“I do not doubt your expertise, Charis. If the process produces the elixir I hope for, then I will be pleased, of course. If it does something else, then you will of course share that knowledge.”

“Of course. And regardless of the outcome, I will continue to keep our bargain. Any member of the Virésse clan I find in the markets or households of Plenimar will be purchased-ransomed, that is-and returned to you.”

“And your traders will continue to have favored status in my ports, and in my fai’thast.”

Ulan rose and bowed to him. “Good night, my friend, and good luck.”

“Won’t you stay the night with us, Khirnari? My wife has prepared a banquet in your honor.”

The old Aurënfaie’s hesitation would not have been apparent to a man less astute than Charis Yhakobin. “I will be most honored to dine with you, but these old bones of mine will sleep better rocked by the tide in an Aurënfaie berth. One of the many prices of age, my friend. One becomes overly attached to the familiar in small things.”

“And great ones, as well.” It was no secret that the pact between Skala and the Gedre khirnari had hurt more than Virésse’s trade and shipping interests. It had hurt their pride. What Seregil í Korit’s role had been in that was unclear, but Yhakobin had been more than happy to benefit from the rift. If not for Ulan’s animosity toward the young Bôkthersan, Yhakobin might never have gained the prize he now had safely locked away in his cellar.

He let his gaze wander to the dark, slender figure standing at a respectful distance in the shadows and gave a slight nod to show that all was well. Yhakobin was a wealthy man, and a powerful one, but merciful when it suited him. He could afford to be generous now, especially to one who had brought him his heart’s greatest desire.

CHAPTER 13 Ilban

FOR TWO DAYS Alec was left in peace, but he was clearly being punished; his gaolers brought him nothing but water. They didn’t speak to him when they came with the pitcher, or to take away the pail, but no one abused him, either. He had no doubt, though, that he was being closely observed.

His belly ached and growled, but he’d known worse deprivations. By the second day he was a little light-headed, but the worst thing was the boredom. There was nothing to do but count the bricks in the floor and watch the patch of sunlight crawl across the wall. He’d tried to get up to the tiny window, but it was too high. Sitting in his nest of quilts, he spent hours listening intently, trying to imagine what lay beyond this room.

There were often footsteps in the corridor outside his door, and the muffled sounds of conversation. He couldn’t understand the words, but it sounded like servants’ talk. Occasionally he made out Yhakobin’s voice-a calm, even murmur that was always answered with respect.

Birdsong came in through his window, and the ordinary sounds of a household-footsteps, the clank of a pail, the sound of wood being split, the crowing of a rooster at daybreak, the occasional snuffle of a dog near his window, women’s voices, and the occasional laughter of children.

Just after dark the second day, his keepers came in carrying a lamp and a chair. Alec remained on his pallet as they set these things against the wall by the door, then stepped back to let in their master.

Yhakobin sat down and motioned to Ahmol, who carried in a wooden bowl and a small brown loaf. Alec’s mouth watered painfully as the smell of warm oat porridge drifted across to him. Instead of bringing them to Alec, however, Ahmol stayed by the door and looked to his master.

“How does this night find you, Alec?” Yhakobin asked, crossing his legs and smoothing the fabric of his dark robe over his knee.

The smell of the food made his traitorous stomach growl. “Well enough, Ilban,” he replied, respectfully dropping his gaze.

“Hungry?”

“Yes, Ilban.” There was no use denying it. He could see the game that was being played, but standing on pride and getting any weaker wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

“You’re more reasonable tonight. I’m glad.”

“Hunger is a good teacher, Ilban.”

Yhakobin nodded to Ahmol. The servant set the food down in front of Alec and went out, closing the door.

“Please, eat,” Yhakobin said, as if Alec was a guest at his table. “I took my supper upstairs.”

“Thank you, Ilban.” Alec picked up the bowl and took a sip of the porridge. It was thin and milky, flavored with honey. He had to force himself to eat slowly so he wouldn’t sick it back up. After a few sips he tore off a bit of the bread and used it as a sop. It was still warm from the oven.

He ate in silence, aware of the man’s eyes on him, and the slight smile on his lips. Yhakobin had a sharp, intelligent face. The ink stains caught Alec’s attention again; this man certainly had the look of someone more at ease with a pen than a sword.

He finished the porridge and set the bowl aside. “Your prison is better than some inns I’ve stayed at, Ilban.”

“You are not in prison, Alec. This is where I put new slaves, especially excitable ones like yourself. A few days of peaceful rest to help you accept your new position.”

“I’m glad you don’t have your whip tonight, Ilban.”

Yhakobin chuckled. “It’s close by, I assure you. It’s up to you whether I need it again. I am not the sort of master who delights in abusing his slaves for no reason.”

Alec nodded and nibbled at another piece of bread.

“You may ask me questions.”

Alec considered for a moment, then asked, “How do you know my name?”

“I’ve known about you for some time now. Plenimar has ears and eyes in Aurënen, as well as in Skala.”

“Spies.”

“Of course. And it was not difficult, with you and your companion making no secret of your mixed blood. Bragging about it, it seemed. Most unwise of you. Your people should have taught you better than that.”

“My people?”

“The Hâzadriëlfaie.”

Alec frowned and looked away. “They aren’t my people. I never knew them.”

“I see. Of course, you’re not a pureblood. The color of your hair suggested it, and I’ve already verified the fact, back at the slave barns. That was a disappointment, but the strain is still very strong in you. So, you are the child of a runaway. Tell me, was it your mother, or your father?”

Alec kept silent, trying to comprehend what he was being told. This is why they’d been captured? It’s my fault we’re here?

“Well, it’s of no consequence for now,” Yhakobin said, still watching him closely.

“What do you want from me…Ilban?”

“All in good time, Alec. Tell me, do you know what an alchemist is?”

“An alchemist?” Alec searched his memory. He’d heard the term once or twice around the Orëska House, and always in disparaging tones. “I once heard someone call it kitchen magic.”

Yhakobin smiled at that. “No, Alec, alchemy is one of the highest Arts, the marriage of magic and natural science. It’s far more powerful in its way than all that hand waving your Orëska wizards do, and nothing at all like necromancy.”

“But you used my blood for a spell, Ilban. I saw you.”

“Blood can be a powerful element, Alec, no different than salt or sulfur or iron. The necromancers also make use of it, of course, but not at all in the manner of alchemists.”

The food went heavy in Alec’s belly. “You’re going to kill me, and take my blood?”

“Kill you? What a shameful waste that would be! Whatever made you think of that?” He paused, then shook his head. “No, Alec, I would never kill you. I intend for you to live a long and comfortable life here with me. If you behave and do as I ask, that life can be very pleasant indeed.”

Alec suddenly sensed an opportunity. Seregil had often praised his ability to look young and innocent. He played to that strength now as he widened his eyes and asked, “Then you really aren’t going to kill me, Ilban? Or use me in your bed?”