, pulling back against the reins.
"Come on!" he cried, wincing as a shard of rock cut his cheek. He could hear Scrub, rearing behind him, and Seregil shouting some unintelligible warning.
With a sudden toss of her head, Patch threw off the cloak and bolted. Unable to free his hand from the reins, Alec was jerked off balance and swung out over the cliff edge.
For a sickening instant he hung in space, looking down at the waves crashing against the cliffs a thousand feet below; at the same moment he glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye as something-man, beast, or boulder-plunged down into the abyss.
Before he had time to do more than register the movement, Patch reared again, snapping him against her neck like a hooked fish against the side of a boat. He grabbed wildly for purchase, found her mane with his free hand, and clung on in numbed terror as she plunged away down the road, miraculously dragging him to safety. He managed to get astride her at last and reined her in.
They'd ridden out of sight of the slide. Heart hammering in his throat, Alec turned Patch and galloped back to find Seregil.
The road was completely blocked now; this last slide had left a great heap of broken rock that slanted down to the very edge of the cliff. Neither Seregil nor his horse were anywhere in sight.
"Seregil! Seregil, are you there?" yelled Alec, praying for some answer from beyond the crest of the heap. He couldn't yet bring himself to look in the more probable direction.
As he cast around in rising desperation, a bit of color caught his eye in the slide where the jumbled rock pile met the cliff face. It appeared to be a scrap of cloth, red cloth, the same as the coat Seregil had been wearing.
Scrambling up, he found Seregil curled on his side, half buried in skree and dust. Blood seeped slowly down over his forehead from a scalp cut; another trickle oozed at the corner of his mouth.
"Maker's Mercy!" Alec gasped, pushing at the rocks on Seregil's chest. "Don't be dead! Don't you be dead!"
Seregil's right hand twitched and one grey eye flickered open.
"Thank the Four!" cried Alec, nearly weeping with relief. "How bad are you hurt?"
"Don't know yet," Seregil rasped, closing his eyes again. "I thought you went over—"
"I thought you did!"
Seregil let out a shaky breath. "Scrub, poor Scrub—"
With a queasy shudder Alec recalled the falling object he'd glimpsed as he swung out over the edge of the cliff.
"Had that horse eight years," Seregil groaned softly, a hint of moisture darkening the dust beneath his eyes. "Bastards! Ambushers killed my best horse."
"Ambushers?" Alec asked, wondering if Seregil was fully conscious after all.
But the grey eyes were open now, and alert. "When the rocks started falling, I looked up and saw a man silhouetted against the sky."
Alec risked an uneasy glance of his own but saw nothing. "When I rode back just now, I noticed a little switchback trail leading up the rocks. It's just around that next bend. He could have gotten up that way, I bet."