I bought you that wine, Seregil thought, averting his eyes from the contents revealed in the ruins of the ruptured stomach.

Lips pressed in a thin line of anger and disgust, he dragged the severed leg back and laid it over the corpse, then took out Nysander's magicked scroll, the one he'd meant to hand Rythel only moments before. Grasping it in one hand, Rythel's sound right arm in the other, he pried the wax seal loose with his thumb. An instant later, the street was empty.

"NYSANDER!"

Seregil's furious shout echoed up the prison corridor, jarring Nysander, Alec, and Thero from their patient vigil. Nysander was the first to recover.

Rushing to the cell door, he cast a light spell and peered in through the grate. Inside, Seregil crouched over what appeared to be a tangled mass of clothing. The stink that hit the wizard's nostrils told another story. The door swung open at his command and he stepped in.

"By the Four! What happened?"

"He was run down in the street," Seregil hissed between clenched teeth. "I was practically within arm's reach of him—He just stood there like a rabbit while a runaway brewer's wagon rolled over him and I couldn't do a thing to save him."

Nysander heard a gagging sound behind him and looked up in time to see Thero staggering blindly out, one hand clapped across his mouth. Grim-faced and pale, Alec remained at the open doorway, watching as Seregil stripped back the dead man's blood-soaked garments with savage thoroughness, his fine clothing already smeared with foul-smelling muck.

Seregil was pale as milk, too, but his eyes blazed with fury. Kneeling on the other side of the body, Nysander held his hands a few inches above Rythel's ruined head.

"Again, I sense nothing," he sighed. "You must tell me everything. Was it an accident?"

"I'm getting very leery of accidents," was growled Seregil.

He turned the body over and a bloody purse fell into the straw with a sodden chink of coins. He turned out the purse, inspected the remains of the coat, and then flung the whole lot across the cell.

"Damn it to hell!" he raged. "Damn it to hell! There was a note. Someone summoned him to that place, someone he knew. He sauntered off to his death whistling like a bridegroom! Alec, get the boot off that leg and check it."

Alec dutifully tugged at the boot on the severed leg. It was snugly fit and he had to brace his foot on the remains of the thigh to get it off.

Pulling it free, he felt inside and shook his head. "Nothing here either."

"Or here." Seregil tossed the other boot aside and yanked off the remains of the dead man's trousers.

After another careful inspection, he leapt up with a guttural cry and slammed one bloodstained hand against the cell wall.

Just then Thero reappeared at the doorway. "Forgive my weakness, Nysander," he mumbled, still looking green. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Look well," Nysander replied somberly. "Someday your vocation will take you from the shelter of the Oreska House; you must be strong enough to face such ugliness. This may have been an accident—"

"An accident!" Seregil burst out, glaring down at the body. "Bilairy's Balls, Nysander, the man was murdered, and so was Tym."

"Probably so. And we still do not know who was masterminding this man's work."

"But the map-?" Seregil turned to Alec.

"It wasn't there," Alec replied dully, staring at Rythel.

"Nothing was there. Clothes, papers, chests, everything—gone. The room had been turned out. I don't think he was planning to go back there again. The old woman who owns the house said everything had been taken away by cart this afternoon."

Nysander closed his eyes a moment, then sighed. "Thero and I will retrace your paths tonight using our own methods. Should we uncover anything, I shall inform you at once."

Slipping a hand beneath Alec's arm, Nysander drew the boy from the cell. But Seregil remained, crouching gloomily over the body.

"You clever son of a whore," he whispered at it, barely loud enough for Nysander to overhear. "You were better than I thought."

28

"Father, where are you?"

Gripping a handful of Valerius' magical herbs, Alec ran headlong down the bare passageway. There were no doors, no windows, just endless walls of stone as he turned corner after corner, following the splashes of dark blood on the floor and the wracking sound of his father's labored breathing. But no matter how fast he ran. Alec couldn't catch up with him.

"Father, wait," he pleaded, blinded by tears of frustration. "I found a drysian. Let me help you. Why are you running away?»

The hoarse wheezing changed as his father tried to speak, then fell deathly silent.

In the awful stillness, Alec heard a new and ominous sound, the soft tread of footsteps behind him, echoing his pace. When he stopped the sound disappeared; when he went on, they dogged him.

"Father? was he whispered, hesitating again.

The sound of footsteps continued this time, and suddenly he was mortally afraid. Over his shoulder he saw only empty passageway behind him, stretching away until another bend cut off the line of vision. And still the footsteps came on, closer and louder.

The flesh between Alec's shoulder blades tightened as he fled, expecting any moment to be grabbed from behind. The sound of pursuit grew nearer, closed in behind him.

Wresting his sword clumsily from its sheath, Alec whirled to fight. Instead of his sword, however, he found himself grasping a blunt arrow shaft.

And facing a wall of darkness.

Alec lurched up in bed and hugged his knees to his chest, shivering. His nightshirt was soaked with icy sweat and his cheeks were wet with tears. Outside, a storm had blown up. The wind made a lonely moaning in the chimney and lashed rain against the windows.

His chest hurt as if he really had been running.

Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, he focused on the red glow of the hearth and tried to exorcise the nightmare's bitter imagery. His heart had almost slowed to normal when he heard a floorboard creak across the room.

"That's the third time this week, isn't it?"

Seregil asked, stepping into the glow of the hearth. His cloak looked sodden, and water dripped from his tangled hair.

"Damn, you startled me!" Alec gasped, hastily wiping his eyes on a corner of the blanket. "I didn't expect to see you back tonight."

It had been nearly a week since Rythel's death and none of them, not even Nysander, had been able to find evidence tying the smith to anything other than the sewer sabotage and a few indiscretions at various gambling houses. Everyone had given up by now except Seregil, who'd grown increasingly short-tempered as he pursued one false scent after another. Lately Alec had found it wiser to keep out of his way when they weren't working. He'd taken it as a hopeful sign this evening when Seregil slouched off to the Street of Lights in search of consolation; his untimely reappearance now didn't bode well.

But Alec saw nothing but genuine concern in his friend's expression as Seregil fetched cups and the decanter of Zengati brandy from the mantel shelf. Sitting down on the foot of Alec's bed, he poured out liberal doses for them both.

"Bad dreams again, eh?" he asked.

"You knew?"

"You've been thrashing in your sleep all week. Drink up. You're as pale as old ashes."

The brandy warmed Alec's belly, but his nightshirt was clammy against his back. Tugging a blanket around his shoulders, he sipped in silence and listened to the wind sobbing under the eaves.

"Want to talk about it?"

Alec stared down into the shadows in his cup. "It's just a dream I keep having."

"The same one?"

He nodded. "Four or five times this week."