"Steady now, I've got you," Micum said, catching him as his knees gave way. "Alec, the brandy. And the basin, too, by the looks of him,"
Seregil crouched over the brass basin for a moment, fighting down the intense nausea brought on by the spell; translocation spells had by far the worst aftereffect. Settling back on his heels, he gratefully accepted a cup of brandy.
Alec stared at him, goggle-eyed. "Seregil, is that really you in there?"
Seregil examined the pale, bony fingers wrapped around the cup, then knocked back the fiery liquor in a single gulp. "Gruesome, isn't it?"
"Thero was no more pleased than you by the prospect," sighed Nysander. "He was, however, a good deal more gracious."
"Forgive me," Seregil retorted. "I'm just not myself tonight."
Alec was still staring. "You've got Thero's voice, but somehow—I don't know, it still sounds more like you. Is it different than when you changed into an otter?"
"Decidedly." Seregil looked down at his new body warily. "It's like wearing an ill-fitting suit of clothes you can't take off. He wears his linen rather tight, too. I didn't know you could do this, Nysander!"
"It is not a practice of which the Orлska particularly approves," replied the wizard with a meaningful wink. "As it was successful, however, I should like to undertake a brief experiment. Do you recall the spell for lighting a candle?"
"You want me to try it while I'm in this body?"
"If you would."
Nysander placed a candlestick on the casting table.
Getting to his feet, Seregil held his hand over the candle.
Micum gave Alec's sleeve a surreptitious tug, whispering, "You might want to stand back a bit, just in case."
"I heard that," Seregil muttered. Centering his concentration on the blackened wick, he spoke the command word.
The results were instantaneous. With a rending groan, the polished table split down the middle and fell apart in two neat halves. The candle, still unlit, clattered to the floor.
They all regarded the wreckage in silence for a moment, then Nysander bent to finger the splintered wood.
Seregil sighed. "Well, I hope that answered your question."
"It has answered several, the most significant being that the transformation of magical power was complete.
Thero should be fairly safe, providing we proceed with all possible haste. There is a great deal to discuss before Alec returns to Wheel Street."
"I have to go back tonight?" Alec asked, clearly crestfallen at the prospect. "But Seregil only just got—" Seregil gave him a playful cuff.
"Appearances, Alec, appearances! You're the master of the house in my absence, as well as a possible suspect by the sound of things. We can't have you dropping out of sight with no explanation."
"Quite right," Nysander agreed. "But we shall lay our plans before you go. Come down to the sitting room, all of you. I expect Seregil would like a decent supper. Thero ate almost nothing tonight."
"I can feel that!" Seregil patted his lean belly wryly. Following the others downstairs, he touched his face again. An unruly hair on his upper lip tickled a nostril and he smoothed it impatiently.
"Amazing," he muttered. "I've never cared much for all this hair you people have sprouting out of your faces anyway, but now that I've got it myself-it's absolutely revolting!"
Micum proudly stroked his heavy red mustache. "For your information, we consider it a sign of virility."
"Oh?" Seregil snorted. "And how many times have I sat waiting in the middle of nowhere while you scraped away at your chin with a knife and cold water?"
"It's my fashion," Micum said, giving Alec a wink. "Kari likes it this way—smooth cheeks with a bit of tickle thrown in."
"It itches," Seregil complained, scratching under his nose again. "Teach me to shave, will you?"
"You most certainly will not!" Nysander said sternly.
During supper the others outlined their recent activities for Seregil. He chuckled appreciatively over their adventures in Hind Street but grew serious at Nysander's report.
"Forging a Queen's Warrant? No wonder Barien was upset. Except for the Queen and Phoria, he's the only person with access to the necessary seals."
"Rightful access," Micum amended. "What do you suppose this ship, the White Hart, ended up with in
her hold?"
Seregil looked to Nysander. "I could probably find out. Three years is a long time, but records would be kept in the shipping master's offices at her port of call. It won't show us her real cargo, I'm certain, but it would be a start."
"It will probably prove unrelated to the business at hand, yet I should prefer to leave no avenue untried," mused Nysander. "And now let us lay our plans for tomorrow."
Dawn was only a few hours away when they'd finished, and Alec suddenly gave in to a cavernous yawn.
"Sorry," he said, yawning again.
Seregil grinned. "No wonder you're tired. You've been busy!"
Thero would be a lot better-looking if he'd smile more, Alec thought, surprised at the difference it made.
What must Seregil's face look like now, with Thero's mind behind it?
"I'm done in myself," Micum said. "If we're all in agreement on tomorrow's work, Alec and I had better go find our beds before the sun comes up."
"You're getting old," Seregil scoffed, following them upstairs. "Used to be we'd be up for two or three days before you'd begin to flag."
"By the Flame, you've got that right! Another few years and I'll be happy to spend my days in a sunny corner of Kari's garden spinning lies for the servants" children."
At the workroom door, Alec turned for a last look at Seregil in Thero's body. He couldn't imagine a more unlikely combination. Shaking his head, he said, "It's good to have you back—sort of."
"Sort of good or sort of back?" Seregil countered, managing a semblance of his familiar lopsided grin in spite of the beard.
"Sort of both," said Alec.
"And I sort of thank you, all of you, for your good work tonight on my behalf," Seregil said, clasping hands with them. "Things were beginning to look a bit grim in that cell. Between the four of us, we should be able to sort things out soon enough."
A crushing weariness settled over Seregil as he went back downstairs. Collapsing gratefully on Thero's clean, narrow bed, he hadn't the strength left to pull off his shoes.
It's the magic, he thought, drifting off to sleep. Damn stuff always wears me out.
Exhausted as he was, the night was not a peaceful one. Tossing restlessly, he fought his way through a
parade of uneasy dreams. At first they were only fragmented glimpses of the past few days-a distorted event, repetitious snippets of conversation, faces of no consequence looming again and again. Gradually, however, the images began to coalesce.
He was still in Thero's body, riding on horseback through the city. It was dark and he was lost. The street markers were gone, the lamps unlit on their hooks. Frustrated and a little frightened,he pushed on at a gallop.
His horse had no head; the reins passed over a smooth, glossy hump and disappeared somewhereunderneath the animal's chest.
I can't stop it anyway, he thought. Letting go of the reins, he clung to the saddlebow.
Flecked with sweat, the strange creature thundered for hours, carrying him down one unfamiliar street after another until an owl flew up beneath its feet. Startled, the horse reared and threw him,then disappeared into the surrounding darkness.