Alec grinned up at him. “They’re very pretty. The whole garden is. It’s good to get out of that room. And…” He glanced away shyly. “And to see you, too. There’s no one else I can talk to here. I’ve really come to understand what you said about being lonely. It’s awful, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Khenir’s hand moved from Alec’s shoulder to his hair, and he combed his fingers through the loose strands around Alec’s face. The tips of his finger were cool and soft as they brushed his cheek, and Alec was once again torn between sympathy and distrust. He turned his face away from that touch.

“Still pining for that lost love of yours?” Khenir asked sadly.

“Yes. But it’s good to have you here.”

Khenir leaned closer and whispered, “Would you really take me with you, if you got out?”

“Yes, I would.”

“And do you think you could really get away? How would you do that?”

Alec looked back at the fish. Did he trust Khenir or not? His head told him one thing, but gut instinct made him hold back. It was a bad feeling, especially if he was wrong and Khenir really was his friend.

Caution won out, all the same. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Get on a ship headed west, I suppose.”

Khenir laughed outright at that. “That’s your whole plan, is it? Find a ship? Hmm, I think maybe I’ll take my chances and stay here, then. You’ll be chained in the market without a foot before the next full moon.”

Alec shrugged. “You’re probably right.”

He kept the pin hidden in his palm until he was alone in his cell again. He waited until the lock ground into place, then sat down and examined his find.

It was a child’s hair stick, just less than three inches long, with a carved ivory finial. Illior must have heard me, after all, he thought, for the pin was made of bronze, rather than soft gold or silver. However, his horn splinters had been longer.

He knew that Khenir’s evaluation of his so-called plan was apt. Even if he did get out of this room, and the villa, he wouldn’t get very far without some way to disguise himself, and the rhekaro, too. He glanced up at the ceiling, wondered if there was any sort of dye in the workshop.

And, of course, he’d have to find Seregil, too.

He had little appetite that night but ate his turnip stew and bread anyway to avoid any undue attention. Ahmol took the tray away when he was done and Alec lay down to wait.

Without a window, it was impossible to gauge the passage of time. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the candle flame in the niche by the door and began counting softly to himself to mark the passing seconds. He recalled Seregil once telling him how long it took a candle to burn an inch but couldn’t remember what the actual time had been. It was boring work, and he lost count several times, dozing off, but when the candle finally burned almost to the socket, he judged that it must be late.

He went to the door and put his ear against the wood. All was silent beyond. Encouraged, he inserted the pin into the lock and gently caressed the tumblers, seeing what he could reach. The first pin gave easily, but the second was a hairbreadth out of reach.

“Bilairy’s Balls!” He sat back on his heels and turned the hairpin over between his fingers. It was metal, so there was the chance that he could pound it out a little to make it longer, but with what? He carried it over to the corner with the slop pail. The pail was carved in one piece from a length of log and quite thick at the bottom.

It had also been used several times today.

Alec kicked it over to make it look like an accident, but was careful to send the contents away from the bed. Stale urine spread across the floor and soaked into the mortar. Satisfied, Alec carried the bucket away from the mess and sat down to work on the pin.

He soon discovered that wood was no fit tool for shaping cold bronze. At first all he managed to do was dent the bottom of the pail and leave traces of metal on the floor. Just as he was about to give up, however, he accidentally struck the ivory bead on the end of the pin and shattered it, revealing a precious length of knurled metal that had been hidden before. He picked up every broken fragment and hid them in the mattress, then went back to the door.

The extra little bit of length was enough. The lock gave and he inched the door open on darkness. There was no sign of light from the cellar below, or from the workshop. He crept up the stairs and put his ear to the door. More silence there.

He took a deep breath, then tested the latch. It lifted with a faint snick of metal and he opened the door a tiny crack. The workroom was in darkness except for the red glow from the athanor’s furnace.

A fire needed tending. He pushed the door open a little further and looked around for the alchemist and his servant. But the room appeared deserted.

Or so he thought until something moved just outside the dim glow of the furnace.

It was the rhekaro. It was clad in a short slave’s tunic that left its limbs bare. Alec saw more bandages than had been there this morning. As he watched, it squatted by the athanor, stared a moment at the fire within through one of the ports, then took a handful of woodchips from a basket and fed them one by one into the chamber.

It’s not a mindless thing, thought Alec, pleased but wary. If it served the alchemist, it might just be loyal. Well, there was only one way to find out.

He stepped slowly into the room, watching the rhekaro for a reaction.

It paid him no attention until he came up behind it and touched its shoulder.

It turned and looked up at him, then its lips made a little sucking motion.

“Are you hungry?” Alec whispered.

The creature made no reply but fixed its gaze on Alec’s hand.

“All right, then.” He went to one of the tables and found a bodkin lying next to a bowl of flowers. He stabbed his finger and offered it. The rhekaro took it eagerly and sucked, looking him in the eye as it always did.

“Do you know me?” he asked softly. “Can you speak?”

As always, there was no answer. Perhaps it lacked the ability to speak or understand, thought Alec. And despite the number of wounds it clearly had, he hadn’t heard much screaming, either.

The rhekaro made no move to resist when Alec untied one of the bandages around its left arm to inspect the damage. He expected to find skin sliced away, but instead he found a painted symbol similar to those he’d seen on the amulets Yhakobin had made him wear.

Other bandages revealed similar marks. Some looked inflamed, but there was no serious wound. So the alchemist was taking better care of this one, at least. The little thing was clean and its long hair shone in the firelight.

“What are you for?” Alec murmured, retying the bandages.

As soon as he was finished, the rhekaro squatted down to feed the fire again, seeming to forget all about him.

Alec left it to its task and began searching the shop for anything that might help them escape. There was nothing like a weapon, except for the bodkin, and that wouldn’t be much good against a sword. What knives Yhakobin used were stored away out of sight. Once again, he cursed his lack of Plenimaran. The drawers of the alchemist’s cabinets and cupboards were all carefully labeled in clear but incomprehensible script.

“Damn! I can’t even find the tea, much less a knife,” he muttered aloud.

The rhekaro straightened again and went to the tallest of the cabinets, the one with scores of small drawers. Without any hesitation at all it pulled one out and reached in, then came to Alec and held out a pottery jar with a leather top. Surprised, Alec opened the lid and sniffed at the contents.

It was tea.

Meanwhile, the rhekaro went to one of the tables and grasped the handle of a drawer there. When it would not open, it just stood there, apparently baffled.