“Thank you, sir, for not calling on the Old Sailor,” she said softly, stroking her daughter’s hair.
Astellus the Sailor-in addition to being the patron of those who fished and sailed-also ferried the dead to Bilairy’s gate. Seregil guessed Alec had invoked Dalna instead out of kindness.
Seregil left her there and drew the drysian out of the room. “Have you seen any others like this?”
“No, my lord, this is the first one that’s been brought to me. It’s the Lower City plague, isn’t it? The sleeping death?”
“Most likely. Please, Brother, will you send word to me when she dies?”
“Of course, my lord.”
Seregil gave him their address and they took their leave.
“Do you think it’s poison?” Alec asked as they headed back to Wheel Street. “She did give the girl something to eat.”
“But from what Kepi said, it wasn’t usually something to eat. I wish the mother could have told us what else the woman had hanging from her belt. You’d think if there had been hanks of hair she’d have noticed.”
“We have to go look, Seregil! It’s been two days already for Myrhichia. I think it’s time we considered magic again, too. And if it is magic, then how long before it spreads to the rest of the city?”
“I know. But in daylight.”
The villa in Wheel Street was closer to the Sea Market than the Stag and Otter, but they never worked out of there in disguise. Instead they returned to their rooms at the inn and spent the night there.
By morning the rain had turned to a muggy drizzle. Dressed in ragged clothes-Alec in his one-eyed beggar gear, Seregil in his broken-brimmed traveler’s hat held on with a ragged scarf and a rag wrapped around his left hand to cover the
Once through, they began a leisurely stroll up and down the winding, muddy paths that passed for streets here between the pitiful hovels.
The Upper City was surrounded by not one but two tall curtain walls, spaced several hundred yards apart. The area between, known as the Ring, was divided up into sections around its circumference, accessible by gates and put to various uses. The royal regiments kept horses in the long western corridor behind the Palace. The eastern section was given over to grazing, kept ready in case of siege. The poor populated the wards east of the Sea Market, and the poorest of the poor were pushed out into the southernmost section of the Ring, where they slapped up shacks or whatever paltry shelter they could manage.
It was also a refuge for blackguards of every stripe, making it more dangerous by far than the quarantined area below. Even the drysians were looked upon with suspicion here, and soldiers passed at their own peril.
The sturdiest-looking structure in view was a large lean-to that appeared to serve as the local tavern. There weren’t even any brothels here; the bawds practiced their trade in the open air or under whatever shelter they could find. There was stinking garbage everywhere, rooted through by hogs, dogs, and filthy children. Even in their plain, dirty garb, Seregil and Alec attracted beggar children.
“Get off, all of you!” Seregil growled, scooping up a stone and throwing it carefully to only graze the largest boy. “We got nothin’ for the likes of you!”
Used to such a reception, the children picked up rocks of their own and threw them with less compassion at Alec and Seregil, who had no choice but to run for cover at the tumbledown tavern. It wasn’t a very good showing for the ne’er-do-wells lounging on old crates and empty barrels in front under the eaves.
“You’re a fine pair of rogues,” a bald man with a scabrous scalp cackled as Seregil and Alec came to a halt in front of them. “Run off by the little ’uns.” He and his four compatriots stood up and started toward them. “Maybe you’d like to show us what you got in your purses, eh?”
Seregil threw back his cloak to show his sword and Alec did the same. “We don’t kill children,” he growled in the same rough accent. “Can’t say the same for your sort.”
The drunkards were unarmed except for knives, so they settled back on their seats, sneering.
Seregil took out a silver half sester and tossed it at the feet of the man who appeared to be the leader. “We’re looking for the raven folk.”
The man spat on the coin. “Never heard of ’em.”
Neither had any of the others, or so they claimed.
Seregil nodded to Alec and they went on their way deeper into the noisome ward as the others hurled jeers and insults after them.
“Could be a long day,” Alec murmured. “Especially since we don’t know where to look.”
Kepi hadn’t been much help. Aside from naming this general area, there seemed to be no particular place that the raven people were seen.
They wandered among the ramshackle shanties for the rest of the morning, attracting little attention from the locals. There wasn’t any formal market that they could see, just people crying their meager wares in the streets or offering what little they had from doorways.
Casual inquiry about the raven folk got them either blank
looks or shrugged shoulders. The raven people came and went as they pleased, and nobody knew where any of them lived or where they’d come from, but anyone who had seen them put them down as mad for their silly trades.
Nevertheless, Seregil and Alec soon came across a few people stricken with the sleeping death. Two were lying in the open-one a boy of fourteen or so, and the other an old woman-left to die alone. No one would admit to knowing anything about them. Seregil sensed that it hurt Alec to just walk away, but there was little they could do for them here.
The morning was nearly gone when they passed an open-fronted lean-to. Inside, an old woman was wailing over a little boy lying on a pallet of rags.
“What ails him, old mother?” Seregil asked, approaching slowly so as not to alarm her.
“Dead of the sleeping sickness,” she wept. “The last of all my kin! No drysian would come.”
“Have you lost any others to the sickness?”
“His sister died yesterday. What am I to do?”
Seregil knelt beside her and looked down at the child. He had hair the color of Alec’s, and a lock of it had been cut to the left of his face. “Did he and his sister trade with the raven folk, old mother?”
“With the what?” The old woman stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes.
“Beggars making odd trades? Did your grandchildren trade with them?”
“I don’t know what yer talking about! Just leave me alone.”
“Here now, don’t be badgering her about such things!” a fat man called from his own hovel across the path. Heaving himself up from the crate he’d been sitting on, he stumped over to join them. “Can’t you see she’s mourning? Leave her be with your foolish questions!” the man growled, aiming a kick at Seregil.
Seregil grunted in pain and sprang to his feet. “Apologies to you both. Maker’s Mercy, old mother, and the Old Sailor’s peace.”
Frustrated and hungry, they sat on the end of a broken-down wagon with the bread and sausage they’d brought, not wanting to chance eating anything they’d find here.
“It’s like looking for one particular frog in Blackwater Marsh,” Alec muttered. “We’ve got trades with no deaths and deaths with no trades, and no sign of any raven people. It’s almost three days now, for Myrhichia.”
“We still have plenty of daylight left.”
A handful of ragged, hungry little children sidled up to them and Seregil threw the remains of his food to them. With a sigh, Alec did the same and after a brief squabble the children scampered away, the losers pursuing the ones with the spoils.
