Casket of Souls (57 page)

The woman, introduced as Nala, daughter of the old man, Elren, still looked stricken. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Someone who was wronged by them, Mistress,” Seregil told her, speaking in a light country lilt like hers.

“Are you a country woman, too?”

“I’m Arlina, of Ivywell,” Seregil told her as they climbed the stairs of a tenement with a peeling green door. “This is my husband, Garen, and my sister Sana.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Have you been in this wretched city long?”

“We came by ship in the spring, first to Haverton port, and then down here,” Alec replied.

Nala and her father led them into a cheerless little third-floor room. It was clean, but sparsely furnished. Two neat pallets lay on the floor near the window. A battered cabinet, a warped table, and two rickety-looking chairs stood against the far wall. The old man took a seat while Nala took out a half loaf of brown bread and a small lump of cheese from the cabinet and carved slices for them. Even here, Mycenians practiced their native hospitality. Seregil hated to take even a morsel away from them, but it would be the height of rudeness to refuse the humble meal.

“So you’ve met them, have you?” Master Elren asked as they nibbled their stale bread and hard cheese.

“Aye. I think they’re plague carriers. We lost our sister to the sleeping death last week,” Seregil told him with a catch in his voice.

The woman made a Dalnan sign against ill health and stepped back from them.

“You know of the sleeping death?”

The old man nodded. “My daughter here lost her first son
to it, some thirty years back, when we lived in Dresher’s Ford, up in the northern freeholdings.”

Seregil exchanged a surprised look with Alec. The first time they’d heard of the place was from Atre.

“My boy was only six years old,” the woman whispered, hand pressed to her heart as if to fend off fresh pain.

“Oh, you poor dear,” Seregil said sorrowfully. “What happened to him?”

“Why, it’s just like you have here,” she told him. “A person falls down in a trance and dies before the week is out.”

“And you saw others stricken with it?”

“Dozens in our town,” Master Elren wheezed. “And it stopped quick as it started. People said it was on account of the strangers.”

“The traveling beggars,” Nala explained. “They traded trinkets with children, who soon fell sick with what you call the sleeping death. But the blackguards ran away before we could catch them, and the sickness gradually stopped after they were gone.”

“How many beggars were there?” asked Seregil.

Nala spread her hands. “It’s been so long. Four, perhaps five?”

“But it didn’t end there,” said Elren. “We moved south after that, down into Mycena, and a few years ago we saw it again, in the city of White Cliff, and I heard from some others on the road here that it had happened in Nanta, too, just before the siege this year.”

For an instant Seregil couldn’t breathe as a terrible idea came to him. “Were the beggars there, too?”

“I don’t know about Nanta, but they were in White Cliff. I told the mayor about what we’d seen before, but they ran off again before anyone could catch them. It must have been the same clan of people, don’t you think?”

“Something like that,” Seregil murmured, tamping down his growing horror. “Did either of you actually see any of these beggars?”

“I did,” Nala replied. “I watched one of them, an old woman, trade my little boy a pretty stone for some toy. It’s
been so long, I don’t even remember what it was. But I remember her and that stone!”

“Was it a yellow crystal?” asked Alec.

Nala shook her head. Reaching into the neck of her dress, she pulled out a red jasper pebble with a hole through it, which she wore on a thin silver chain. “After my poor boy died, I hoped this would kill me, too. Now I have it as a keepsake.” She wiped her cheek. “I remember that old woman like she’s standing here before me!”

“What did she look like?” Alec asked, and Seregil felt a stab of the same unsettled excitement along their talímenios bond.

“Dirty! Dirty kerchief around her head, dirty hands, dirty dress, and a belt with things strung from it—”

“Do you remember what?” asked Seregil.

“Foolish things. A bird skull, a harness ring, more stones—I remember those because she untied the pebble she gave my Ressi from a string of others … That’s all I remember, but it was just trash.”

“I see.” Seregil would have liked to have bought the stone from her to show to Thero, but chances were any magic that might have been on it had long since leached away—and he doubted she’d part with the treasured relic of her child.

“Are they here in Rhíminee, the strange beggars?” asked Elren.

“Yes, old father,” Seregil replied.

“I hope they catch them this time, and hang them all!” he wheezed. “I hope I live to see the day!”

Micum gave the woman a handful of silver. “For your troubles, Mistress Nala, and the Maker’s Mercy.”

“Bless you,” she quavered. “Bless you all, kind folk! May the Old Sailor carry your sister gently.”

Seregil refused to speak until they were safely in their rooms at the Stag and Otter. Kari and Elsbet were in the front room and stood as soon as the others came in.

“Well?” asked Kari, hands clutched over her heart.

“What’s wrong, you two?” asked Micum. “You both look like you’ve eaten a mess of bad mussels.”

“We’ve been blind as moles is what’s wrong!” Seregil growled, stalking over to the table where the map was spread.

Alec followed. “You really think it could be them?”

“Who, damn it?” Micum demanded.

“Atre and his company. They could be our ravens, and plague bearers,” Seregil replied grimly.

“The actor at Alec’s party?” asked Elsbet.

“Yes,” Alec replied. “Atre told us of his travels. They’d been everywhere the old man spoke of. He never said when, though.”

“Those Mycenians didn’t say anything about actors, though,” Micum pointed out.

“Oh, they were acting, all right!” Seregil snorted. “Atre got himself stabbed one night near Basket Street, long after he’d moved up here. Alec went to help him, and noticed traces of stage cosmetics along his hairline, even though the Crane was dark that night.”

“And Thero sensed magic on Brader at the tavern,” added Alec.

“
Tall
Brader!” Seregil exclaimed in disgust. “No wonder that swordsman looked familiar! And remember how he reacted when Thero asked for a strand of his daughter’s hair?”

“But Atre didn’t care,” Alec pointed out.

“Which only means
he
wasn’t afraid of being affected. What does that suggest?”

“That he’s the necromancer.”

“Right.” Seregil stabbed a finger at the map. “Look at the pattern again. The sleeping death started in the Lower City, and didn’t come up here until after Atre and his company moved to Basket Street. And what have the ravens avoided?”

Micum looked down at the map. “The Sea Market, the Harvest Market, the Noble Quarter …”

Seregil tapped impatiently in two places. “Basket Street, even though it should be in the swath they’ve been cutting, and the area around the Crane. Why? Because a wise bird doesn’t shit in its own nest.”

“That doesn’t explain Illia, or Myrhichia,” said Micum.

“Illia danced with him at Alec’s party!” gasped Kari.

Seregil felt another stab of guilt. “Yes. She must have seen
all the people giving him trinkets and done the same. Myrhichia, too.”

“Bilairy’s Balls, I’ll slaughter the lot of them!” Micum snarled.

“That won’t help Illia,” Seregil said, clasping his friend’s shoulders. “We have to find out how they’re doing this, and—please, Illior—if there’s a way to undo it.”

“If?” Kari clutched Elsbet’s arm for support.

“I’m sorry, Kari, but it’s best to be honest with ourselves. Alec and I are going to burgle the Basket Street theater tonight. It would help if we knew what we were looking for, though.”

“I think I know,” Elsbet said softly. “The little silver filigree ring you gave her for her last birthday—I noticed it was gone the next day and scolded her for it. She said—” Tears slipped down her wan cheeks. “She said all the fine ladies were giving him things and begged me not to tell Mother or you.”

“But if he’s had it all this time, why hasn’t Illia fallen sick sooner?” asked Kari.

“We won’t know that until we find out what he does with the things he’s given,” Alec replied.

“I’m going with you,” said Micum.

“Can we count on you not to do anything rash?” asked Seregil. “With it being your daughter and all?”

“Will your hearts be any less broken than mine if she dies? Don’t worry. There’ll be no killing until I’ve gotten out of them how to save my girl.”

“Good, then we’ll start at Basket Street.”

“Why there?” asked Kari.

“We’ve seen Atre over that way since he bought the Crane. There didn’t seem to be any reason for it.”

“What about Thero?” asked Alec. “We’re looking for something magical and we don’t have much time. We should bring him with us, like a scent hound.”

“Don’t let him hear you call him that.” Seregil glanced out the window, gauging the time. “You two go and scout out Basket Street. I’ll meet you there in a few hours with Thero.”

T
HERO
needed no persuasion. He listened in silence, then changed quickly out of his robes and tucked a few things, including his crystal wand, into a belt pouch.

Seregil restlessly scanned the scant night crowd as they made their way to the old theater; no ravens, but any of the passersby could be one of them in some other disguise.

The theater stood at the far end of Basket Street, near the poultry market. The windows were boarded up, and the front doors chained shut. Weeds had sprouted between the paving stones of the untended courtyard. It looked utterly deserted.

Glancing around to make certain no one was there to see, Seregil dismounted and led his horse to the back of the theater. They found Alec and Micum waiting for them in the alley behind it. It was deserted and strewn with refuse, weeds, and dirty feathers.

“Someone’s been coming and going pretty regularly, at least since the last rain,” Micum murmured.

“You can tell that from this mess?” whispered Thero.

“He can track a duck through water,” Alec told him.

The stage door was secured with a large, rusty padlock, but Alec already had it open.

“The wards are well oiled,” he whispered to Seregil.

He inched the door open and the four of them slipped into the silent darkness beyond. Micum closed the door; they stood a moment in the corridor, getting out lightstones and letting their eyes adjust. They were at the center of the
building, with the wings extending to either side of them, and a wide central corridor opening onto the backstage area.

It was a strange, shadowy world behind the stage, like seeing the seamed side of a fine garment. A plain scrim still hung from its long rod, and a few abandoned set pieces cast madcap shadows in the glow of their stones as they moved about. To either side, the wings were divided into a maze of different rooms by sheets of coarse muslin strung from wires.

The only sounds were their own breathing as Seregil and Alec crept out to the stage. Dust lay everywhere. The theater space was lost in shadow beyond their lights and already had that smell of dust and mice that empty places took on. Somewhere, out there in the darkness, was the box they had occupied with Kylith, the first time they’d seen Atre and his players. A few stars shone above them where a skylight had been left half open.

“Do you think he’d hide anything out here?” whispered Thero, joining them.

Seregil cast around with his light, looking at the dusty floor. “No one’s been out here in a while.”

“But someone swept down the corridor in the right-hand wing, and I think I found us a door,” Micum whispered from the shadows behind them.

He led them past the ghostly muslin cubicles to a boarded-up door. Seregil inspected it closely, feeling here and there, and soon found a loose board that pivoted, exposing a latch and lock. This one was new, complex, and fitted with recessed needles. Given the size of the holes, the needles were large ones.

“Stand back,” Seregil told the others. Working with a bent pick, he tripped the device and jumped back as several steel needles shot across the corridor and embedded themselves in the far wall. “Nasty.”

Lifting the latch, he gave it a pull. As he’d guessed, the nails holding the boards to the door frame and wall gave easily from worn holes. Stairs led down into darkness, and a cold draft carried the moldy scent of a cellar. Seregil took the lead, sword drawn.

The low-ceilinged cellar was filled with dusty props and long rolls of discarded scrim. A few mouse- and moth-chewed costumes still hung from stone support pillars, and there were dozens of crates and trunks covered in more than a few months’ worth of dust and cobwebs. The floor was packed earth, the walls of mortared stone. Across the way a stone stairway led up to a large trapdoor that probably opened onto the stage.