“What are you doing in here?” a man demanded.
“The master said to search everywhere,” another replied.
“Don’t be a fool. You can see where he went over the wall. There are bloody handprints all over the fountain. Get the dogs and search the gully first. He’s likely lying there with a broken leg, the damn fool.”
“That’ll be the least of his worries once the master has him again.”
The voices faded away. Thunder rolled in the distance, and a few drops of cold rain pattered down, spattering on the tiles and soaking through the back of Seregil’s thin tunic. A moment later the skies opened and rain came down in sheets.
Seregil mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. The rain would cover the fact that there were no tracks beyond the wall. He cautiously raised his head and looked around. Directly across from where he lay was the wing of the house where he’d been held in the upstairs room. Several small wooden grilles were visible just below the eaves, and most likely let into an attic. In his experience, attics of large houses could be very useful places.
He carefully crawled along the walkway roof, but the rain was so heavy now that he could barely see the fountain and guessed he was equally hidden.
It was hard work, clambering over the uneven tiles, and his palms and knees were sore by the time he finally reached the first wooden grille. It was old and a little rotten. Using the dagger, he easily pried it from its frame and wriggled in.
It was dusty and cold inside, and pitch-black at first. He crouched where he’d landed, letting his eyes adjust. A flash of lightning gave him a glimpse of jumbled trunks and broken bits of furniture. Seregil resisted the urge to explore just yet and leave telltale wet footprints in the dust.
His caution was well warranted. Servants soon appeared with lanterns and proceeded to search every corner of the rambling space. Seregil was kept busy skulking from one shadowy hiding spot to another. He eventually managed to get behind them in an already searched area and hunkered down under a large pile of moth-eaten bedclothes, clutching the bloody poniard.
It wasn’t the best hiding spot: the musty comforters were alive with beetles and mice, and he nearly ruptured his eardrums stifling several violent sneezes.
The lights finally disappeared and the attic went silent again. He stayed where he was, breathing though his mouth, for some time, but no one came back to catch him out. The storm still raged outside, with thunder treading on the lightning’s heels.
With any luck, Yhakobin would give up the search for tonight, and find the trail cold tomorrow. Safe for the moment, Seregil arranged himself more comfortably in his dusty, itchy hiding place to rest while he could.
“Take care, talí,” he murmured softly. “I’m coming for you soon.”
CHAPTER 37 Closing In
THE MILKY LIGHT of early dawn was slanting through the broken slats when Seregil cautiously emerged from his hiding place. He braced for some lurking guard to jump him, as they had last night, but it seemed he was alone with the mice for now. He brushed himself off, slapped a spider off his neck, and looked around. His pursuers had done him a favor. There were fresh footprints all over the dusty floor. No one was likely to notice a few more.
The attic ran all around the top of the house, mirroring its shape, and he soon found a small window overlooking the alchemist’s shop and garden. There was no sign of anyone there at the moment. He hoped that they hadn’t moved Alec back into the cellar. If he went back the way he’d come, he should be able to climb down onto the roof of the covered walkway around the garden and from there break into the shop.
“You did me a good turn, Rhania, giving me these knives back,” he whispered, clasping the poniard’s stained grip. “May your soul continue on in peace.”
Having satisfied himself to his position and plan for the night, he turned his attention to the contents of the attic and soon found enough old clothing to outfit a regiment, some cracked leather boots that fit, and, most useful of all, an old wicker basket containing a lady’s sewing kit. There were a few ivory needles, some rusty shears that, with the application of a little spit, could still cut, and even some serviceable thread.
He chose the two best-looking coats and breeches and tried them on. They were all too large, so he sat down under one of the grates to alter them.
The morning passed quickly, and he was glad to be busy; it took his mind off his empty belly and parched mouth. He held one of the ivory needles in the corner of his mouth and sucked on that while he worked, trying to get a little spit flowing.
By early afternoon the rain had stopped and he’d altered two coats and bundled them into a pair of moth-eaten cloaks. Bored now, he went back to searching, and soon found a place over the main part of the house where he could hear voices. Stretching out on his belly, he pressed an ear to the floor. It sounded like servants’ chatter, and from what he could make out, the household was still in an uproar. Grinning, he softly moved on, looking for anything else that could be useful.
The alchemist had no weapons or coin lying about up here, but Seregil did find something nearly as valuable in a locked casket. With the help of the shears he pried the hasp up and spilled out a small pile of jewelry. Most of it was small items of worked silver, set with inferior stones-a child’s collection, perhaps, but there were a few gold lockets and a set of ivory and gold combs set with a nice bit of blue chalcedony.
Valuable, and portable. My favorite combination. He added them to his stock of useful items.
Further on, he ran across a box of rusty tools, and among them was a lathing hatchet with a cracked haft. It had a flared blade on one side and a hammerhead on the other.
“You’ll do quite nicely in a pinch,” he murmured happily, testing its weight. It could cave a man’s skull with either side. He also found a worn whetstone, and carried both back to the window and set about sharpening the hatchet blade. He didn’t have much spit left by now, but it was enough to grind an edge of sorts. He was looking around for something to bind up the haft when the sound of a commotion burst out in the direction of the workshop. Someone was crying out, and one side of his mouth curved up in a lopsided grin, for he was quite certain he recognized that voice.
Alec awoke to the sound of shouting upstairs in the shop. He went to the door and pressed his ear to it. It did little good; what he could make out was in Plenimaran. But there was no doubt that Master Yhakobin was furious with someone. A moment later he heard the sound of a blow and a cry, then a babble of craven apology.
That was Khenir’s voice.
The tirade ended with the sound of someone being dragged down past his door to the cellar, and the slam of the heavy door there and the tramp of ascending boots.
Things went quiet for a long time after that, but he was sure he could hear the sound of ragged weeping now and again, floating up from below. Time dragged on. His belly told him it was long past time for breakfast, but still no one came. What could Khenir, the master’s favorite, have done to warrant this sort of treatment?
At last Ahmol appeared with some soup and bread.
“What’s going on?” Alec asked, not really expecting to be understood.
“Slave run,” the man replied sullenly.
“Khenir tried to escape?”
But Ahmol shook his head. “’Faie slave.”
“Rhania?”
Ahmol snorted at that, then sneered with evident enthusiasm, “Khenir slave.”
Alec wondered if he’d understood the man’s broken answers correctly. Hadn’t he just said it wasn’t Khenir who’d escaped? And if this escaped ’faie wasn’t Khenir or Rhania…“Is the slave who ran a man?”