“That would be my guess.” Seregil picked up one of the fallen garrotes. It was made from thin, flexible steel wire with a small wooden handle at each end. “Yes, from the looks of this, I’d say they were professionals.”

Keeping an ear out for bluecoats, they made a quick search of the bodies, but neither man carried so much as a belt purse. It was too dark to look for guild marks, but chances were there wouldn’t be any; the Rhiminee guild was cagier

about such things than some. The lack of any identification and possessions was telling in itself.

Leaving them for the Scavengers, they rode for home.

“I wonder who set them on us?” Alec said as soon as they closed the front door behind them.

“I can think of two,” Seregil croaked, leading him to the kitchen. “Reltheus may have seen me spying at Elani’s today, although I don’t know how. He certainly knew where we’d be tonight. These assassin bastards probably followed us from there.” He paused. “And then there’s Malthus.”

“But he’s our friend!” Despite all his training and all the things they’d been through since they’d met, Alec still had some of his native innocence intact. The sign of a good heart, Seregil supposed, and usually he admired Alec for it, but in situations like this it could get a person killed.

“Queen-making might trump friendship, don’t you think?” In the kitchen he lit a candle from the banked coals on the hearth, filled a basin with water from the barrel by the door, then went to the cupboard where the simples were stored. “Interesting that General Sarien took an interest in me tonight. Even patted me on the shoulder. If Malthus’s cabal considers me a threat, then he could have been signaling one of the assassins, concealed in the crowd.”

“They could just as well have attacked me when I was alone tonight,” Alec noted.

“I don’t think you were the target,” said Seregil, sitting down beside Alec to clean and tend his wound. “Which would mean that Malthus believed me when I told him you weren’t involved.” He paused and shook his head. “Perhaps I tipped my hand too soon, speaking with him.”

Alec winced as Seregil sponged the blood away. “Or he knows you set his house on fire,” he said, only half joking.

“I doubt that. But we can’t afford to trust anyone now.”

“Maybe not. What are we going to do?”

Seregil pulled the garrote from inside his coat. “Send this and a heavy purse to one of my less savory connections.”

“Are we still going to talk to Valerius about the sickness?” Alec asked. “I really think he should know about it. Besides,

we don’t have any engagements so far tomorrow, and there’s not much we can do with Reltheus and Kyrin in daylight.”

Seregil glanced out the window, where the grey lowering clouds were beginning to brighten. “It’s almost dawn. We might as well stay up and have an early breakfast. We’ll go to the temple at sunrise. Valerius is a disgustingly early riser.”

CHAPTER 27. Valerius Investigates

SEREGIL and Alec set off for the Temple Precinct just after dawn. Both were stiff and bruised from the night’s attack, and Seregil’s voice was still as rough as a crow’s. The cut left behind by the assassin’s garrote was a scabbed, angry red line just below the edge of his collar. Alec’s hand wasn’t much better, being a deeper cut.

The early-morning sky was filled with lowering red-tinted clouds that presaged more rain to come. Leaving their horses with a precinct ostler, they made their way on foot past lesser temples and shrines to the heart of the precinct.

The main temples of the Four flanked the black-and-white-paved square, washed at this early hour with a soft morning glow that made the white paving stones look pink in the light and pale blue in the shadows. The stones here were laid out to form squares within squares, which in turn formed a greater pattern symbolizing the eternal unity and balance of the Sacred Four. The white-domed Temple of Illior and the dark bulk of the square-pillared Temple of Sakor faced each other across it, looking west and east. Red firelight showed between Sakor’s pillars at all hours, reflecting off the great ruby-studded gold aegis that hung behind the altar.

The Temple of Astellus with its fountains, and Dalna’s temple in its great grove, took the other two sides. A soft hush hung perpetually over the sacred site, and at this hour there was little to hear but the bright tinkling of the falling water and the mournful cooing of the Maker’s doves. Although Sakor and Illior were the patron Immortals of Skala,

this sacred square with its four temples was repeated in every city and town; even the humblest villages had a small patch of ground flanked by four simple shrines. Reverence for the Four, in all their complex unity, had for centuries given Skala internal harmony and power.

They climbed the broad staircase leading up to the open doors of the Dalnan temple and left their boots in the care of an elderly verger. There were already quite a few other shoes lined up in the portico.

The huge temple hall was shadowed and cool. At the far end of the vaulted room a bright, welcoming fire burned on a huge stone altar carved with sheaves of wheat bound with serpents biting their own tails. A line of people stood waiting their turn to place their offerings of food and wine on the altar and get their blessing for the day. Priests, rather than drysians, served here, except for Valerius, who was both.

A young priest in simple white vestments led them through to the high priest’s meditation room and knocked softly. Seregil steeled himself; Valerius was a renowned drysian healer, as well as a fellow Watcher, but he was also the most ill-tempered person Seregil had ever called a friend.

A little acolyte answered the door and put a finger to his lips as he let them in. Valerius stood at a small altar similar to the one in the hall, wreathed in incense as he made the daily offerings for the queen, the city, and the land, assisted by two older acolytes, one male and one female.

Alec made a sign of respect and bowed his head. Seregil folded his arms and leaned against the wall by the door.

When the last of the wine, grain, and oil had been dispensed with, Valerius dusted his hands on the front of his gold-embroidered green robe and turned to them with a look of annoyance. “Well? I suppose you have some good reason for interrupting my morning ritual?”

“We need your opinion on something,” Seregil replied.

“What’s wrong with your voice? Do you have a cold?”

Seregil nodded slightly toward the acolytes.

Valerius dismissed them. “What’s all this, then?” He noted Alec’s bandaged hand. “In trouble again?”

“We were attacked by assassins,” Alec told him.

Valerius snorted. “Surprised it doesn’t happen more often. Let me see.”

He unwrapped Alec’s hand, then inspected the shallow cut on Seregil’s throat. “Clean cuts. No infections.” He rested a hand on Alec’s head and gave some healing that made Alec shiver.

“What about me?” Seregil asked.

“For that little scratch? You’ll heal. Is this what you came for?”

“No, Valerius. We were wondering if you’d heard anything about a strange sickness in the Lower City?”

“It’s being called sleeping death,” Alec added.

The drysian raised a bushy black eyebrow at that. “Sleeping death? No, not a word. Since when have you two turned physician?”

“It’s just something we stumbled across,” Alec explained. “Last night I found a few people with it up here, near Brass Alley.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it, and neither have your healers,” Seregil said.

The drysian’s frown was ominous. “Why haven’t I heard about this from them?”

“I think they’re afraid of quarantine, but it doesn’t seem to be passed by touch. Alec and I both have handled the sick ones before we realized what it was and we’re fine. So are the drysians taking care of them.”