Shadows Return - Lynn Flewelling [37]
Alec seized the opportunity to study Yhakobin more closely. Like the carriage, the man’s clothing and fine shoes spoke of wealth. Seregil had taught him to look beyond first impressions, however, and Yhakobin’s hands told another story. In addition to the ink stains, the man had a scattering of small white scars on the backs of his hands—the sort of marks common among smiths and chandlers. Or wizards, he added silently. He tried to remember what the necromancer’s hands had looked like, but his memories of them were vague now, overlaid by the torment he’d known in their grasp.
“Where are we going…Ilban?” he ventured at last.
Yhakobin didn’t even look up. “Home. Be quiet now.”
Alec gritted his teeth and pondered jumping from the moving vehicle while Yhakobin wasn’t looking. But he was still manacled and at too much of a disadvantage. He wasn’t going to risk losing a foot this early in the game. Instead, he contented himself with staring out the window. His low vantage point cut off most of the useful view; he caught only the impression of tall buildings and narrow streets, then an orderly line of trees, interspersed with lamp poles, which suggested a park. After that there was little to see except the rising moon.
The road grew bumpier and Alec was hard-pressed to keep his balance. One hard jolt threw him against Yhakobin’s knees. The man righted him and ruffled his hair, as if Alec were a hound.
“What’s this?” He pushed the hair back from Alec’s left ear and examined the blue-stained dragon bite on the lobe.
“Is it some sort of clan mark?”
“It’s nothing, Ilban,” Alec lied. “Just decoration.”
Yhakobin released his ear and went back to his reading.
Alec twisted his wrists in the manacles, pressing the spanner bar between his wrists. I could strangle him and jump from the coach.
And then what, aside from the broken bones and the lack of clothing? the Seregil in his mind asked wryly.
Before he could come up with a better plan, the carriage took a sharp turn, and then slowed. Alec glimpsed an arched stone gate, then heard the crunch of gravel under the coach wheels. A moment later they came to a stop and the door flew open. Men dragged him out by the spanner bar and hustled him quickly across a walled courtyard and through a low door. From there he was rushed down a narrow servants’ stairway, to a long, dank, brick corridor. They took several turns as Alec looked around frantically, trying to make sense of where he was. The few doors they passed were closed. His guards halted in front of one that looked no different from any other and opened it to reveal a tiny, whitewashed room. One of them took the cloak, leaving him naked again.
Someone spoke curtly behind him; Yhakobin had followed them down here.
He took something from his pocket and palmed it before Alec could see what it was. But when he then touched each of the manacles, they cracked in half and fell to the floor, taking the wretched bar with them.
“Thank you, Ilban.” Alec almost meant it this time.
Yhakobin frowned at the raw skin on Alec’s wrists. “Those fools, risking infection for no reason.”
At his order, the man called Ahmol produced a small pot of salve and rubbed it over the damaged skin.
Yhakobin seemed satisfied. “There, that should heal well. In you go, now.”
They shoved Alec into the room and slammed the heavy door behind him. He heard a bar fall into place and shuddered. Shut in, and helpless again.
“Rest now,” Yhakobin called in to him. “I’ll have food brought down to you.” There was a pause, then he added sternly, “It is customary for a slave to thank his master, Alec.”
That was too much. “I’m no slave, and you’ll never be my master!” Alec yelled, forgetting Seregil’s lessons and the sight of the slave with her tongue cut out as he slammed both fists against the door.
It