Got you, by the Maker!

Replacing the documents, he returned the casket to its hiding place, carefully leaving the concealing bit of stonework slightly askew.

This accomplished, he picked up a small footstool and went back to the window. With one leg hooked over the sill, he tossed the stool into the center of the room with a loud thump and dropped down into the alley. Poised for flight, he and the others listened for an outcry to be raised.

Nothing happened.

"How could they not have heard that? I heard it!" whispered Myrhini.

Micum shrugged. "You'd better give it another try."

With another boost from Micum, Alec peeked over the sill. The faint glow of candlelight still showed in the stairwell but there was no sign of life.

Climbing in, he briefly considered setting another fire but dismissed the thought; at this time of night the whole place might go up before enough water carriers could be roused. Casting around, he spotted a glazed jar on the mantelpiece. That would do nicely. He smashed it against the fire irons.

This produced an admirable crash and drew startled shouts from upstairs and down. Satisfied, he lunged for the window, caught his foot on the overturned footstool, and went sprawling.

"Is that you, Master Alben?" a quavering voice called from beyond the shop door.

"Damn and blast you, Durnik!" an outraged voice screeched somewhere above. "What in the name of Bilairy's Bitch are you doing down there?"

Scrambling to his feet, Alec glimpsed a pair of bony ankles at the head of the stairs. He threw himself out the window and tumbled into Micum's waiting arms.

"That did the trick!" Micum chuckled, clapping the helmet on Alec's head as the boy hastily pulled on his boots. Together, they hustled off down the alley, while Myrhini disappeared in the opposite direction to make sure of Tyrin's support.

Stopping at the far end of the alley, Micum and Alec heard Alben cursing his befuddled servant.

The shuttered window banged open, then slammed shut again. A moment later they could hear soldiers hammering at the front door of the shop.

The alley window opened again and this time an ungainly figure in a long nightshirt clambered out.

"Bloody hell!" Micum exclaimed in disgust.

"Don't tell me every damn bluecoat is going in the front door?"

The street running behind the building did appear to be unguarded.

"Quick, draw your sword!" Alec whispered, doing the same. His left hand found the lightstone he'd jammed in his pouch and he held it over their heads, hoping the helmet brims would shade their faces.

"You there, stop where you are!" he shouted in the deepest voice he could muster.

Alben clutched the damning strongbox to his chest as he blinked wildly at the sudden light. Panicked by the sight of swords and helmets, he turned tail, rushing down the alley and into the arms of several of Captain Tyrin's more enterprising men.

Alec quickly covered his light again as Micum called out. "We caught him shinnying out the back window!"

In the ensuing confusion, they slipped away with no trouble at all.

28 The Midnight Inquisition

Thero answered the summoner's knock just before midnight. Accepting the rolled message, he carried it downstairs to Nysander, who was dozing in the sitting room armchair.

Thero shook his master gently by the shoulder. "The Queen's sent for you."

Nysander's eyes blinked open, instantly alert.

"Was there a message?"

Thero handed him the little scroll.

Nysander read through it quickly, then rose and brushed the wrinkles from his blue robe. "Nothing of use here, only that I should come at once. Well then, we must simply hope for the best."

"Shall I come with you?"

"Thank you, dear boy, but I think it best for you to remain here for the moment. If something has gone awry, I shall need you available to Micum and Alec."

At the Palace Nysander made his way alone through the familiar corridors. Despite its rich tapestries and murals, the place had none of the Orлska's spacious ambience. Part royal residence, part fortress, the walls were thick, the corridors labyrinthine, the doors heavily strapped with ornate metalwork.

The judgment chamber was more forbidding still, and intentionally so. The long room was empty of furnishings except for a black and silver throne on a raised platform at the far end. To approach it, one crossed a chill expanse of polished black floor under the marble gaze of the royal effigies lining the walls.

Iron cressets cast a grim, shifting light over the small group already gathered around the throne.

Idrilain acknowledged Nysander's bow tersely.

She wore the crown and breastplate of office tonight, and her great sword lay unsheathed across her knees.

The Viceregent and General Phoria stood on either side of her, looking equally dour.

"We have come into possession of certain documents which may clear Lord Seregil's name," Idrilain informed Nysander, laying her hand on a long iron box that lay open on a small table at her elbow.

"I thought you should be present at the proceedings."

"Many thanks, my lady," Nysander replied, taking his place at the foot of the dais.

Looking up at her eldest daughter, Idrilain motioned for her to proceed.

"Bring the first prisoner!"

At Phoria's shout, a side door swung open and two guards dragged in a querulous old man in a stained nightshirt. Nysander allowed himself a brief brush across the surface of the accused man's mind and read a panicked craftiness, a fury to survive.

They were followed by three others: an officer of the Watch. a woman in the robes of the Queen's High Bailiff, and a young wizard of the Second Degree named Imaneus. Nysander knew this last one well, a talented mind adept frequently called in as verifier at such trials.

The Viceregent stepped forward and turned a bleak eye on the prisoner.

"Alben, apothecary of Hind Street, you stand accused of forgery and possession of personal papers belonging to a member of the Royal Kin. How plead you?"

Cowering on his knees, Alben mumbled a whining plea.

"Repeat yourself," the bailiff ordered, leaning closer to listen "My Lord Barien, the accused maintains that there has been some mistake."

"A mistake," Barien repeated tonelessly.

"Alben the Apothecary, were you not apprehended by Captain Tyrin of the City Watch while fleeing through a back window in the dead of night with this box in your arms? A box found to contain letters, documents, and missives penned by members of the nobility."

"A mistake," Alben whispered again, trembling.

Lifting a sheaf of papers from the box, Barien continued, "Among the documents in this box found upon

your person at the time of your arrest are letters and copies of letters. In short, forgeries. Specific charges against you are as follows: first, that you were instrumental in the slander and wrongful condemnation of an innocent and loyal servant of Her Majesty, Queen Idrilain the Second." Barien paused to select two letters. "Found in your possession is the duplicate of a letter purportedly written by Lord Vardarus i Boruntas Lud Mirin of Rhнminee, the very letter which sent Lord Vardarus to the block. With it, secured with a wax seal identified as your own, was found another, nearly identical letter entirely lacking in the details which damned him."

Barien lifted another bundle of papers from the box. "Secondly, you are charged with collusion to perpetrate the same heinous crime against Lord Seregil i Korit Solun Meringil Bokthersa. I myself received a letter identical to the one which I hold here, a letter bearing Lord Seregil's signature and sealed with Lord Seregil's mark. In this letter are statements which suggest he was plotting sedition and treason against Skala. Yet here, in addition to the duplicate, I find another letter bearing the identical salutation, signature, and seals, which is in every way innocent in content."