Shadows Return - Lynn Flewelling [119]
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?”
Ahmol gave him a grudging nod and went out. Hadn’t Khenir told him that there were no other ’faie slaves in the house?
He sat staring at the door, heart beating loud in his ears. There was no reason to think it was Seregil, but he couldn’t quash the sudden rush of hope that it might be. Perhaps the alchemist had purchased both of them that night. Maybe Seregil had even been in the same slave barn, and Alec hadn’t seen him. To have been that close!