Alec passed his pack to Seregil and gathered the boy in his arms, then almost wished he hadn’t.

There was no resemblance, of course, but the slight weight of that spindly little body reminded Alec far too much of Sebrahn, his alchemically begotten “child of no mother” he’d lost so recently. But he swallowed the sudden swell of pain and said nothing.

The temple was little more than a shrine cramped between two taller buildings, and its sacred grove consisted of nothing but a pair of apple trees. A few sleepy brown doves cooed softly from the shelter of their branches when Seregil pulled the string of the small iron bell beside the gate.

Two brown-robed young women wearing the drysian’s bronze lemniscate came out to greet them. Their welcoming smiles turned to concern when they saw the boy.

“Maker’s Mercy, another one!” the taller of the two exclaimed softly.

“We just found him lying in an alley,” Alec explained. “I didn’t feel any broken bones, and there’s no blood.”

The other woman held out her arms, and Alec passed the child to her. “We’ll see that he doesn’t suffer,” she promised.

“You’ve seen this before?” asked Seregil.

“A few. Some new summer fever, I think.”

“Thank you, Sister.” Alec, raised a Dalnan, gave her a silver sester.

“Maker’s Mercy on you both, for helping a child of poverty.”

Alec knew a thing or two about poverty, himself.

Emerging from the slum, they hired horses-which took a bit of fast talking, given their attire-and rode up the Harbor

Way to the great Sea Market. This square was three times the size of the harbor market. In better days one could find fish, cloth, sugar, spices, and silverwork from Aurenen, the wines of Zengat. In short, a bit of everything that came up from the port below. But here, too, the privations of war were all too evident. Cloth, metals, and horses were hard to come by, and prices were high.

Thankfully there was a night breeze up here and this part of the city smelled considerably better, thanks to a proper sewer system. Crossing the city, they skirted the Harvest Market and entered the warren of twisting streets beside it, making their way to their real home, a respectable inn on Blue Fish Street.

Three stories tall, the Stag and Otter was built of stone and timber, with a steeply pitched roof and several stone chimneys, its yards surrounded by a stone wall. Lamps were lit in the tavern room at the front, and they could hear the night’s guests laughing and singing.

“Sounds like Ema’s having a good evening,” Seregil said as they circled to a narrow lane behind the inn. Finding it deserted, they led their horses in. Seregil produced a large iron key and unlocked the gate at the far end.

The stable yard was empty, too, except for a lone horse drinking at the long stone trough. The stable boy heard them come in, and emerged from his little room to take their hired horses.

Seregil took off his hat and shook out his long hair, combing it back from his face with his fingers. “Ah, that’s better!”

Continuing on around the corner, they walked between the towering woodpile and the stone well, and past Ema’s kitchen garden. As they reached the kitchen door, Seregil’s large cat Ruetha bounded over to them with a dead rat in her jaws so large that both head and tail dragged on the ground. She dropped it at their feet and wound around their ankles, purring loudly as they scratched her tufted ears and white ruff, and stroked her long mackerel-striped fur.

“What a good girl!” Seregil nudged the dead rat away with the toe of his boot. “Come on, puss.”

But Ruetha had further business with her rat and disappeared with it into the weeds by the far wall of the yard, striped tail crooked over her back.

The lamps were lit in the kitchen. The remains of the day’s roast meats, pies, and breads were set out on the long tables and a young scullery maid stood fanning away the flies, while others went in and out with trenchers and flagons for the patrons in the tavern.

Mistress Ema sat at the end of the table, nursing her baby girl. Little Tamia was nearly a year old, now. Ema looked up as they came in. She and her husband, Tomin, ran the inn for them. Tomin was some kin of their friend Magyana, and the couple was utterly trustworthy. Ema was the cook and ran the household.

She greeted them with a smile, not bothering to disturb her babe. “Welcome home.”

It had been only a few weeks since their last visit-sometimes it was months-but she was accustomed to their unannounced comings and goings and never asked any questions except the inevitable, “Are you hungry? It’s only lentil soup, but there’s boiled leeks out of the garden to go with it.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. We’re going out again,” Alec told her.

Hopefully Thero would offer them something to eat later; Ema was a good soul, but they liked her more for her discretion than her cooking, which was worse than usual with the shortages. At least she hadn’t boiled salt cod and onions today, or pickled any more beets, the smells of which made Seregil queasy.

Alec fetched a bucket of water from the cistern while Seregil lit a candle to light their way up the staircase that led from the lading room to the box room on the second floor. A hidden panel in the far wall concealed the narrow staircase that led up to their chambers. Thero frequently changed the passwords on the hidden glyphs that guarded the stairs for them.

“Scera,” Seregil said at the first one-Aurenfaie for “cold.” He always used ’faie words, figuring any Skalan who blundered in here was less likely to guess in that language.

Only once, when the Cockerel Inn had stood on this site, had anyone gotten past them, with tragic results. The current ones were wishful thinking in the summer heat.

“Por.” Snow. “Taka.” Cool water. “Ura teshil.” Miserable bastard.

Reaching the landing, he spoke the last. “Temi.” Ice.

The large sitting room was hot and stale. There were, in fact, windows, but obscured with Thero’s magic, which rendered them invisible from the outside even when Alec opened the shutters to catch what breeze he could. Seregil lit several lamps with the candle and carried the bucket into the bedchamber across the room.

They’d used the place sporadically since the spring. A layer of dust had settled over the workbench under the east window, the old sheets covering the couch and dining table, and the clutter of letters, locks, jewel caskets, and oddities on the marble mantelpiece, including three Plenimaran slave collars propped up there, one sized for a child.

Pain closed around Alec’s heart again. Two reminders in one day, and this one his own doing. He had no doubt that the little rhekaro was better off among the Hazadrielfaie-safe from harm and from causing it-but the loss was still a raw, throbbing wound in Alec’s heart. The sight of the collar, and the tiny braid of silver-white hair with it, kept the wound bloody, but he couldn’t bring himself to part with either.

“Alec?” Bare to the waist already, Seregil leaned out the bedroom doorway, framed in golden lamplight. Alec’s expression must have given away his thoughts. “Tali, shouldn’t we at least pack them away?”

“No.” Forcing a smile, he went to the bedroom, pulling his sweat-soaked shirt over his head as he went, then sat on the wide, velvet-hung bed to pull off his shoes and rank socks.

Seregil filled the washbasin from the bucket and gave himself a quick but thorough scrub.

As he waited, Alec absently counted Seregil’s various scars; he knew them by heart. The imprint of the cursed disk just over his breastbone-an object that had nearly cost them both their lives-was obscured by magic. Alec carried the mark of that same disk, burned into the palm of his left hand.

Of the wounds that had killed him and nearly taken Seregil’s life as well, there were no traces-thanks to Sebrahn.