“Yes. I mean, it wasn’t much of a challenge, but at least we were working.”

Seregil lifted Alec’s left hand, tracing his thumb over the round, faded scar on the palm. It was a reminder of the first job they’d shared, one that had nearly killed them both. Seregil bore a similar mark on his chest, just above his heart.

“Maybe that’s the problem, talí. Too much risk for too little purpose these days.”

Alec stroked his lover’s smooth, beardless cheek. “It’s not the same here, anymore, is it? I hoped getting back to work would help.”

Seregil gave him a sad little smile. “I thought so, too, but it hasn’t.”

When Alec had first come to Rhíminee, Seregil was still the Rhíminee Cat, the city’s faceless and most fearless thief for hire. When they’d abandoned the city after Nysander’s death, the Cat had died, too, or so rumor had it. There’d been no way to resurrect him without giving rise to unwelcome speculation. Seregil had been known in some circles as a man who could find the thief when he was needed, and he’d let it be known that he’d found a new nightrunner, but these little clandestine jobs were harder to come by lately.

Alec tightened his arms around Seregil and leaned his forehead against his lover’s. He had to stoop just a little. He was slightly taller than Seregil now, with a trace of colorless down on his cheeks; both signs of his human blood, just like his yellow hair.

“When we were running from those dogs, all I could think of was what it would be like if they caught us,” Seregil murmured. “Imagine-Lord Seregil and Lord Alec slapped up in the Red Tower for common housebreaking? No one knows what we really are, or what we’ve done for Skala. It would just be shame and dishonor, and for what? Because some titled slip of a girl couldn’t keep her skirts down on Mourning Night, then decided she wanted a proper marriage? For that, I risk losing you?”

“Is that why you turned down so many jobs?”

“You knew?”

“Of course I knew. So you’re getting scared, after all this time?”

“It’s not fear.” Seregil gave Alec’s braid an annoyed tug. “It’s the sheer pointlessness of it all!” Pulling away, he threw himself down on the couch. “Is this what we came back for? Errand boys for bored nobles? I wish we’d stayed up in the mountains, hunting wolves and screwing in the tall grass.”

Alec settled down next to him with a resigned sigh. Seregil was always at his worst when he was bored. “Maybe Magyana-?”

“She’s never needed our kind of help. She’s a scholar, not a Watcher. If Phoria would just swallow her pride and bring Klia and Thero back from Gedre, maybe things would pick up. Otherwise?” He pulled out the brooch and eyed it with distaste. “Well, at least there’s no shortage of this sort of thing.”

CHAPTER 2 Too Much, and Not Enough

PHORIA AND HER army sailed back to Rhíminee at the end of Rhysin, and rode up to the city through the Harbor Way, through the cold autumn rain and the last of the falling red and gold leaves. The official Progress would be held the next day, but this entrance was carried out with as much pomp and ceremony as if the war had ended, rather than trailed off in yet another season of stalemate.

Peace still seemed beyond anyone’s grasp, but Phoria had decreed that there be a new holiday in the calendar-the Celebration of Returning Heroes-nonetheless. The stated purpose was to commemorate the year’s victories-without mention of the defeats, of course-and to honor the fallen. She’d done the same last year, when hopes had been higher.

The rain- soaked banners and golden shields hung along the streets looked a little forlorn this year, thought Alec, as he and Seregil stood with the common masses along the walls of the Sea Market, well bundled against the damp chill off the sea. From here they had a good view of the queen as she rode by, brilliant even in this watery light in her gold-chased war helm and breastplate, holding the great Sword of Gherilain upright before her. Even more than the crown, the ancient blade was the most potent symbol of her reign, both as ruler and the country’s supreme war commander. The first time Alec had seen Phoria’s mother, Idrilain had been wearing that same armor, and that sword had been hers.

Phoria’s twin brother, Prince Korathan, rode on her right. He was the Vicegerent now, and it was odd to see him, her equal as a warrior, dressed in robes of state and the flat velvet hat instead of a commander’s uniform. His greying blond hair was still long, in contrast to most of the court. Sitting his huge black charger with the ease of a born warrior, he cut an elegant and regal figure. Unlike Phoria and their younger sister Aralain, he had always been friendly with Seregil, and with his half sister Klia, too. Alec liked him for that.

The rain pelted down harder, but they lingered on, counting regiments and banners. By the time the last men-at-arms marched past, Alec estimated she’d lost nearly five hundred soldiers, and this was only the Rhíminee force they were seeing. The cartloads of funeral urns were never part of the official proceedings.

“Come on,” Seregil said at last through chattering teeth. “The Cavishes will have arrived by now.”

They stole a ride on the back of a passing wagon and arrived back at Wheel Street to find Micum and his family waiting for them in the painted salon.

Kari hurried over to embrace Alec, balancing three-year-old, red-haired Gherin on one hip. The child reached out and grabbed at Alec’s braid. “Muncle Arek!”

“There you are, my sweet boy!” Kari cried, kissing Alec soundly on both cheeks. “A whole lovely summer gone and you only came out to Watermead twice? What has Seregil had you doing?”

“You know better than to ask that, my love.” Micum chuckled, limping over to clasp hands with Seregil. He was dressed for town today in a fine embroidered coat and his best sword belt, and leaning on a polished walking stick with an ivory head carved in the shape of a fish-a gift from Seregil.

It still hurt to see him like this, his stiff leg a constant reminder of that awful day four years ago. They all carried wounds; Micum’s was the most visible, but Seregil’s by far the deepest. The closest he ever came to speaking of it these days were the nights when he woke up yelling or crying, drenched in cold sweat. But none of that showed when he was awake and in command of himself.

Seregil embraced his old friend, then looked around. “And where’s my little bird?”

“Here, Uncle!” Illia came tripping lightly down the staircase, flanked by Seregil’s two huge white Zengati hounds, Mârag and Zir, and carrying her foster brother piggyback. Ten now, Illia was dark and pretty like her mother and middle sister, Elsbet, and trying to act very grown-up. “Luthas wanted to see the picture books in the library again. He remembered them from our last visit. Just a minute, though. I brought you presents!” She let Luthas down and ran back upstairs.

“Uncle!” Luthas ran to throw his arms around Seregil’s knees. Seregil ruffled the child’s hair, but Alec didn’t miss the fleeting look of sadness in his friend’s eyes.

Mercifully, Luthas was too young to remember his mother and grandparents, or how Seregil had saved him from the burning inn. He’d always had a special affection for Seregil, though, and Seregil was always kind to the child, even though Alec knew how he dreaded the day that the boy learned the truth of his past.

Illia clattered back downstairs with two bulky brown bundles under her arms. “I made these for you. It took me all summer!”

Alec unfolded his and shook out a well-made woolen sweater. Seregil’s was the same, in darker wool.

“Well now, look at that.” Seregil gave Alec a wink. “The arms are the same length and everything.”