35

A white linen pavilion had been erected for the Oreska dead. As Seregil and Micum passed by it the next morning, they heard soft chants and the weeping of those preparing the bodies for pyre or grave.

Farther on, the enemy corpses lay under the open sky. Judged by their clothing, they could have been laborers or thieves, but most of them had the build and scars of soldiers. A Scavenger cart stood ready nearby. Untended and unmourned, they would be hauled away and burnt without ceremony.

"Valerius said that after the attack was over, any of Mardus' men who weren't already dead just dropped in their tracks," Micum mused as he and Seregil walked around the bodies, seeking faces they'd seen with Mardus in Wolde all those months ago. "You figure the dyrmagnos did that?"

"Probably," Seregil said. He was still wearing his baggy borrowed clothes and looked as if he hadn't slept in a week. Micum knew for a fact that he'd sat awake with Nysander all night. They both had.

"But I doubt they killed all of their own people," Seregil went on, taking a closer look at a ragged, one-handed beggar. "Have you noticed that no one remembers seeing Mardus and the necromancers leave? Except Hwerlu, maybe. He said something about a huge dark shape rising over the House as he ran toward it. He didn't get there until it was over, so that may have been Mardus' exit. A dyrmagnos could have that kind of power."

Micum felt an unlucky chill go up his back.

"Let's hope we can stay clear of the thing, then. Anything that can lay Nysander low and then fly off like a bat is nothing I want to face down."

A swarthy man with a scar through his bottom lip caught his eye. "I know him. He's one of Captain Tildus' men," Micum said, pointing him out to Seregil. "I drank with him a few times at the Pony in Wolde. He's one of them who gave Alec a hard time."

"I see an old friend, too." Seregil stood looking down at a lanky, rawboned man dressed in a soiled leather jerkin. "Farm the Fish, a gaterunner who came up missing a month ago. Tym mentioned him to me just before he disappeared himself. I don't recognize any of the others. Probably all Plenimaran soldiers and spies brought in for the job." He tapped his chin with one long forefinger as he frowned down at the dead. "You remember I ran into a Juggler up in Asengai's dungeon, that night Alec and I first met?"

"The Plenimaran assassins guild, you mean?"

"Yes." Seregil jerked a thumb at die corpses. "What would you bet there's a guild mark on one or two of these fellows?"

Micum grimaced in distaste. "Guess there's wily one way to find out. What's it look like?"

"Three small blue dots tattooed to form a triangle. They're usually in the armpit,"

Seregil told him, adding with a wry grin, "At least this is better than going to the charnel houses."

Even in the scented coolness of the Oreska garden, however, it was not pleasant work.

Pulling at clothing and cold, stiff limbs, Micum found no tattoos, but two men did have suspicious scars about the size of a sester coin under their arms. The healed tissue was still pink and new.

"I think this might be something," he said.

Seregil came over for a look and nodded. "There are three more just like it over there. That scar isn't a burn or a puncture; the skin was sliced away on purpose. If it wasn't a Juggler's mark they cut out, then I'll wager it was something similar."

"That Mardus is a cagey bastard," Micum said with grudging admiration. "He wasn't taking any chances. Not that we can prove it now, though."

Seregil examined the scar. "You know, I've heard that these skin marks go deep. What do you think?"

Micum sighed. "It's worth a try, so long as no drysians catch us at it."

Slipping a tiny, razorlike blade from the seam of his belt, Seregil held the skin on either side of the mark taut with two fingers and sliced away the surface of the scar. When he'd pulled back the flap of skin, he and Micum inspected the livid flesh beneath.

"See anything?" asked Micum.

"No, they must've cut deep on this one. Let's try another."

Their second attempt was more successful. Scraping gently this time, Seregil uncovered the faint triangular imprint of the Juggler's guild mark still visible in the flesh.

Seregil rocked back on his heels with grim satisfaction. "That's proof enough for me."

"Maker's Mercy! What do you think you're doing?"

It was Darbia, the dark-haired drysian who'd been helping tend Nysander. Bristling with indignation, she strode up and made a quick blessing sign over the corpse.

"Enemy or not, I cannot condone such barbarous behavior," she snapped.

"It's not desecration," Micum assured her, getting to his feet. "This man and several others wear the mark of Plenimaran spies. The

Queen should be informed before any of these bodies are taken away."

The drysian crossed her arms, still scowling. "Very well then, I'll see to it."

"Did Valerius send you after us?" asked Seregil.

"Yes, Nysander is stirring a bit."

Without waiting to hear more, Seregil and Micum ran for the tower.

Magyana was still in the armchair by Nysander's bedside where she'd spent the night, one hand still on his brow.

Seeing her like that, Micum could almost feel her willing her own energy into her old love, trying to heal and sustain him with her own life force.

To Micum, Nysander looked worse than ever. His face was a dull, chalky grey, his eyes sunken deep in their sockets beneath the unruly white brows. His breathing scarcely lifted the sheet covering him but Micum could hear it, rasping faintly as dry leaves across stone.

The sight of him must have struck Seregil hard as well. He read a hint of despair in Seregil's face as he approached Nysander, and knew it was born of the conflict between Seregil's great love for Nysander and his desperate need to learn whatever he could to save Alec.

Seregil paused long enough to cleanse his hands at the washstand, then knelt beside the bed and took Nysander's hand between his own. Micum moved around behind Magyana's chair in time to see Nysander's eyes slowly open.

"I found your map," Seregil told him, not wasting any precious time.

"Yes," Nysander mouthed, nodding slightly against the pillow. "Good."

"The Pillar of the Sky, Yothgash-horagh. It's Mount Kythes, isn't it?"

Again, a slight nod.

"This temple you spoke of, it's on the mountain?"

"No," Nysander told them.

"Beneath it, underground?"

No response.

Seregil watched the wounded man's face for any movement, then asked as calmly as he could manage, "At the foot of it?"

Nysander's throat worked painfully as he struggled to speak. Seregil bent close, but after a few desperate efforts, the wizard's eyes closed.

Seregil rested his forehead against his clenched fists for a moment. Micum couldn't see Magyana's face from where he stood, but her hand was trembling as she reached to clasp Seregil's shoulder. "He's gone deep within himself again. I know how desperately you need to speak with him, but he's just too weak."

"Could you make anything out of that last bit?" Micum asked, refusing to give up hope.

Still kneeling by the bed, Seregil shook his head doubtfully. "He was trying to tell me something. It sounded like "late us" or "lead us," but it was so faint I can't be certain."

Magyana leaned forward, gripping his shoulder more forcefully this time as she turned him to face her.

"Leiteus? Could it have been the name Leiteus?"

Seregil looked up at her in surprise.

"Yes! Yes, it could have been. And I've heard that name somewhere—"

Magyana clasped her hands together over her heart.

"Leiteus i Marineus is an astrologer, and a friend of Nysander's! They've been consulting with each other about some comet for over a year now."