Casket of Souls

much of Sebrahn, his alchemically begotten “child of no mother” he’d lost so recently. But he swallowed the sudden swell of pain and said nothing.
    The temple was little more than a shrine cramped between two taller buildings, and its sacred grove consisted of nothing but a pair of apple trees. A few sleepy brown doves cooed softly from the shelter of their branches when Seregil pulled the string of the small iron bell beside the gate.
    Two brown-robed young women wearing the drysian’s bronze lemniscate came out to greet them. Their welcoming smiles turned to concern when they saw the boy.
    “Maker’s Mercy, another one!” the taller of the two exclaimed softly.
    “We just found him lying in an alley,” Alec explained. “I didn’t feel any broken bones, and there’s no blood.”
    The other woman held out her arms, and Alec passed the child to her. “We’ll see that he doesn’t suffer,” she promised.
    “You’ve seen this before?” asked Seregil.
    “A few. Some new summer fever, I think.”
    “Thank you, Sister.” Alec, raised a Dalnan, gave her a silver sester.
    “Maker’s Mercy on you both, for helping a child of poverty.”
    Alec knew a thing or two about poverty, himself.
    Emerging from the slum, they hired horses—which took a bit of fast talking, given their attire—and rode up the HarborWay to the great Sea Market. This square was three times the size of the harbor market. In better days one could find fish, cloth, sugar, spices, and silverwork from Aurënen, the wines of Zengat. In short, a bit of everything that came up from the port below. But here, too, the privations of war were all too evident. Cloth, metals, and horses were hard to come by, and prices were high.
    Thankfully there was a night breeze up here and this part of the city smelled considerably better, thanks to a proper sewer system. Crossing the city, they skirted the Harvest Market and entered the warren of twisting streets beside it, making their way to their real home, a respectable inn on Blue Fish Street.
    Three stories tall, the Stag and Otter was built of stone and timber, with a steeply pitched roof and several stone chimneys, its yards surrounded by a stone wall. Lamps were lit in the tavern room at the front, and they could hear the night’s guests laughing and singing.
    “Sounds like Ema’s having a good evening,” Seregil said as they circled to a narrow lane behind the inn. Finding it deserted, they led their horses in. Seregil produced a large iron key and unlocked the gate at the far end.
    The stable yard was empty, too, except for a lone horse drinking at the long stone trough. The stable boy heard them come in, and emerged from his little room to take their hired horses.
    Seregil took off his hat and shook out his long hair, combing it back from his face with his fingers. “Ah, that’s better!”
    Continuing on around the corner, they walked between the towering woodpile and the stone well, and past Ema’s kitchen garden. As they reached the kitchen door, Seregil’s large cat Ruetha bounded over to them with a dead rat in her jaws so large that both head and tail dragged on the ground. She dropped it at their feet and wound around their ankles, purring loudly as they scratched her tufted ears and white ruff, and stroked her long mackerel-striped fur.
    “What a good girl!” Seregil nudged the dead rat away with the toe of his boot. “Come on, puss.”
    But Ruetha had further business with her rat and disappeared with it into the weeds by the far wall of the yard, striped tail crooked over her back.
    The lamps were lit in the kitchen. The remains of the day’s roast meats, pies, and breads were set out on the long tables and a young scullery maid stood fanning away the flies, while others went in and out with trenchers and flagons for the patrons in the tavern.
    Mistress Ema sat at the end of the table, nursing her baby girl. Little Tamia was nearly a year old, now. Ema looked up as they came in. She and her husband, Tomin, ran the inn for them. Tomin was some kin of their friend Magyana, and the couple was utterly trustworthy. Ema was the cook and ran the household.
    She greeted them with a smile, not bothering to disturb her babe. “Welcome home.”
    It had been only a few weeks since their last visit—sometimes it was months—but she was accustomed to their unannounced comings and goings and never asked any questions except the inevitable, “Are you hungry? It’s only lentil soup,